He looked at her, mouth gaping, not getting it.
“What about me, Jake? Did it even occur to you that I haven’t eaten yet because you said in your note that we’d figure out dinner when you got back? That you told me you’d be home two hours ago and I’ve been sitting here all night, waiting for you?” She was seething.
“Christ, Molly.” Jake threw his head back, exasperated. “Why are you so on me right now? I’m sorry, okay? I had a long-ass day, cut me a break. Sorry my chivalrous manners aren’t in tip-top shape at the moment.”
“This isn’t about manners. You’re being an asshole.”
“I’m an asshole? Because I had to work late and you’re incapable of getting yourself food? If you want dinner, just say so! We’ll go get something to eat right now!”
“Screw you. I’m not doing this.” Molly turned away from him. “I’m going to read in bed.”
“Molly, no.” Jake reached for her arm, his combative expression softening. “Come on. Look, I’m sorry I was late. Let’s just go out, cool off. It’s Saturday.”
She pulled away from him. “I’m really not in the mood.”
He frowned. “We’ll stay here, then. Finish the champers. I’ll make you an omelet.”
“I’m exhausted,” she lied. “I’m just going to read in bed.”
“What about dinner?”
“I had a late lunch. I’m not hungry.” The second part was true, at least. She’d lost her appetite.
“Really?” Jake looked down at her, and his eyes were sorry. “Don’t let me ruin tonight.”
You already have, Molly wanted to say. But she felt too deflated to continue their argument. Her happy mood was gone—Jake had sucked it out—and she hated that he had the ability to do that. To suck the life out of her just by being who he was. Lately he saved all his charisma and charm for the stage—for his fans—and Molly was left to bear the brunt of his stress. His dark side.
“I really am tired,” she told him with a shrug, desperate to be alone. “We’ll celebrate another night.”
“Tomorrow? I want to hear everything.”
“Sure.”
“I really am so crazy proud of you.” Jake squeezed her shoulder. “I guess I’ll watch a movie if you’re going to sleep. Can you toss me a beer on your way to the bedroom?”
Molly took an IPA out of the fridge. She placed it on the coffee table, resisting the urge to chuck it at Jake’s head.
As she brushed her teeth and washed her face, she realized he hadn’t even asked about Brooklyn Flea. She’d harbored a pang of guilt all day, suspecting Jake might be anxious about her spending several hours with another man, but he hadn’t even remembered.
Molly read the same page of her paperback four or five times before giving up—her mind was elsewhere. She turned out the light and nestled underneath the covers, her thoughts restless, churning. When Jake crawled into bed beside her a couple of hours later and whispered, “I love you,” she pretended to be asleep. And she realized, with a pang of sadness, that it wasn’t the first time that winter she’d done so.
Early feedback on Precipice came in a few weeks later. Jerry called Jake to say that Ron and his team at Dixon Entertainment liked it, though they agreed it was a departure from The Narrows in terms of sounding a bit more pop infused. By that point, Jake could read between the lines when it came to Jerry, and it was obvious his manager was painting a prettier picture than the real thing. Clearly Dixon wasn’t going crazy over Precipice, but it had been a full year since “Molly’s Song” released as a single, and a second album was overdue. They would have to make it work.
The album drop was slated for June, which meant the band would spend the spring recording and gearing up for the launch.
Jake was barely around, spending most waking hours at the fancy recording studio Ron had booked for them in Tribeca. Everly was crazed with work, Nina and Cash were off in their own world, and Liz hardly ever seemed to be available. Molly had the book deal keeping her busy—she and Alexis were deep in revisions—but still. Writing was often a solitary process, and as thrilled as she was to be doing it, Molly found that her days could be lonely. And so, she continued to see Hunter.
She wasn’t entirely sure why or how their friendship blossomed, only that the connection they shared felt natural. Romantic wasn’t the word for it. Hunter felt like someone she’d known all her life; there was something familiar in his smile that infused their meetings with a déjà vu–like quality.