“Gay?” Claudia asks.
I laugh. “No, married. He has two kids.”
“Well, that’s good, because you’re married with kids too,” Gretchen points out.
“Spank bank material then,” Claudia quips, “and she gets to know what his hands feel like when they’re playing with her hair… guilt-free.”
“You have a business card?” Abigail jokes.
“Uh… not on me.” He’s mine, only mine. No way my friends are seeing him too.
15
It’s happening again. It doesn’t happen often. It’s only happened five times in my thirty-six years of life. It’s like getting hit by lightning — it’s that quick. In the flash of a second, in the blink of an eye, as soon as gazes meet, I fall.
I not only fall. I become obsessed, and consumed with passion and desire.
I was eight years old when I first discovered love. His name was Connor Timmons, and he was adorable. He had golden hair which he always wore swept to the side, beautiful eyes which were either blue or green, depending on which shirt he wore, and a gap toothed smile I couldn’t resist.
He said “Hello,” once, and asked me my name. I said, “Mischa,” the word small.
“That’s a weird name,” he snickered, and my little vulnerable heart sank like a boat anchor.
Then he smiled. “But I like it.”
From that moment on, I was completely done for.
Despite the fact that we never actually talked, I’d spend my days unapologetically looking at him, so much so that once my teacher, the evil Mrs. Jackson, called me on it.
“Mischa,” she scoffed. “Are you paying attention, or are you too busy staring at Connor?”
I blushed crimson as the whole third grade class turned their heads in my direction. I was breathless with mortification, until I saw him smiling at me. He didn’t mind, after all.
Then came the incessant scribbling and doodling. I had a whole notebook dedicated solely to my love for Connor — lots of hearts and rainbows, doodles of him and I, and my name written repeatedly in different designs: Mischa Timmons. Of course I was going to take his name — that much was decided already. I already had a vague idea as to what kind of wedding dress I wanted to wear, something classic, very much like Queen Elizabeth’s wedding gown. My mother had shown my sisters and I a photo from a magazine once and I was mesmerized. Of course I was planning to wear the long veil, pearls and tiara just like she did.
I knew we’d have to wait a long, long time for our special day, and I tried to picture Connor and I as grown-ups. I drew pictures of myself in my wedding gown, pink and yellow roses in my hands. I used up my new box of markers on my Connor notebook.
I hid it under my bed mattress. Unfortunately, my sisters were always nosy. Of course they found the Connor notebook and teased me incessantly, but I didn’t care too much — I was in love.
And I was getting itchy for more. I wanted our relationship to progress. I pictured us chatting about silly things, holding hands, and sharing snacks, specifically banana popsicles, each one of us enjoying our half. I wasn’t sure if he liked bananas, but who doesn’t love banana popsicles.
It was time to make a move. Never good with face-to-face interaction, I decided to write him a letter.
Dear Connor,
As you probably know already. I like you very, very much. I adore your eyes, your hair and your smile. And I think you like me too. You smile at me a lot.
I think we should officially be boyfriend and girlfriend. Can I tell everyone that you are my boyfriend? We could play and talk lots and I would like to hold hands too if that’s okay. And we could eat popsicles together. Do you like banana popsicles?
Anyway, I would very much like if we could talk after school. I will be waiting for you.
Sincerely,
Mischa Wilcox (future Mrs. Mischa Timmons)
The letter was flawless.I was a perfectionist and also a great writer, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Even the doodles I drew to frame my words were created with extreme care. Inked and colored, there were the two of us holding hands, eating popsicles, and getting married. I debated for the longest time on whether to include the wedding scene, because even at that young age, a part of me knew I was being a little crazy. Yet, I really wanted him to understand the intensity of my affection and commitment, so in the end, I decided to run with it.
I was a ball of nerves. I didn’t get a wink of sleep the night before. I couldn’t eat in the morning. My hands were shaking violently and my heart beating frantically when I folded the letter and discreetly handed it to him after lunch. I couldn’t concentrate on a single word Mrs. Jackson was saying, and I feverishly scribbled in my notebook, averting my gaze. I didn’t want to see him read it.
