Molly pulls back, studying Jake, her head a tornado. Tears run down her cheeks. She loathes herself.
“I love you,” Jake is whispering, his hands gripping her rib cage. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
He is there, ready, lips parted, and despite all that is at stake, there is a magnetic force that Molly cannot fight. She knows, then, as her body pitches forward, loses herself in his kiss, in his touch, that she isn’t the woman she thought she was.
Who is she?
Chapter Twenty-eight
Sabrina
Jake has been distracted for the past few days—I have to ask him three times which fabric he prefers for the living room pillows before he even registers what I’m talking about.
He’s started to look at his phone with the frequency of a teenage girl. This morning, when he takes the garbage out, I finally steal a glance at his texts.
You have plans to meet at Skipping Beach at eleven. You’re bringing Stella, which I presume means you’ve told Hunter where you’re going. You’re using your daughter, no doubt, to make your husband feel more comfortable. To make it appear as though you’re not really seeing Jake “alone.” You have such an agenda, Molly.
Jake comes back inside, his hair still tousled from sleep. He rubs the inner corners of his eyes. He seems to notice me for the first time all morning, standing at the sink, doing his fucking dishes.
“Sees.” He walks around the kitchen island and shuts off the faucet. He encircles my waist with his arms, clasping his fingers at my low back and pulling me in close. Heat zips up the length of my spine. As angry as I am with him, I will never take this for granted—this proximity to the man that I fought for so fiercely for so many years. “You look nice this morning.”
He leans down and kisses me, his two-day stubble scratchy on my face. I pull away, blinking up at him. He tilts his head as if to say, What’s the matter?
I wriggle out of his grasp, turning back to the sink. “Maybe you should brush your teeth,” I say, willing the contempt out of my voice. He can’t suspect that I know anything.
He leaves half an hour later, claiming there are errands to run. He pecks my cheek, and I notice his breath is minty. The overpowering scent of Listerine lingers in his wake.
Why Jake won’t just man up and tell me the truth about his plans, I do not know. He’s the love of my life, but he’s a coward. You both are.
At quarter of eleven, my car pulls to a stop in the parking lot of the public tennis courts, a ten-minute walk from Skipping Beach. Despite the humid heat, I wear leggings and a rain slicker—an old gray one from the back of the mudroom closet that I doubt Jake has ever laid eyes on—and my most oversize sunglasses. The sky is overcast, and I grab my bag and an umbrella from the back seat, just in case. I pull the hood up over my head. I can’t be seen.
The beach isn’t crowded; I can’t decide if this is good or bad. On the one hand, I have a slimmer chance of running into someone I know; on the other, there’s not much of a crowd to blend in to. I take a seat at one of the empty picnic tables behind the gazebo and stare at my phone, pretending to be engrossed with something on the screen.
I don’t have to wait long. I spot you almost right away, Molly, in your frayed denim shorts and white top, little Stella skipping at your side. Your hair is pulled back, and there’s a beach towel slung over your shoulder. You head toward the water. I follow your path, and there, at the end of it, is Jake. My husband. The man who just told me in our kitchen that he had errands to run all morning.
Still, I don’t hate him. It’s you I despise. You are the one who damaged him, who left him with questions that rot inside his heart, that cause him to doubt his place in the world without you. You were the lost look in his eyes on our wedding day. You are the pain that contours the edges of his face when he’s asked what happened with Danner Lane, when someone wants to know why he gave up music when the band fell apart. You are the darkness that festers inside of him, and it isn’t fair to either of us, Molly. Jake doesn’t know any better, but I do. We need you gone. We deserve a life without you infiltrating the understructure of our marriage. We deserve happiness. We deserve peace.
I watch the three of you walk down the beach, using my binoculars as discreetly as I can. The ones my father sent us for “bird-watching” out in the suburbs. They were a wedding gift and had never been removed from the box until this morning.
I guess I’m lucky there’s no one around the picnic tables to notice me—Sabrina the spy. I watch Jake and Stella go for a swim. I see the girl laugh with delight each time she springs herself off his shoulders and into the ocean. How dear.