.:. Eight .:.
Two Years Later
A wave rolled and crashed.
Molly circled her ankle, her fuchsia-pedicured toes flashing in the water. Chase had upturned the hem of his trousers as the sea lapped against his feet, the hair curling down his neck and overflowing his collar irritating him. It was spring—yet the sun shone brilliantly. Molly appeared on his doorstep at the ungodly hour of nine, demanding that he spend the day with her.
Something was bothering her, because she didn't smile.
"I've wasted three years of my life with him!"
Her shrill exclamation shattered the tranquil atmosphere. The seagulls that pecked the area scattered and took flight. Her fingers were latched around a pebble, and for a moment, Chase thought she was going to stone him to death—her eyes were enraged. He let out a breath he hadn't realised he held as she tossed it out to sea. Clearly she had been hoping that it would skim the surface, but it sunk down to the bottom with a splash and a plop.
Chase fumbled in the sand for a pebble and effortlessly skimmed it across the water. Her lips pulled into a scowl.
"Everything exploded last night," Molly began, fingers tracing patterns in the sand. "I told him what I wanted—to get married, to start a family… he was silent and removed his hat. It was like someone had died, I'm telling you. You know, that face someone pulls when they deliver bad news? That's the look he was giving me."
Chase lolled forwards, mentally preparing himself for one of her lengthy speeches about Calvin—not something he wanted to partake in on his day off.
"I'm surprised that guy didn't fix you with one of his smoulders," he joked, twisting his head to see if she had cracked a smile—she hadn't.
"I never knew what was so great about him," he exhaled, tucking a long strand behind his ear. "I mean, god. Did you see how dirty his hat was? I wouldn't be surprised if someone ended up finding a bird eating tarantula in there."
"He was charismatic, dummy," she shoved his side, a repressed smile playing on her lips. "Something which you don't have."
His eyes rolled into the back of his head. "Let's be real, Dolly. We both know it isn't my dazzling personality and good manners which win girls over. Charisma and good looks do me just fine." He smirked in the direction of the sea.
"I really wonder how I've managed not to become enraptured by these traits of yours for six years," Molly humoured him before she continued with the story. "So then he says: 'Molls, I don't want what you want and you don't want what I want. I don't want to settle down.' Then I told him: 'well you clearly don't want me!' And you know what he did? Sighed. What sort of response is that?"
"Clearly not the one you were hoping for," Chase quipped, turning over a pebble in his hands.
"You're certainly right about that! After I went to bed last night I heard my front door close. He'd gone—disappeared. His stuff wasn't there either—vanished, like smoke. It was as though he had never been there in the first place. I suppose he hasn't. He was always away.
"So then I go to the inn—it's the only place I thought of to go and they told me they had seen him boarding a boat."
Molly was silent for a while, the rush of waves and the squawking of seagulls reaching his ears. She inhaled sharply, but when she finally spoke, her voice was quiet.
"He left me, Chesney. Do you think that I love people too much? Maybe that's why they always leave."
"I think that's better than not being able to love at all."
He tossed a pebble into the sea—but this time, it sank.
.:.
It was late afternoon when the duo returned from the beach.
Orange light spilled through the farmhouse windows, creating long shadows like splashes of Indian ink. The phone was pressed against her ear and she heard the faint sounds of Chase pottering around in his kitchen—clanging pans, the shutting of cupboard doors and the hissing of the gas cooker. She imagined him performing a balancing act with the phone as he multi-tasked with his cooking.
He cursed suddenly and Molly had the inkling that he had just burnt or cut himself.
"You're distracting, you know that?" His tone was a low grumble and a smacking sound followed—a sore finger against lips. "You ring me at the most inconvenient times. I just got back from spending the entire day with you. Have you ever considered that I'd want some Dolly-free time, huh?"
"That's not very nice," her lips puckered and she pulled the blanket up to her chin. A tub of Chase's ice-cream situated on the coffee table while the television played Pretty In Pink. "Aren't friends supposed to be supportive? I've just been through a break-up, you know!"
He exhaled in resignation. "No tears for failed relationship number two, then? I'm shocked. I'm tempted to come over and force feed minestrone soup down your throat to promote a normal reaction."
"How kind. But I actually feel fine. Weird." She curled ice-cream onto the spoon and shovelled it into her mouth, creating muffled speech. "You working tonight?"
"What are you saying? Try swallowing first."
"Are you working tonight?" She irritably repeated, mouth empty.
"Unless I make the unlikely transformation into a firefly for the festival, no."
"Oh, darn. I forgot about that. Are you going?"
"Yes, Dolly. By myself. That's my idea of a good time."
"Well, do you want me to come with you?"
"What?"
"Are you deaf?"
"I wish I was. Your voice grates on my nerves."
"Fine!" Molly huffed. "Forget I asked!"
"God, whatever. Come with me then."
"Aw, I don't know if I feel up to it now."
"Ice-cream?"
"Done. I'll buzz over to your place for eight."
"That was terrible. Fireflies don't even buzz."
"Ooh! Chesney the buzzkill is on my case!"
"Wear something dark."
"Um, why? Goth fetish?"
"Close, but no. So blood isn't visible when I inevitably murder you tonight."
The line went dead.
.:.
To humour him, Molly dressed in black.
It was a challenge—her wardrobe consisted of very little black and she instantly knew why. It made her feel miserable, as though she was getting ready to attend a funeral. She tended to stick to bright, sunny colours. They lifted her mood.
She believed that if Chase was a colour, he'd be black. When she thought about him, the colour that floated to mind was violet, but that was only because of the influence of his eyes. No, black was Chase—secretive and moody and stubborn.
Molly critically studied her reflection in the mirror. The lack of colour made her look dreary. She pinned a flower-pin into her hair and looped a fuchsia scarf around her neck. Her palm slapped her forehead. Why was she fussing about her appearance? It was only Chase and it would be dark.
He had seen her in countless numbers of questionable fashion choices—even in her underwear, although accidental. He'd fallen asleep on her couch and the following morning after Molly emerged from taking a shower, it slipped her mind that he still occupied the house. He raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, eyes raking her frame. She screamed and locked herself in the bathroom until he left. When she peeked her head out, there was a note on the floor.
Sometimes I forget you're a girl. The mistake is duly noted. In my brain.
P.S. black?
Molly flushed at the memory and pushed open her door, the evening breeze cooling her cheeks. She ambled down to Flute Fields and caught sight of Chase outside of his house, slouched against the fence in his front yard. His head was tilted away from her, pale strands fluttering in the night air. He looked like he belonged in a film static.
"Need some company?" said Molly, waving.
Chase snapped his head towards her, removing his weight from the fence. He adjusted a basket in his arms.
"That clip," he prodded her head, voice quiet and distracted. "I've never seen it before."
Her stomach sunk and she pouted. "You don't like it?"
He shrugged non-committedly and walked ahead, hands stuffed into his pockets. "I didn't say that."
She quickened her pace to match his strides. "Envious, then? You do seem to have a clip fetish," she giggled. "Though I have to say," she stood on her tiptoes and pulled at his peach-strands that were rarely freed from their clips. "You look better without your hair clips. You look friendlier—more approachable."
"Stop it," he drawled. "You're making me blush."
They reached the grassy plane where numerous couples gathered before the waterwheel—Gill and Luna, who appeared to be arguing—a blushing Candace and a coy Julius—and a loved up Kathy and Owen, whose wedding was scheduled in a few months.
Chase's eyes burned her skin, yet when she turned her head, he was looking straight ahead.
"I was mad."
Confusion knit her eyebrows. "Mad?"
"You know," his lips slanted, as though recalling a bad memory. "At how you went to the festival with Calvin."
Molly batted his arm. "Oh, Chase. You should have said so! I totally would have gone with you."
He arched an eyebrow, voice doubting. "C'mon. No you wouldn't."
"I would. Sure, I was infatuated with Calvin at the time. But you always make me laugh. Like, even your face. It's funny."
"What," he sounded faintly amused. "You'd rather laugh than be in love?"
"Can't I have both?"
"No."
"Mean," she declared as she pulled a loose thread on her scarf. "I wish I went with you."
Chase exhaled. "He was your boyfriend. I'm your friend, and friends don't have those kind of rights."
"'Rights'," Molly mimicked with the rolling of eyes. "Is that a signed declaration? You'll have to show it to me sometime."
He frowned. "What? It's true. If I insisted to go with you, he would have thought I was making a move or something."
Molly gave him a weak smile. "I suppose. I'm sorry about that birthday, by the way. I hope your twenty-eighth last week was better."
"Miles. Will I ever not find a use for that personalised apron?"
She laughed.
The apron that she oh-so-generously bought for him was vivid pink with 'you don't have to kiss me, but if you annoy me, you can kiss my ass' printed on the front. He was scheduled to work last week and through hers, Hayden's and Kathy's peer pressure, he wore it during his shift. Molly was surprised that he didn't 'accidentally' set it on fire.
Nevertheless, she was glad that it wasn't a re-enactment of two years ago. The idea of Chase and Maya made her uneasy—he treated her terribly. Molly hoped that she had moved on from him by now, considering she left the island a year and a half ago. Maya may have been hopeless at cooking, but she was proficient at tasting and judging food.
A popular cooking show in the city was seeking judges and she was immediately snatched up. It aired on their televisions occasionally and Chase would barge into her house with snacks in tow and they would watch it. He complained endlessly, but his eyes were soft—proud.
Molly knew that Chase didn't love Maya—but she believed that his cold heart allowed rare exceptions to whom he cared for.
"You love the apron that much I bet you sleep with it."
Chase's lips were curved, a crease formed on one side. "Obviously. What else keeps my bed warm at night?"
Mayor Hamilton began his rounds of handing out lotus-shaped lanterns. They were delicate, each one differing in colour as they glowed warmly with the light of the fireflies. The stoutly man's eyes bulged when he reached them, hearty laughter tearing through the silence as he held his protruding stomach.
"Molly, Chase!" he clapped his meaty hands, grin reaching his ears. "I say, it's about time!"
Molly's cheeks blazed at the misunderstanding, hands waving frantically. Meanwhile Chase groaned, apparently bored. "Oh, no! We're just friends!"
"For now," Hamilton winked and handed them a pink lantern between themselves, disappearing to mingle with the other residents.
"Pink," Chase was unimpressed, eyes narrowed at the object within her grasp. "What's with this colour? The apron and now this."
"What can I say? It matches your eyes."
.:.
"I don't think about this ancestor stuff," Chase murmured as they stood in the riverbank, eyes following the journey of the dimming lantern.
"Me neither," Molly exhaled. "We probably should, though. We say this now, but it's like when somebody dies and everyone's like—'oh, I wish I got to know them better!' But if they had their chance again, they never would. A useless promise of guilt to make ourselves feel better."
Chase hummed in agreement while her gaze traveled to the surrounding couples—huddled, exchanging sweet-nothings and light kisses. A noise of disgust formed in Chase's throat as he shadowed her point of interest.
"God, it's sickening. It's like I'm stuck on a blasted love island."
"Don't be such a cynic. I think it's cute," she smiled and pulled her eyes away. "I hope I have a date for the next festival."
He rolled his eyes. "Optimistic."
Molly rounded on him. "Hey! I'll have you know that I'm a catch. For somebody, anyway."
"I pity the unlucky man who has to keep up with that ice-cream diet of yours."
She brightened, ogling the basket under his arm. "Speaking of ice-cream! You brought it, right? I hope you did. You might make me cry if you say you forgot."
"Like you say," the corners of his lips quirked. "I only remember the oddest things."
.:.
Golden sand sieved through Molly's fingers as Chase unpacked the contents of the basket. He extended a pot of ice-cream when Molly noticed the bright red burn which swelled his finger. Her eyebrows furrowed.
"You did burn yourself, I knew it." She lodged the pot into the sand and clawed through her purse in search of a plaster—after all, one never knows the temperament of their shoes. "Here, give me your finger."
Chase eyed her with apprehension before sighing, allowing her to take his hand. Molly expected him to brush off her concern and insist that he could treat himself—yet he didn't. Her gaze wandered over his hand—it was quite a bit larger than hers, but his fingers were slender. Creamy skin that would have once been soft was hardened by callouses from numerous cooking incidents, along with the faint traces of thin, white scars.
"Is my hand that attractive?" he drawled, twitching his fingers comically, like wild piano keys. "Well, you can kiss it better, if you'd like."
Molly lifted her eyes and smiled coyly. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"It's my only dream."
"Funny. Now just hold still."
She peeled the plaster's skin, revealing the sticky underneath and wrapped it around Chase's finger.
"Dolly. You've got to be joking."
"What?"
"The plaster. It's pink."
Short laughter tumbled from her lips. "So it is. What's wrong with pink? I like pink. Pink is the colour of strawberry flavoured things. Besides, you suit pink—like I said before, they match your eyes. Have I ever told you? I've probably told you. But I've always thought that you had pretty eyes. They're unusual."
Chase's lips parted with surprise, running a hand along his face. He rocked forwards, curls swinging madly. He was close, lips quirked to reveal a flash of teeth, eyes teasing. "What, have you finally acknowledged my good looks?"
"Yeah, right."
A humourless laugh caught in her throat as she hid her reddening complexion in the equally rosy dessert.