"To tell you this story, kids," I say whimsically, in a tone that all parents seem to naturally learn by necessity, "we've got to rewind fifteen years."
"That's so many years, Mommy!" Nigel pipes up, seemingly awestruck by how old I am. "That's more than how many years I am!" He continues, mouth forming an 'o' shape, while a fiery excitement builds up in his eyes.
"That's right, sweetie," I smile good-naturedly. Daisy takes her turn to speak. "That means you were twenty-one years old, right, Mommy?" She says uncertainly, a thoughtful finger going up to her lips as she pouts ever so slightly, as she does her calculations – what did I say about her being mature? – and looks to me for affirmation.
"Correct," I reply appraisingly, genuinely impressed by her mathematical skill.
"I was twenty-one when I first came to Castanet," I finally start, no longer being bombarded by their questions, "and the path that led me to your Dad was a long one."
It was autumn when I first met him; two seasons after I'd just arrived on Castanet, tasked with the heavy responsibility of reviving the beat up farm. The leaves were transitioning from their trademark healthy green to pallid brown. Thinking back, it's almost like his reappearance into my life was fated – he arrived, a surge of brown and khaki tumbling into my life.
When I say 'met him,' that's not the truth. In reality, we'd met before. What felt like an eternity ago.
"So," I ventured carefully, watching intently as the twenty-three year old, sandy blonde haired man brought a glass of pale scotch to his thin, chapped lips; ice cubes in his drink clinking together discordantly; condensation from the glass threatening to rain over onto the bar counter at any moment, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"
He laughed carelessly, mockingly, looking at me with juxtaposing kind eyes. "That's exactly the kind of question you'd expect an eighteen year old to ask."
"Well, I can't help it, can I?" I answered defensively, synapses springing to life, the way they did whenever he taunted me in his usual manner, "I am eighteen, after all."
"Yeah." He turned quiet. "And I'm twenty-three."
Silence fell over us, smothering us in an uncomfortable blanket of tension. He finally let out a sigh. "You seem to forget, sweet Molly, that I am a grown up," he smiled, sharply chiseled jaw moving ever so slightly upwards in complement.
"Alright then. I'll reword my question," I rebutted stubbornly, "What do you want to be?"
Calvin smiled again, that smile that seemed so simultaneously elusive yet understanding. He decided to humor me. "I want to go on adventures," he finally stated, a tremor of certainty reigning in his voice. A faraway, dream-filled look glazed over his almost cerulean blue eyes, rendering him momentarily untouchable. He looked over at me, then back into the swirls in his glass. "Not get stuck in one place."
"I'd like that too," I replied mindlessly.
Calvin shot me a sympathetic look, before finishing off his drink and fastening on his tattered brown leather Stetson hat. He stood up, instinctively placing his hand on the small of my back. "Come on kiddo," he led; gently pushing me so I was walking just slightly ahead of him. He let his muscular arm drape itself over my covered shoulder, pulling me closer towards him, before he planted an affectionate kiss on my head. "Let's get you home."
"How's the dangerously older boyfriend coming along, Molly?" A friend from work had asked – teased – me a week after.
"Calvin's not my boyfriend," I replied, reaching for my standard answer. "It's just a fling to him," I mumbled, trying to ignore the always-reoccurring prickling sensation in my heart. Needles pressing against its skin. "He's only here for a season."
"Don't try to deny it," my friend had retorted, prodding my shoulder in unnecessary chastisement. "He's your first love, isn't he?"
"So what if he is?"
"You know what they say about first loves!" She exclaimed loudly, making me wince. I shook my head to indicate my confusion. She continued, tiresomely, "If it's real, it'll be forever."
I laughed a little mockingly at her. "I think you've been reading too many of those trashy romance novels." She puffed her cheeks out in dissatisfaction, before I went on. "And besides," I said, "forever is a long time."
"Of course it is! That's what's romantic about it," she gushed dreamily. I smiled skeptically at her.
"I don't know," I continued, having no qualms about bursting her little fairytale filled bubble. "Time's got a way of changing things."
"Well, if it isn't the ever optimistic Molly," a coarse, sarcastic voice called out from behind us. I turned, recognizing said voice belonged to my not-boyfriend-not-friend himself, Calvin. He smirked knowingly, one side of his wry mouth travelling up his cheek more than the other; the sides of his eyes crinkling up as he did so – the five years he had over me evident in those lines. I nodded to my friend who hurriedly left us to ourselves.
"What're you doing here?"
Calvin faltered, almost like he couldn't bring himself to spit out the words. It was in that pause – that hesitation – that I realized the reason for his presence. My heart sank, racing down my chest as the arteries, that kept it carefully suspended, proceeded to snap to nothing. "I'm leaving," he finally stated, even though I no longer needed to hear it.
"Oh," was all I could choke out, as I desperately tried to fight back the persistent tears that threatened to spill over my eyes. "Where're you headed to?" Keep it together.
He smiled, excitement evident. "Don't know yet," he replied honestly, scratching at the back of his head as he did so; an earnest gesture that was just so innate of him. A fiery determination blazed in his eyes. "But somewhere great."
Eighteen year old me couldn't stop the foolish words from tumbling out of my mouth. "What about us?"
He seemed to withdraw visibly, a look of pain – disgust – crossing his face. "Molly," he started wearily, "you knew this was coming."
"Yeah," I finally conceded, tears now making their rapid descent down my cheeks, "I know."
"Come on, kiddo, don't cry," he comforted, as he pulled me into his arms, burying my face in his familiar chest. My infantile impulses led me to believe that this tearful goodbye, this pang of longing that sat decidedly in my chest, could be somehow alleviated by him telling me what I wanted to hear. What I needed to hear.
"Calvin, will you tell me something?"
"Sure," he murmured, his response muffled by my hair.
"Do you…" I mumbled out, a tremor of uncertainty settling on my words; afraid to be voiced because I wasn't sure if I wanted to know the answer, whichever one it may have been. "Do you lov–" I finally found the courage to begin again, heart haphazardly attempting to heal itself mere seconds after it'd been broken. The crashing of chapped lips onto mine cut me off.
It wasn't the kiss that answered me, but the hesitation – the pause – to answer my question. It was his reluctance to answer me with the words I didn't want to hear. It was his deft evading of the question. It was in his hesitation that I again found my answer.
When his lips left mine, he brought them back up to my head, planting a final kiss on my hair as he wrapped an arm around me, for the last time.
"See ya, kiddo."
He pulled away.
"Molly!" The high-pitched voice of the stout little thing of a mayor, Hamilton, had broken me out of my daydream. I clutched my palm to my chest in shock, furrowing my eyebrows to convey to him my displeasure at his sudden greeting. "Sorry about that, dear," he chuckled, leaving me uncertain about the genuineness of his apology, "I just wanted to let you know that there's a new villager in town."
"Okay," I mumbled out, quickly agitating at Hamilton's undesirable presence, silently hoping that the faster I replied, the faster he'd leave.
"Sorry about this. She's usually a lot nicer," Hamilton seemed to explain to nobody in particular. My shoulders tensed up impatiently.
"What do you mean by that?" I went to retort, offended, "And who are you even talking to?"
I whisked myself around to face him; chestnut brown locks of hair whipping my cheeks sharply as I did so, as if berating me for my superfluous rudeness. Expecting to find a stout old man clad in a pastel blue suit, I was instead met with a much taller, fitter man, donning a linen khaki shirt, its top three buttons – tortoiseshell, traces of shaded browns melding together – left unbuttoned. Sandy blonde hair framed his sharp features, as bright pools of cerulean met my eyes.
As cliché as it sounded, I could have sworn that my heart skipped a beat.
"Molly," Hamilton finally piped up, choosing to valiantly ignore my previous cruel demeanor towards him, "This is Calvin. He's an adventurer who's settling down in Castanet."
"It's nice to meet you," his dry, husky voice, which I hadn't heard in years, greeted me evenly. For a moment, dread washed over me, as I came to the dawning realization that he'd forgotten all about me during his travels.
Keep it together.
"Nice to meet you, too," I replied waveringly, going to shake the large, calloused hand he'd stuck out towards me.
"Sorry," he suddenly interrupted, before he went on to only confirm my suspicions about his not remembering me, "What was your name again?"
"Molly."
"Ah. It's nice to meet you," he repeated smoothly, as a small smirk slowly crept up his face; before he brought his voice down a notch, so that he almost whispered the next word to me.
"Kiddo."
"Wow, Molly, you sure make your moves fast," Kathy teased, as she served up our drinks to where Calvin and I sat at the Brass Bar.
"It's not like that, Kathy," I rebutted, trying to suppress the blush that clung to my cheeks.
"Of course," the blonde bar maid conceded, winking at me while Calvin averted his gaze. Her blonde ponytail swished as she sauntered away, glittering under the dim, orange-toned bar light; I shook my head smilingly.
"So," I finally began, precipitously feeling like I was eighteen – heart palpitating precariously, palms sweating unwittingly – all over again, "What're you doing here?"
"I heard the mines are really good here."
"They are," I nodded, willing my galloping heart to be still.
"Never would've guessed that you'd become a farmer," he voiced, an inquisitive gaze being directed at me.
"Why not?"
"You were always so naïve back then," he laughed, lips parting to reveal his crookedly perfect teeth. "Never weak though. So I guess maybe a farmer was the right path for you after all."
"I'll take that as a compliment," I said, indignant.
"It was," he replied, benevolent smile tugging on his – still – chapped lips.
"What've you been up to the past three years?"
"Travelling. Adventuring. Seeing the world."
"So living the life, basically," I teased.
"It's not all it's cranked up to be."
"Why's that?"
"I'm starting to wonder if there's something more."
"More?"
"You know, something more to life. I'm always moving around, seeing new things. But lately, I can't seem to shake the feeling that there's always something missing."
"So why're you settling down here, then?"
He looked straight at me; every synapse in my body sprung to life, just like they'd done three years ago. He still had that effect on me. My heart thumped pugnaciously in my chest.
"I wasn't intending to, actually," he answered solemnly, eyes diverted towards his glass of malted scotch – he still drank that – and large hands noisily tracing the rim of his glass. "Hamilton was just jumping to conclusions."
"Ah," I replied, heart sinking rapidly at the thought of having to bid him goodbye again. "To be honest," I started, afraid to stop because I might not have gotten the rest of my sentence out otherwise, "I don't think I can say goodbye to you again," I choked out waveringly, letting a small, unsure laugh lighten the otherwise lethal severity of my words. I took a big sip of my coconut cocktail, eyeing him warily. Nervously.
Keep it together.
He shot me a small smile in return. "Well, kiddo," he said, smile still playing dangerously on his lips, "you might be in luck. I'm not going anywhere."
"Why's that?" I asked, unbelieving of how the ever-wandering Calvin could ever conceivably stay in one place.
At that moment, he stared straight at me, azure-cerulean eyes fixed squarely on my amber ones. And in that moment, I stopped feeling like that knobby-kneed, naïve eighteen year old girl who never knew where she stood with this mysteriously compassionate twenty-three year old man that I'd fallen in love with three years back. I was transported back into the moment, and I was twenty-one and he was twenty-six, and we'd grown up – we'd transformed.
But I was abruptly, precariously, spiralling back into our whirlwind summer romance that had been abandoned far too early; and even though he had gotten older and the weight of his travels could be evidenced by the crinkles that neighboured his eyes, he was still Calvin. Still the same Calvin I'd fallen in love with.
He finally spoke, never tearing his gaze from mine. "I think you know why."
"Kids," I say, relishing their complete enthralment with my story so far, "The both of you are still pretty young, so you might not really understand, but I'm going to give you a piece of invaluable advice now, alright?"
I'm given complete, attentive silence as response.
"Never, never, never," I begin, passion steadily building up in my voice, "try to revive a whirlwind romance."
"Why, Mommy?" Nigel asks in a softly audible voice, utterly uncharacteristic of his usual fiery temperament. I smile kindly.
"Sweetie," I finally caution, hoping with all my heart that they take heed of my words, "every whirlwind romance comes with an expiration date."
Disclaimer: I do not own any of Lang Leav's works or How I Met Your Mother.
Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed this chapter! All the chapters will probably be about this length as well (I think). For the record, the temperaments of Molly's children aren't supposed to reflect the personality of their father, so please don't think I'm hinting at anything! Please review/follow/like if you enjoyed!