A/N: Hello and thank you for deciding to read "When Chase Met Molly"!
This story is based on the classic romance film "When Harry Met Sally". I re-watched it and I instantly pictured Chase and Molly in the respective roles, and thus, this piece of FanFiction was born. The film is witty and adorable and I recommend watching it if you haven't already.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harvest Moon, Nora Ephron's When Harry Met Sally, nor do I own any of the other films / songs / books that may be mentioned throughout the entirety.
22/03/17: I've rewritten this, but nothing plot-wise has altered. The only changes I've made is enhancing description and tweaking dialogue. Since writing the sequel, the simplistic writing style of this irritated me and I wanted them to coincide. I'm pedantic, but what can you do...
allyelle~
Friendship always benefits; love sometimes injures.
—Seneca
.:. One .:.
She was twenty, living in the city, and an undeniable mess.
But when she met him, things got even worse.
.:.
Crying was the only sound in the hotel room.
Molly was curled into a foetal position on the bed, staring at the telephone on the nightstand, each blink taking away more of her clarity. She knew that it was a bad idea to call her; Kathy didn't have a knack for sympathy. The girl made one feel worse before they felt better; she was both the sun and the storm.
Yet Molly couldn't imagine descending into a state worse than this. Rubbing her eyes, she punched in the numbers. Kathy answered after the third ring, the simple sound of her southern greeting opening the floodgate to tears.
"Ha!" Kathy exclaimed through the receiver. "Say it, honey. Say I told you so!"
Molly pouted and dried her eyes with the sleeve of her jumper. "Tell me why I thought it would be a good idea to call you?" She exhaled, her voice scratchy and nasalized. "Some sympathy would be nice, perhaps reassurance, but no—"
"Say it," she pressed.
"Fine," Molly hissed. "You told me so. Happy?"
"You betcha. Now, I told you as soon as you started dating Darren that he was no good! A darn poisonous snake, he is—"
"Kathy," she warned as she wrapped her hands around her knees, pressing the phone against her shoulder.
"Sorry, sorry…" she sighed, the pride in her voice wilting into concern. "Where are you now, hon? You know I'm only a boat ticket away."
Molly blinked; her eyes were dry and aching. Still, with salt-masked vision, she scanned the hotel room. It was styled in various shades of brown: the curtains, the carpet, the bed, and she felt camouflaged by it all. With her muddy brown hair and eyes, she was dull.
Replaceable.
But a dull hotel room was a better alternative than staying in the apartment she had shared with her boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—when she walked in on him and another girl.
"Karen," she uttered the name like a curse. "That was her name. The 'we're just friends' Karen. I'd seen her around... and, oh, Kaths. She's beautiful. She's the Jolene Dolly was singing about."
"Oh, Molly. Don't be so dramatic," she reprimanded. "Where are you? I'm worrying like hell over here."
"I… I'm just in a hotel," Molly said. "You know if I could come over to that island, I would in a heartbeat, but—"
She couldn't.
As a university student, funds and time were limited. Kathy had also been a university student, but she soon discovered too much enjoyment in the bottom of a bottle. Once her father—Hayden—found out, he forced her to drop out and return to Castanet. This left Molly friendless, and as of recently, boyfriend-less.
"You know I can't," her reply was solemn. A sob escaped her lips as she realised how long it would be until she was attacked by one of Kathy's suffocating embraces. "I need the money for a new apartment… I can't exactly live in a cardboard box now can I?" She forced a smile to lighten the mood.
"I know, I know."
Her voice was drowned by the rowdy laughter echoing in the background. Molly pictured her in the bar which her father owned. It was frozen in a western movie set, with horseshoes nailed to wooden posts and its dimmed lights, while scents of must and liquor clouded the air. The blonde would be sloped over the bar, admiring her nails as she sipped a cocktail which her father naively believed to be juice.
"I just miss you is all, Molls," her voice was hushed and she barely caught it over the clinking of glasses. "I hate it when you're like this. There ain't much I can do through a phone now is there? But maybe if you listened to me in the beginning…"
A ghost of a smile touched Molly's lips. "But in your absence," she began, swiftly changing the topic. "I've ordered strawberry ice-cream and rented some movies. It's the next best thing to you, I suppose."
"What about your stuff?"
Molly grimaced. "I grabbed the necessities and ran out… I didn't particularly want to linger…"
"When are you gonna go get it? If that jerk is being funny with you, I think daddy has some contacts in the city that I could give you—"
"It's fine, Kaths," she interrupted. "It's a breakup. I don't need a bunch of hit-men to fight for my tears."
"So, when?"
"…Next week?" she offered. "I don't know."
"No, Molls. You do know, and you're going next week. You need to move on and forget about that cheating snake!"
"M-Move on?" Molly spluttered, almost dropping the phone. "It's only been a few hours!"
"I know you. You're gonna be shacked up in that hotel room for the next few weeks, curtains closed, eating nothing, I repeat, nothing but strawberry ice-cream. Then you'll replay Dirty Dancing on a constant loop and listen to Jolene until you've ran out of tears. You'll avoid a meeting with Darren until you're basically dead!"
Molly frowned. "Okay, firstly, you knew I was eating strawberry ice-cream because I just said so. And secondly, the movie I rented was Pretty Woman. Plus, the curtains are not closed! I'm just… sensitive to the… light."
To prove a point, Molly flicked on the sidelight and cringed, like a vampire exposed to sunlight. She immediately switched it off to be emerged in the comfort of darkness once more.
"I'll tell you what to do," Kathy said, refusing to take no for an answer. "You ditch that calorie pink mush and, even though it's a great film, ditch Pretty Woman, too! Get your butt into that pretty blue dress and go out!"
"By my—?"
"Yeah, Molls," Kathy interrupted, and she could hear the eye-roll. "By yourself. Celebrate that you dodged a damn bullet!"
.:.
Reluctantly taking Kathy's advice, Molly soon found herself stood outside of an Italian bistro, the blue chiffon of her dress billowing around her frame in waves. It was the restaurant she had always asked Darren to take her into, but he never did. He had something against pasta, he had said. It reminded him of worms.
Perhaps Kathy was right. Had she dodged a bullet?
The bell chimed above the door as she entered, and Molly half-expected to see a tumbleweed drift past. It was empty apart from a few men chugging down beer at the bar. She straightened her dress and took a window seat, placing her purse onto the red and white table cloth. Glancing outside, she noticed a lone pot of geraniums on the sill.
A waitress with a tight ponytail sashayed over to take her order. She wore a bored expression and smacked gum between her teeth. Molly flushed, realising she hadn't opened the menu. Apologising, she fished one from the stand, and after stumbling over her pronunciation, asked for whichever the chef recommended. A steaming bowl of minestrone soup was placed under her nose, neighboured with a crusty roll of bread.
Molly tore the bread and dunked it into the soup, staring idly out of the window. Suddenly, she caught sight of two people. Darren and Karen, hand-in-hand, leaving a bar across the street. The bread dropped into the soup and she broke down.
"As a chef, I draw personal offence when somebody takes a mouthful of my food and bursts into tears."
Through blurry vision, Molly made out a man with pinned, peach-coloured hair and eyes the strangest hue of violet she had ever seen. Molly envied those with unusual eyes. Kathy's were bright green and Darren's were the lightest shade of blue.
"Well?"
His voice was deep and drawn out. Arching an eyebrow, he pursed his lips and crossed his arms. By his expression, Molly knew that she had been staring like a fish out of water. Heat rose to her face.
"What's wrong with it?"
He nudged his head down. The bread was sinking and dissolving into mush.
"Sorry to disappoint, but you won't find an answer by staring into the depths of my eyes."
Molly hastily averted her gaze. "I-It's not your food at all!" She blundered, smacking a palm against her forehead. Chefs were like highly strung artists, and she had offended one. "It's just that my boyfriend—"
The chef rolled his eyes and disappeared into the kitchen. Molly stood to leave when she heard footsteps. He had returned with a bottle of vodka and two glasses. He clanked them down onto the table and sat down opposite, posture tired and sluggish.
He dashed some of the colourless liquid into each glass and nudged one towards her. Molly glanced down sceptically. "A-Are you sure drinking on the job is such a good idea? You know, there's fire in kitchens and alcohol… well, explosions. Causalities..."
His eyes circled the room, waving the glass in the same direction. "Buzzing in here, isn't it? If you haven't noticed, you're the only customer. This place isn't exactly a hotspot at midnight on a Tuesday."
Molly gave him a sheepish smile. "Sorry about this… um… I'm Molly."
"An answer to a question I never asked. Good to know."
He downed his drink and topped it back up again. A little intimidated, she took a sip and made a face of revolution. It was like fire scorching her throat.
"Oh, boy. Do I wish I had my strawberry ice-cream," said Molly, grimacing. "I know it's late, and I should probably go home. But the thing is, my boyfriend—no, ex-boyfriend—will be going back to said home probably finishing off what I walked in on earlier! Then my best friend isn't even here, she's stuck on that stupid island because of a drinking problem, and now here I am, rambling to you and rooting myself into the same situation!"
With a noise of frustration, she gulped down the glass and slammed it onto the table. The chef was unfazed by her outburst and remained with a fist pressed against his cheek, eyes lidded and bored. It was as though she had burdened him with an explanation for a complicated maths equation, not her problems.
"Again, another answer to a question I never asked. You sure don't know how to zip it do you, Dolly?"
She narrowed her eyes. "It's Molly."
"See? You've talked that much I've already lost interest. Names are too difficult to remember. That's why I don't bother."
He leaned forward, as though to reveal a great secret, and pointed to each of the waitresses who were gossiping between themselves. His breath was mingled with liquor, and she wagered that the bottle had been his evening companion.
"Girl With Ponytail, Eyebrows and Buckteeth. I don't know their real names, nor do I care to find out."
"You must be popular here," Molly smiled wryly, putting hands to the side of her mouth. "'Hey, Eyebrows, bring this to table three!' 'Buckteeth, collect those glasses!'"
His lips slanted, forming a crease on one side. It was awkward, as though he hadn't learned how to produce a genuine smile. Molly wondered what his real smile was like, one that was natural and caught off guard.
"It comes naturally, what can I say."
Her eyes skirted past his shoulder and she noticed Girl With Ponytail staring at him with something akin to longing. It was a look of affection, a stolen glance, lip tremulous in fear that her gaze burned his neck.
"Ever had a girlfriend?"
He shrugged. "Sure."
"Have they ever broken your heart?"
"Poetic," he rolled his eyes and knocked the drink back. "Not unless they didn't have my heart to begin with."
"Poetic," she mimicked, laughing lightly. "You and I would make great friends."
Her laughter ceased and her chest tightened when she thought of the absence of Kathy.
"Impossible." He reclined and kicked his feet up onto the opposite chair, removing the clips so blonde curls fell into his eyes. "You can't be friends with the opposite sex without wanting to date them." He studied her face and his expression soured. "Eventually," he concluded. "But certain thoughts would run through your head anyway, and it would be ruined. Pointless. Best to avoid it."
"Well, aren't you confident with that opinion!" Molly piped as she topped up her glass and threw it back, the alcohol spurring her boldness. "I don't see how it matters… I for one think you can easily be friends with the opposite sex without wanting to date them."
"Confident in that opinion, are you?" he mocked. "Name an example and prove my well researched philosophy wrong… oh, and Dolly?"
"It's Molly!" she shrieked, banging her fist against the table, earning herself glares from the nearby waitresses. She attempted to read his name badge, but the alcohol refused to let her focus. "Chesney!"
Something which resembled a laugh tumbled from his lips, but it sounded like a mixture of a gasp and a sob. He quickly covered his mouth with a hand to drown out the sound, but when he lifted his eyes, they were crinkled at the corners.
"Chesney? I've had Calvin and Mase, but never a Chesney. Well done, that's my new favourite."
He swilled his glass and stared out of the window. A drunkard stumbled past, his hands patting the pane to regain footing. He was soon followed by a smitten couple who bore into each other's eyes like the stars were held within. The chef—or as Molly donned Chesney—scoffed at the sight, switching his attention to her.
"Like I was saying, being friends with a boyfriend first doesn't count."
"I know that it's a possibility," she started, eyebrows knit in thought. "I've… just never had any first-hand experience. Compare it to this: you know the moon is up there, but you haven't very well gone and explored it, have you? You just know."
"How do you know I haven't? Gone up to the moon, I mean."
"Because you haven't!"
"Fair enough, I haven't."
He emitted a beat of laughter, but it was gone as soon as it came. It was practiced, Molly soon came to realise, much like the slanted curve of his lips. The only real emotion he had revealed was his odd laugh—which he attempted to mask—that sounded uncanny to hyperventilation.
"But the moon and my philosophy are two completely different things."
"Really? Because I don't see it."
"You said you had a boyfriend?"
"Ex-boyfriend," she corrected.
"Whatever," he dismissed, the glass spilling from his intoxicated imbalance. "I have an example of my philosophy."
"Do share your knowledge, Socrates," she said, attempting to match his frequent drawl, but her voice just sounded slurred.
"This ex-boyfriend of yours most likely shared your naive philosophy. He thought he could be friends with that girl—"
"Karen," she murmured, as though she had swallowed something distasteful.
"Yeah, yeah. Karen happened. He thought he could just be friends with her, right? Then you happened, stumbling in here with your tears and your red-eyes, using vodka as an antidote to prove your own damn philosophy wrong," he finished, downing another glass and clanking it down onto the table.
His words reminded her of the times Darren had insisted him and Karen were just friends.
'Darren? Are you sure there's nothing going on between you and Karen?'
'God, Molls. How many times have I told you? We're just friends! Don't you trust me?'
"That was harsh," her voice was tinged with hurt as it echoed around the glass.
He leaned his elbows onto the table, looking at her with his exquisite, violet eyes. "So is reality."
