They’d meet for coffee or a casual lunch, sometimes a walk along the waterfront. He told her about the dates he went on—some promising, some disastrous—and she gave him unfiltered advice. In turn, however, Molly never said much about Jake. They weren’t in a great place, but somehow, discussing her and Jake’s relationship with Hunter—as close as they’d become—felt like a betrayal. Whenever Hunter did inquire about Jake, Molly only said that he was busy recording the new album. Which was true.
“He’s playing the long game with you,” Nina insisted one night in April. They were at Charlie Bird in SoHo with Liz and Everly. The four of them hadn’t had a meal together in ages, and Molly had roped everyone in to getting a dinner on the books. It was finally spring, and the mood in the city was happy and light.
“Hunter? No.” Molly sipped her martini. She used the little plastic stick to spear an olive, then slurped it down. “He’s my friend.”
Liz raised an eyebrow. “How often do you see him?”
“Once a week, probably.”
“Hmm.” Everly flashed her a skeptical look that mirrored Liz’s and Nina’s.
“But that’s because you guys are all too busy to hang out with me,” Molly justified. “And Jake never leaves the studio. Plus, Hunter and I are practically neighbors.” She didn’t like sounding defensive. Especially because she wasn’t doing anything wrong. Since when was it a crime to be friends with someone of the opposite sex?
Molly did wonder, a month later, why she felt a stab of envy when Hunter told her about a girl he’d hit it off with. Her name was Blair; she was an interior designer from Westchester and the first girl Hunter had felt excited about since his ex.
That night, Molly found Blair on Facebook and scrolled through her pictures. She looked preppy and manicured, too conservative for Hunter. Hunter was traditional, yes, but rough around the edges. He chopped wood for his mother in Connecticut; he built things with his hands. If he dressed like a prep, it was because he wore old Brooks Brothers sweaters of his father’s from the seventies. There was no effort in his style. A man like Hunter was timeless.
Molly turned out the light and flopped onto her side, pulling the covers up around her shoulders. For what seemed like the millionth night in a row, Jake was still at the studio, and she was falling asleep alone. Again.
Molly closed her eyes and saw the Facebook images of Blair behind her lids, something small and sharp pricking her chest. She had no reason to be jealous. She was with Jake, who still made her stomach flip, even just waking up next to him. Who filled her with a love so consuming and complex it drove her to the brink of madness and back again in the span of ten minutes. Perhaps Hunter felt familiar to her because he was the type of man she’d once thought she’d marry: the tall, dark and handsome breed; a little dorky and straitlaced, a steady gentleman, who didn’t take himself too seriously.
But that was before Jake, and it was why Molly never felt truly guilty for spending time with Hunter. Her feelings for Jake hadn’t changed, and she knew in the depths of her soul that they never would. For better or worse, Jake Danner was the love of her life.
On the eve of Precipice’s launch in June, Jake was a basket of nerves. Rolling Stone’s review of the album would be live first thing in the morning.
Molly ordered them pizza from Roberta’s—Jake’s favorite—which he barely touched. His cerulean eyes were unfocused, far away, as he nursed a glass of whiskey. Even when Molly slid her hand under the waistband of his jeans and pressed her mouth against his neck, there was no reaction.
“I’m sorry, Moll,” he mumbled. “Tonight’s just … can we not?”
Jake was already up when Molly woke the next morning—she doubted if he’d slept at all. He was perched on the couch, elbows on his knees, cradling his face in his hands.
“Jake?”
He didn’t answer. Then Molly noticed his laptop, which sat open on the kitchen counter, the Rolling Stone article up on the screen. The headline, in big, bold letters: DANNER LANE RETURNS, LACKING AND CONTRIVED.
Dread pooled in Molly’s gut. She moved closer to the computer.
The whimsical, homegrown vibe that won our hearts in Danner Lane’s debut album The Narrows is, unfortunately, deficient in its follow-up. In Precipice, out today, the trio targets a more mainstream sound that deviates from its roots, and in doing so wholly misses the mark. The exception is “Molly’s Song,” which topped the charts when it released as a single last year, and stands to be the album’s one-hit wonder. On guitar and lead vocals, Jake Danner edges for the spotlight. The comradeship of The Narrows’ backup vocals has all but disappeared in Precipice, and the talent of bass guitarist Sam Lane and drummer Hale Lane fades into the backdrop.