The Irresistible Mickey Holly

Entry 1: My Mission

Nope. I don't want to get into it.

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After a cup of coffee and several minutes of debate, I figured writing down everything is important. That's how this journal will remain accurate.

Junior year, he found me. I was minding my own business in the journalism classroom, editing a few mistakes out of my column about whether the soda machine really was giving out free drinks with a special code (it's not relevant, but it wasn't. That was a rumor the custodian made up for a laugh). He walked into the room and suddenly it didn't feel big enough anymore. He consumed it.

He took the seat right next to mine, extending his hand out to me. He flashed his pearly white smile and I had to wince. Mom always said never stare directly into the sun. He said, "My granddad has an old saying, if you're not the smartest guy in the room, make sure he's your friend. Hi, I'm Mickey Holly."

(As if I didn't know).

I took his hand anyway, raising my brow, "Did your granddad really say that?"

His grin changed shades from flowers and sunshine to something a little more wicked. A nobody like me amused him. "See, you're very smart." Mickey laid his head into his hand and just stared at me. People I knew averted their eyes. He didn't fear the steady eye contact. He admitted, "I just wanted to say hi and I didn't know how."

I was sensible.

He was nonsensical.

He swooped in and drove his sharp talons inside my flesh and flew me away, far away. We were fast friends and sure, I fell for him a little. But hey, I figured everyone did. Falling for Mickey Holly was just a part of being friends with Mickey Holly. I was so oblivious. My sensibility kept me from seeing a dream come true.

We were in his room (*see the earlier example of why my roommate is crazy and he's the reason I can't bring people over) binge-watching Netflix on his laptop. We were wasting time. Nothing to do on a Saturday night. I didn't know then, but he held three invitations to different parties and still, he chose to watch some irrelevant show from the 80s with me.

For a while, he would glance at me like he wanted to say something. I didn't ask, thinking he'd eventually figure it out on his own. Finally, he pointed to my side where he abandoned his phone. "Can you hand me my phone?"

"Oh, sure," I nodded and grabbed it. When I turned back around, he had leaned forward, and our faces were penetratingly close. We were a breath away, but I still held mine and my heart beat created waves in the air.

I broke from his unwavering stare, more attracted to his lips. There was nothing I ever wanted more in that moment. I wanted it more than air, water, and more than to be the star reporter at the New York Times. I just wanted Mickey Holly's lips to touch mine.

He kissed me once. Kissed me again, deeply with his fingers slipping through my hair. His kiss wrecked me in a way that ruined me from kissing anyone else ever again.

It wasn't something that could be stopped. We stole every moment to kiss, to touch. He'd brush my hand in the hallways, but when we were alone in his room, he would never let go. We were living in perfection. He'd move, I'd move. I would inhale, he'd exhale. My smile started and ended with him.

What can I say? He was irresistible.

Then, the end of the year came...

We had one last day to be in his room and I had trouble hiding my misery. Vacant, I was spending too much time worrying about the future instead of enjoying the moment. I was insecure about the distance, about not seeing him for three months. He'd be back in high society, meeting better, brighter people.