“I’m too hot, Jake.” Molly wriggled free from his grasp and climbed out of bed. “I’m going to put on some coffee.”
In the kitchen, she filled the percolator with water and loaded the basket with ground beans. Jake wandered in a moment later, rubbing his eyes. He wore the boxers printed with little guitars that she’d found for him at J.Crew. He’d been running lately, and his chest was toned and golden brown from the late summer sun.
“Why are you in a bad mood?” He slid onto a counter stool.
“I’m not,” Molly lied, mainly because she couldn’t pinpoint the source of her residual annoyance toward Jake. She’d simply grown weary of his erratic, volatile existence. The hot and cold of it. Since Precipice’s release, the music world had made it clear that Danner Lane’s sophomore effort was a flop. The scorching Rolling Stone review had been followed by similar sentiments from Billboard, The Times’ Jon Caramanica, and countless others. Jake, who’d poured his heart and soul into writing the album, let every word of criticism convince him that he was a failure. And the backlash was Molly’s to endure.
She placed a mug of coffee in front of Jake—black with sugar, the way he liked it. They both drank it hot, even in the warm weather.
“Thanks.” He took a slow sip.
“My student loan payment is overdue,” Molly said, eyes on her phone. “I just got an email.”
“Oh. Shit.”
“Can you transfer money into my account? Remember I asked you last week?”
“Right,” he muttered, hesitant.
“What?” Molly glanced up, scanning his face.
“I just—” Jake sighed. “Money’s kind of tight right now.”
“For real? I thought you got a big advance for Precipice.”
“The album isn’t doing well, Molly. And most of our advance is already gone.”
“Are you serious?”
“Between the insane cost of recording and studio time, marketing, all the new equipment we invested in earlier this year … well, yeah.” Jake stood, walked over to the windows that looked out over Driggs. “Besides, I thought my paying your loans was only supposed to be temporary? I thought we agreed that once you got a book deal, you’d start making the payments again.”
“You’re the one who wanted to pay my loans, Jake.”
“Right.” A beat of silence passed.
“Well, we should talk about this,” Molly broached. “Because, frankly, my advance is chump change next to yours, and I only got a third of it up front. I don’t get the next third until my manuscript is accepted, and the rest when it publishes. If you want me to start making the payments again, I need to get a waitressing job or something.”
“This isn’t about what I want, Molly. I don’t want the album to be failing.” Jake pressed his forehead against the window, exasperated. “Can we not do this right now? It’s early.”
“Whatever.” She picked up her mug, her fingers trembling in frustration, in fear. This wasn’t about money—or was it? No, it was that Jake had always had her back, her best interests at heart. It had always felt like they were on the same team. But lately, the two of them seemed to be opposing factions.
“What are you doing today?” he asked.
“Editing this morning. My revision is due to Alexis by the end of next week.”
“Right. Are you guys still on track to pub next year?”
“Huh?” Molly looked at him, irritated. “We were never going to pub next year. Early 2017 is what I said.”
Jake rubbed his temples. “Sorry. That’s what I meant.”
“So yeah, I’m working. Then I have lunch with Hunter, then teaching tonight. Bhakti switched me to the eight thirty candlelit on Wednesdays.”
“You see this Hunter guy a lot, huh?”
“Jake, I’ve been hanging out with Hunter for months. We’re friends. You know this.”
“Okay, but why are you seeing him in the middle of a weekday? Doesn’t he work?”
“You know that he works. His office is being renovated this week, so they’re all working from home. He can take a lunch break.”
“I see.” Jake paused, staring into his coffee. “Does he still have a girlfriend?”
“Yes,” Molly said, somewhat begrudgingly. “Blair.” She opened the fridge and grabbed a vanilla Chobani.
“Well, maybe we should all get dinner soon. What do you think?” Jake brushed a hand through his hair, still rumpled from sleep.