“Right,” he answered, smiling weakly. “So Moll says you’re in sports marketing?”
Hunter nodded, proceeding to explain his job at Octagon.
Molly could tell Jake was bored and uninterested—he always said he’d rather work at a gas station than for a corporate conglomerate—but he nodded along politely, and she was thankful for that.
From there, Molly took the opening to ask Blair about her career, which she already knew some about from Hunter. She listened to Blair describe her job at the interior design firm.
“I love it. It’s my calling,” Blair hummed, finishing a bite of kale salad. Molly could see the bones of her sinewy clavicle protruding underneath the tunic and thought that she probably ate salad for every meal. “I just love it. I can’t wait to decorate our place.” Blair’s eyes flickered to Hunter, and she beamed, the apples of her cheeks rosy.
Molly’s stomach seesawed. She felt her jaw drop unwittingly. “Your place?” She studied Hunter.
“That’s right,” Blair crowed. “Hunter’s moving in with me in the West Village once his lease is up in the winter. Brooklyn isn’t really his vibe.”
“Oh. Wow.” Molly kept her eyes on Hunter, who stared at his steak.
“I know it’ll only have been…” Blair glanced up at the ceiling, calculating. “Nine months by then. But when you know, you know.”
“Nine months? Please.” Jake let out a strange, feigned chuckle that Molly had never heard before. She had almost forgotten he was there. “I got this one to shack up with me after five.” He leaned over and gave Molly a playful kiss on the cheek. She could smell the booze, thick and pungent on his breath.
“Six,” Molly countered.
Jake shrugged. “Anyway, cheers to you two. Being roommates is the best.” He raised his empty glass, signaling to the waitress for another.
“Molly, sorry, I didn’t even ask you about your job,” Blair said peppily, her meticulously plucked eyebrows jumping. “Hunter says you’re a writer and that you have a book deal. That’s so amazing.”
Molly gave an appreciative smile, trying not to think about the fact that Jake was on his third drink. “Thank you. I’ve been working on this novel for a while—since grad school—and yeah, it’s just a dream come true to have sold it, really.”
“And when will it be available?” Blair chirruped.
“Probably not for another year and a half, give or take. I’m in the middle of a heavy revision with my editor now. She’s supposed to set the pub date soon.”
“How’s the revision going, by the way?” Jake turned to her, sipping his whiskey, and Molly was so stunned she couldn’t speak. A wave of debilitating humiliation shrouded her.
Jake hadn’t had the consideration to check in with her about the revision in weeks, and now he was asking? In front of Blair and Hunter? Was he completely unaware that he was making their relationship look like a trivial, immature joke? Molly inhaled sharply. She needed another martini. She needed this dinner to end.
“It’s fine,” she said, forcing the anger down, bottling it for later. “Alexis is easy to work with.” She glanced at Blair and Hunter. “Alexis is my editor. But her notes were pretty extensive, so it’s taking longer than I expected. Publishing is a deceivingly drawn-out process.”
Hunter’s warm eyes rested on hers, and Molly had the clear-cut feeling that he was the only person at the table who understood her. The thought depressed her more than she could stand. She was so mad at Jake she couldn’t bring herself to look at him for the remainder of the dinner, and by the time they left St. Anselm, she was seething, on the brink of tears. She walked half a block ahead of him the whole way home.
“What the fuck is the matter with you?” she spat the second they were in the apartment, which felt hotter and more stifling than it had two hours earlier.
“What?” Jake stared at her, his gaze unfocused. Molly was used to this foggy look in his eyes. Despite the fact that he’d been working out to blow off steam, he’d also been drinking like a fish all summer. Drinking like his father, she wanted to tell him.
Molly burst into sudden, intractable tears. She didn’t even know how to talk to Jake anymore. She was afraid she didn’t know the person he’d become. Or perhaps this was who he’d been all along, and she’d simply been too blinded by the feeling of being “chosen” to see it. Regardless, she had no idea what had happened to them or was in the process of happening to them. Whatever was going on felt completely out of her control.