.:. Nine .:.
Two Months Later
It was three in the morning when the phone rang on Chase's nightstand.
Inhaling sharply, he jolted—heart thumping wildly. With his mind cloudy with sleep, he convinced himself that he still resided in the city, one of his nightmares of Maya igniting his workplace becoming reality with the dreaded call from the police station. The phone continued with it's relentless chirps and he frowned, eyes meeting the green photo frame.
Molly stuck it there—literally super-gluing it to the wood. Her reasoning was that friends apparently harbored photographs of one another in their respective houses. Chase deemed this another trait of her incurable insanity and left her to it. The image recalled a summer's day a few years back in her farmland. Her cow—which she dumbly named Paris—licked her cheek and her face froze mid-laughter, spotlighting the gap between her front teeth while her freckled nose crinkled.
He knew the farmer would be on the other end of the line.
Only she would have the nerve to call at such an ungodly hour.
Eyes closed, he fumbled in the dark and answered it with complaints and insults on the tip of his tongue—yet when her croaky voice and the unmistakable sound of sniffling reached his ears, he exhaled with defeat.
"S-Sorry to call you so late. It's just that I—"
Her feeble explanation was cut through the eruption of loud, gasping sobs.
"Are you crying?"
Stupid—of course she was. That or she was displaying the signs of a fatal asthma attack.
Her reply was defensive. "N-No!"
"Really?"
The line was silent for a beat before a reel of quiet whimpers resounded.
"Y-Yes," she whined, voice nasal from her blocked nose.
"What happened?"
Chase flicked on the sidelight and grimaced at the harsh alteration. He untangled the sheets from his limbs and stood, dragging his wrist over his eyes.
"He—He's getting," she sniffled, voice cracking. "Married."
"Who?" he inquired—again, stupid—the lateness of her phone call not in sync with his brain.
She created a noise of frustration and he knew her voice would be shrill—hysterical. "Calvin! Who else!"
Chase groaned and flinched from her ear-splitting proclamation. "God, I get it. I'll be right over, so quit drowning in your tears. Frankly, I don't want to build a raft to get into your house."
He punched the red button.
.:.
Chase shrugged on a jumper to ward off the autumn chills, still clad in pajama bottoms and slippers when he knocked on her door.
She answered immediately, the familiar scents of floral potpourri and nail-polish wafting his nose. Molly's lips curved in pitiful gratefulness, her fingers pulling a scrunchie which bobbed her scalp, wispy strands flying around her red, splotched face. She wore a baggy t-shirt and striped cotton shorts and her obnoxious fluffy-pink-bunny-slippers.
He hated those slippers—she reminded him of big-foot when she wore them.
"Thanks for coming over... Sorry, I forget you work late..."
Chase shrugged, lips quirked into a half-smile. "I'm here now. It would be more trouble to go back home."
Molly stepped aside to let him in, pacing the room while Chase took residence on the couch. The rug creased between her feet, her living room the epitome of organised-clutter. It reminded Chase of the place were psychic readings were conducted or perhaps were hippies vacated to gain spiritual awakening—everything was adorned in patterns and tassels and glitter.
"C'mon, Dolly," he pressed her silence. "Don't spare me of your narrations now."
"So Calvin called from Rome," she began, her floorboards creaking. "We exchanged all the usual pleasantries—'how are you doing?' 'Great, how are you?' 'Great'. Then we were silent for a while, and of course my mind went into overdrive—why was he calling me? I was repeating a mantra in my head—'I'm over him, I don't care, I dodged a bullet' as Kathy would say.
"Then he was rambling on about his research in Rome. The Colosseum and the ruins and all that interesting jazz. I felt inferior. He was going on all these adventures, and I'm stuck on a tiny island running a tiny farm. So I just gave minimal responses—'sounds amazing' and 'glad you're having fun'.
"We lapsed into silence again. His voice took on that tone—you know, that one he used last time?—a wary, pitiful tone. God! I wanted to slap him through the phone! He said—'Molls, I have some news' so I played along—'oh, what's that?' and then he dropped the bomb.
"He's getting married!"
She twirled and faced him, hands curled into fists around a tissue. Her eyes were expressive—wide and angry and stunned. She threw the tissue over her shoulder and Chase silently offered her another. Her fingers bunched her hair as she continued.
"She's an archaeologist. Her name is Phoebe. And guess what? He just met her! We only ended it two months ago! She's supposed to be the rebound, not the one!"
Molly flopped her weight down into the couch while he used his thumb to swipe the stray tears.
"See, I always thought Calvin was just fickle—a drifter, going wherever the wind took him. He always told me—'I don't want to get married and settle down. Commitment just isn't in my nature.'"
Her hands raised in exasperation. "What a hypocrite! So then I realised… It's my fault. He didn't love me. He never told me—not once. He wasn't against marriage... he... he was just against marrying me."
Crying resumed, shoulders hunched and shaking as she buried her face in her hands.
Chase had to that admit that comforting wasn't his strongest point. He was confused as to why she thought of him as the first person to call—surely Kathy would provide more womanly understanding. His hand lifted inches from her arm—yet he shook his head and hooked his lips, fingers curling into his palm. Perhaps he should get her some ice-cream and tell her to get over it. But something told him that maybe that was a little harsh.
"You're saying that if he ditched this other girl—Philly, or whatever—you'd take him back? I didn't think that you were that stupid."
Her head snapped to him, lips parted with surprise.
"N-No! Of course I wouldn't! He… he didn't like desserts. He hated pudding. He hated it so much you would think that he ran into the pudding phantom in one of those tombs he explores."
He poked her forehead. "There's no future for you in somebody who doesn't appreciate the finery of pudding."
A combination of a laugh and a sob formed in her throat and in the next moment, she tossed her arms around his neck. Chase startled and inhaled sharply—they never hugged.
"Sorry," her breath warmed his neck. "I know we don't hug, but... I'm just so sad."
Chase exhaled and wrapped his arms around her, patting her back awkwardly. "I'll... make an exception."
"Why is your jumper so itchy?" she murmured, sobs lessening.
His chin rested on the top of her hair. "Maybe it has an unscratchable scratch."
She blinked and wet eyelashes batted his skin. She was crying—again. "H-How sad!"
He rolled his eyes, hands ceasing their clumsy patting. "You'll get over it—the Calvin thing, I mean. I don't know about this jumper. It's always been itchy."
"Chesney?" she questioned, tugging a straggly thread. "Could you tell me a story? I want to forget about him. For awhile, at least."
His eyebrows arched, lips pulled upwards in amusement. "A story? God, Dolly. You're such a kid."
"Are... are you calling me a goat?"
"Whatever, fine." He exhaled and gently pushed her backwards, hands locked on her shoulders as he forged his face into mock-seriousness. "It was a dark and stormy night..."
She laughed coarsely, tears almost a forgotten memory. "No, no. Be serious."
"C'mon, Dolly. You're the hotshot for storytelling. I haven't got the foggiest where you'd think I'd be able to tell a good story."
Molly crossed her legs on the couch, fist resting against her cheek while her wispy ponytail lolled to the side.
"Tell me," she hummed in contemplation. "Tell me how you met Maya."
Chase frowned. "Maya? Why?"
She shrugged non-committedly and grabbed a cushion, fiddling with the tassels. Chase sighed and strolled into the kitchen to grab the bottle of vodka he stored in one of her top cupboards. Tucking the bottle under his arm, he gathered two mismatched glasses and made his way back into the living room. He clanked them onto the coffee table and sloshed—arguably, too much—colourless liquid into them.
Molly took a glass and eyed it warily. "Is the story that outrageous that we need a bottle of vodka? Oh, boy. Do I feel a sense of déjà vu."
He knew that Molly detested vodka; she couldn't understand why he liked it so much. She once said that it tasted like a mixture of deodorant and bleach. Chase was painfully aware that she bordered on insanity, but if she conducted this comparison first hand then he may have to put a halt on story-telling and begin a stomach pump.
But to him, vodka didn't taste of much; he liked it because it was refreshing. "You know in my old age that I like any excuse to have vodka."
"Is this the beginnings of an addiction? Don't make me call Alcoholics Anonymous, Chase."
She sounded like herself and his lips slanted into a modest quirk.
"Once upon a time," he began with evident sarcasm. "Ten years ago, I was in my last year of high school and was working in a dingy, little cafe. It was a pathetic place. Sold about three different types of sandwiches—hardly gourmet. Anyways, there was this girl who'd come into the cafe daily—Maya. She had these big, over-sized glasses at the time—"
Chase's attention drifted down to Molly's feet were her obnoxious slippers were located and he wondered why the both of them insisted on looking like complete imbeciles.
"She still looked twelve even though we were both eighteen at the time," he continued, swilling the liquor in the glass while Molly listened keenly, only taking sips from her drink when he did—and he did so quite often. "Still a weird, annoying kid even then. She would always have this blue, spotted bag with her, always with her nose in a book. I assumed that she was going to university, you know? Well, she was in a rush this one day and left one book behind. I wasn't curious—it was obstructing me from cleaning tables. It was a recipe book. Like I said, weird kid.
"I tucked it around back to give it to her the next time I saw her. We didn't talk; she was just another customer and I don't particularity go out of my way to make conversation. I only remembered her because she would always ask for special requests with the food. It was a refreshing change."
"You know," Molly flashed him a coy smile, tapping her nails against the glass. "You're a pretty good rambler yourself when you want to be."
"Another trait to add to the ever-growing number."
He topped up their glasses before resuming.
"So she came back in the next day and I handed it to her. She looked embarrassed. I didn't know why—it's not like it was an M rated goddamn recipe book, you know? She thanked me and thought it would be a good idea to strike up a conversation. I was forced to be polite—don't get me wrong, my politeness consisted of minimal responses. I'd already had warnings and complaints about my attitude at this point and I needed the job.
"I'd unwillingly learnt that she wasn't from the city—she came to go to high school. Cooking was in her family and she was studying to become a chef. But nothing was going right for her, she had said. I assumed that with the amount of studying she had done she couldn't be half bad so I struck up a deal. I'd teach her what I knew and in return she could give me critiques on my food. Obviously, after the first time she managed to burn water, I realised that she was a hopeless cause, yet still I continued to cook for her. I suppose her company turned into a habit over the years."
"What about her name? You remembered her name, didn't you?"
The tone of her voice surprised him—it resounded sadness.
"Are you for real? No, I called her 'Mia' or 'Four-Eyes' for about three years. Maybe you'll be a 'Molly' eventually."
Her eyes brightened and she fought a smile, lowering her eyes.
.:.
An hour ticked by and they eventually emptied the bottle of vodka between themselves.
Chase wasn't particularity drunk—he handled his alcohol well. But he did feel his judgement slightly jaded and a pounding in his head. However this could also stem from being awoken by a crying girl at stupid-o-clock.
Conversely, Molly was another story.
Her eyes were glazed and unfocused from intoxication, the salt from her tears rimming them red and swollen. The happiness which temporarily consumed her from his story had faded after a few more glasses, returning to her state of despondency.
Presently she was crying—again—small hands viced onto the material of his jumper while she buried her face into his neck. Chase's arms snaked around her, holding her firmly as sobs shook her frame. He was unsure of what else he could do—he wanted to drag Calvin from the myriad of places he roamed and demand an apology for making him pick up the pieces from her fragile heart.
Molly was being annoying. That was the thing with her—she was too emotional for her own good. She talked too much, she cared too much, and now she had drank too much. But Chase couldn't leave her like this. He supposed—like Maya—Molly had also become a habit over the years. Habits are hard to shake—especially once you're invested.
"Chase," she murmured, lifting her head and meeting his eyes. "Do you think anyone will ever love me?"
Her question ached with sincerity that sadness stirred inside of him. She was waiting for an answer—two large, pleading, teary brown eyes.
How could he answer such a question?
But he didn't have to—as in the next moment, her lips were on his.
Her movements were rushed and clumsy and desperate. Chase froze as his hands fumbled for her shoulders. He pushed her back, eyes riddled with confusion. A million questions swarmed his brain—instead, all that left his lips was the breathless observation of—
"Your kiss tastes of liquor."
Molly's eyes were lidded while an unsuited lazy and drunken smirk played her lips. She straddled him and he gulped, hands awkwardly resting on her waist. It felt foreign and wrong holding her like this, bunching the fabric of her t-shirt—yet they had moved on their own accord.
Her tongue grazed her lower-lip. "Lucky you like it so much."
Chase implored all lecherous thoughts from his mind, scrunching his eyes closed and setting his jaw. "Stop—you'll regret this in the morning."
Her nose trailed his cheek and her lips were at his ear. "But it's not morning, is it?"
But it was—approximately five if her wall-clock was accurate. Alcohol had tampered with their sense of time, their reality disfigured and warped—a bubble with no consequences.
"Dolly—" a moan caught in his throat as her lips stung his neck. Her fingers curled the soft hair on his nape until they slowly wormed down to the hem of his jumper, her touch cold against skin. They nimbly pulled the string on his pajamas and he released a shuddery breath—his resistance was slipping.
She sloped forwards, her chest pressed up against him. Her thumbs traced invisible patterns on his cheeks as she held his face in her hands, foreheads touching. Her lips parted, voice pleading and slow, yet only a whisper. "Please, Chase."
He could hear his heartbeat.
She rolled her hips and he caved.