Chapter Text
A week passed since Mike called for information about Carnegie Mellon.
Days went by as he grew more restless, checking the mail every day, hoping for something.
Nothing was in the mail.
Mike was flipping through the pages of his book. He felt like he had everything done, excluding some of the imperfections inside, which, of course, is formatting. He had everything pieced together; this whole book is practically the reason why he hasn’t wasted those 3 years of his life.
He remembered everything he wrote; it felt like a journal to him. It may seem like one to him yet, it was all fictional. It was a tale that can be told for an adventure. Yet,
He had that adventure.
Mike spent countless nights, days, and months writing this book. And yet, it felt weird how everything was just a whole story to tell, but hey. At least it wouldn’t make him labeled as someone who is mentally challenged. This whole book can be a ticket for his admission. A story that can land a seat for him, a seat for Carnegie Mellon.
I mean, it's to get close with everyone, to make sure everyone is still connected. All the memories he had cherished are now rubbed, smeared as letters on a book. He had to proof-read it anyway, making sure it was at least legible. Truth is, every time he did have to read, he always skipped a few chapters. He hated some of them, not because of how poorly written they were, but.
Because of the fact that some of the events from the book were memories he despised,
Most of them were with Will & El.
Mike cared a lot for those two, especially for Will. He always felt bad for not being able to notice it when everything felt wrong, always brushing it off when he said everything was okay. He still remembered how, back in that movie theater, Will felt something off. Mike asked if he was okay, it's just.
Why didn’t he pry further?
Why didn’t he ask if he was actually okay?
Mike knew he wasn’t okay! He would always lie, had to say he was alright, after all of that, just so his friends wouldn't be worried? It just pained him to realize it so late. He could’ve caught the idea of how he wasn’t okay, but.
Of course, he was ignorant.
He was even nervous to say that he loved her.
He was a wreck; he never even deserved her at all.
And his final moments with her?
Mike couldn’t even say ‘I love you.’
He left the papers on the desk as his hands were on his face, dragging his eyelids down, groaning.
Mike did finish his book, and his manuscript, if you can say that. It's just.
well.
How the hell could he publish his book? He knew he needed a portfolio, which meant sending in a draft. It's nice and all, but. Mike wanted to have his portfolio stand out, something that makes him better then the other applicants. He just sat there in his chair, leaning back as he glared at the ceiling.
Not a single thought that could help him was on his mind.
The ceiling fan spun, and so did his mind.
He was trying to think of ideas, ideas that could land him a spot to publish his book. Its just, Mike had absolutely NO idea how to do it. He sat back up, picking up his manuscript, and glared at it while his thoughts piled up. Mike didn’t know how to do this; he was walking in blind! Mike only knew how to just write. Not publish a stupid book!
Maybe he had to go to the library-
That wouldn't work. The books there are probably already checked out. He didn’t have a contact book to see if anyone was interested in his stupid book. Even though it wasn’t stupid, he doubted himself about whether he could get it done before the application packet arrived.
He threw his manuscript back on the desk as he sat on his bed and lay down. His arm covered his eyes as he exhaled. Clearly frustrated. He needed a way to skip some steps, just to get it done fast enough. What could he even do? What would Nancy do in this situation?
She would persevere.
She would just figure it out herself,
That's how she was. Nancy was self sustaining, she was able to fix her own problems. Including how she accidentally got dragged into this supernatural crap, and she still adapted.
. . .
Can’t he just ask Nancy for help?
Yeah, why can’t he?
Mike knew that Nancy was a journalist.
She used to work for the Hawkins Press before being fired; he assumed it was because Nancy had had enough and quit on the spot due to how her boss treated her. I mean, Mike would quit if his boss were just always asking for stuff and not listening to his own ideas.
The truth is.
She actually got fired after trying to write that whole rat story.
The idea is nice, but. How was rats eating manure the cause of the mindflayer being THAT thing back at Starcourt Mall? It's weird, really. Mike knew some parts of the story, but not everything. Nancy only told what she had to say; that's it, really. Excluding that.
He did remember when he was eating dinner with his family, one thing his Mom said was that she was employed at a news outlet called Boston Herald, which was nice, of course. Mike suddenly clicked. He got up as he walked over to the phone line, trying to find the paper where he had written Nancy’s number.
Mike remembered how she’s currently working there; it could mean she has some connections to the writing committee. Maybe she did, but he wouldn’t actually know about it. Besides, if she does have some form of connections, it can save Mike a lot of time researching and avoiding some major steps. It's well.. He didn’t know how to start a conversation with her.
He didn’t want it to seem like he was calling her just for a need, which, unfortunately, he is doing.
Maybe he could go like how he’s started to finally pursue college, but. Nancy wouldn’t really care about that; she might just pry into his life, asking something like “Why are you going now? You had all the time in the world.”
Mike wanted his goal to be secure, even if Nancy doesn’t pick up. He’ll just find a way to get it, one way or another. Mike never understood how serious stuff was till it was too late, and when he did. He realized one thing: he has to finish it, or else everything he did would go to waste.
Maybe Mike and Nancy were similar afterall, not by blood, but by behavior.
Nancy pushed everything to the side for her goals.
He was used to not doing it.
Now Mike might have to follow that same mindset of hers, it being driven for her goal.
Now, it’s his goal he is after.
Mike found the paper with Nancy’s number as he walked back to the phone line, dialing her number as it paused, then sliding back to zero. Setting it back to its original state.
Sometimes he wished his family’s phone had a keypad instead of it being a rotary phone. It would be nice, but. Ted always said it was a waste of money for some stupid reason; it wasn’t stupid in Mike’s eyes. He still remembered how he wanted a new Realistic model for his walkie since, during the whole fight inside starcourt mall, it got broken.
When he asked Ted for a new walkie, he said no. It was only 45 dollars, and it actually helped him with communication for his party back when the upside down was screwing their lives up. It only took him till christmas to get a new one.
His mom bought him a new model.
He still uses it till his day till he accidentally breaks this one.
Mike continued to whirl his finger on the rotary dial as he finished, letting it buzz as no one picked up. He had a confused look on his face as he placed the phone back on the rest, then read the note again.
‘Make sure to put a 1 before you call me.’
“Shit, I forgot about the 1!”
The dial spun around as he scoffed. Mike was always good at remembering stuff, but now he forgot simple tasks. It was to clean the dishes, grab the mail, to even pick up Holly some days when his Mother couldn’t. His mom showed concern about it, and he brushed it off, assuming it was practically a useless talk for him, and to her. He knew what was wrong with him, just the sleep.
Holly always said it was because he never slept. She always complained about hearing that stupid type writer in the middle of the night going [ DING ! ] And was losing her mind over it to the point she ran over to Karen’s bedroom, complaining about it. Which was understandable.
Well, it's just that. Mike thinks it's nothing bad, really.
All of a sudden, the phone line clicked after buzzing for so long.
“Nancy Wheeler speaking, who is this?”
He heard Nancy’s voice on the other side of the line. He gasped as he spoke. Thank god she actually picked up.
“Nancy! Okay, so, listen, I need to ask you some stuff since it's REALLY important for my application-”
“Hold it.”
“I'm going to ask some questions first, Mike.”
Nancy cut him off, and he rolled his eyes as he leaned on the wall, listening while twirling his finger on the phone line cord, playing with it.
“Why didn’t you call me or answer my calls?”
“I rarely call you, and when I do call you, it’s important.”
“Listen, I was busy, okay?”
“Mike, I know when you lie.”
“Just, what the hell was so important that you couldn’t even call your sister for that long?”
“It's like you got taken by Vecna or something.”
“Don't say that!”
Mike snapped back,
“What, I'm just stating what I know.”
“Besides, answer my question.”
Mike stayed silent. He didn’t know how to just answer that. He didn’t want to tell her the truth, Mike tried to steer the conversation away from that.
“How’s Boston-”
“Answer my question.”
Of course, she wasn’t gonna let go of the topic. Mike thumped his head against the wall as he was thinking of a way to answer.
Awkward silence was lingering in the atmosphere,
“Mike, I'm pretty busy right now.”
“If I don't get an explanation from you, then I'm hanging up-”
“Okay! Jesus.”
“I just didn’t call because I was dealing with stuff.”
“Which is?”
She pryed further; it felt like she was trying to dig into his mind.
“Just, you know. Dealing with the aftermath of all of that.”
“Yeah, I get it,”
“Why are you like,”
“Doing your college application when you practically had all the time in the world to do so?”
“Because I didn’t want to think about it before?...”
“That’s not the answer I'm looking for.”
His grip tightened on the phone, gritting his teeth. Mike didn’t want to talk about it.
He assumed that the past is past, but it still harms him. He couldn’t forget everything he had with her.
“I didn’t do it because I was busy struggling.”
“If you’re gonna ask one more fucking time, it's because El died.”
“Are you happy?”
He spoke in an irritated tone.
Mike hated how Nancy wanted to get the answer she wanted to hear. No wonder why Steve and she dated back then, thank god they broke up. He was silent as his throat was tight. Mike already felt like he wanted to hang up. He hated speaking about that topic. About El.
“Listen, Mike.”
“If you're trying to call me to help you with your application, I'm all up for it.”
“Well, not to an extent, but I’ll try to help.”
“Okay. So,”
“Uhm..”
“I want to get my book published, but I have no clue how to, and I just wanna do it for my application-”
“Hey! Not everything at once.”
“Say it one at a time, Mike.”
He rolled his eyes as he took a deep breath, his throat loosening up that tight feeling as he gulped.
“Okay. Basically, I want a way to publish my book before my application comes in.”
“Which is in?”
“Around this week-”
“Mike.”
Nancy cut him off.
“You aren’t gonna get your book published in the same week.”
“Forgot about that.”
“When do you want your book to be published?”
“...”
“I would prefer now, but as you said, it isn’t possible…”
“Do you have any publishers in mind that can, maybe, publish my book?”
“I don't think I do, Besides its fiction.”
“I work in journalism.”
“That means if you have any story, I don't think they would let me pass a word from you, going, oh my friend writes a really solid book.”
She spoke with some tone of trenchancy. Mike assumed she was joking.
“What do you mean?”
“What I did write wasn’t a story but something we ACTUALLY went through!”
His voice raised,
“Mike, Listen.”
“I don't think they accept fiction.”
“But it isn’t fiction!”
“For the public eye, it is.”
“Only a few people know it is real.”
“And if you try to label it as non-fiction, prepare to be called mental.”
“But how!? It is real,”
“I don't get it.”
“Why can’t they accept fiction then?”
“Because it’s journalism, Mike. What is there to not understand?”
“I tried to cover that same topic with the mind flayer and the rat poison being involved, and they called me mentally deranged.”
“Saying how I was making up stories and how delusional I was!”
“If I can't get a report that was during the time the mindflayer was out for all of us, you can't either.”
“You’re better off labeling it as fiction.”
“But.”
“You’re literally ignoring what I said!”
“I’ll say it one last time because I have to go soon.”
“ONE. I am a journalist. That means I cannot ask for a word with them and let them upload a story for you.”
“TWO. You can't get a book published that fast, it's literally impossible.”
“THREE. The story IS fiction, and you said it yourself before you decided to turn the tables.”
“FOUR. I cannot help you if it's fiction, I'm all about journalism.”
Mike felt a tense feeling in his chest, his heart pounding aggressively as his grip on the phone tightened, his nails scratching the plastic as he bit on his tongue. He thought Nancy could help her in this, but as expected. Of course, she can't.
It isn’t even her fault that she cannot help him. Mike went to someone who was in a different field, yeah she's with writing, but she covers realistic stories. Stories that aren’t insane, He remembered at least how she was rambling about how much she hated her peers in The Hawkins Post, always shutting her down because she was a girl and how her ideas seemed out of the norm.
Why did he even call Nancy for help if she was in journalism? Because he had hope, hope that he could skip some steps.
Instead of skipping those steps, he fell backwards, down the flights of stairs.
Right where he started.
“Fine.”
“Forget I even called in the first place.”
Mike spoke, his voice cracking as he teetered on the verge of tears.
“Alright then-”
Mike slammed the phone on the handset, ending the call.
He rubbed his eyes as he stormed over to his bedroom, slamming the door as it shook. He stood there for a second as he panted.
“Yeah, who needs Nancy.”
Mike mumbled as he huffed, his eyes getting watery as he took his glasses off, throwing them at his bed, then falling face first,as he stayed like that for a while. His throat felt inflamed, tight as he sat up, gasping for air. He felt like the air felt too thick for him.
Mike swallowed his saliva down as he let out a noise; his saliva came back up as he took a final gulp. His throat felt looser, not tense anymore, but. His emotions came back harder than a chainsaw kicking back.
He wasn’t the best at keeping his emotions at bay; it was always a rigid ride.
The sea of emotions was too much for him to handle. He tucked his knees onto his chest. It wasn’t fair how she had it good, how Nancy knew how to do all of this.
But little did he know, Nancy only knew how to do all of this because she was in his spot before. Lost, she learnt how to do it all by herself without anyone's help.
Mike wanted the easy way out of this, not the one where you would have to be climbing over a fence with it being greased. He lifted his head from his knees as he heard a noise. He heard his digital clock ticking. Glaring at it. He noticed something.
His clock was ticking, that’s normal, but.
It was a digital alarm clock.
Mike stood up as his eyes widened. He was confused on what that meant. Mike ran over as he grabbed the clock, flipping it as he opened the battery compartment open, taking the batteries off.
The clock still ticked,
the LED display still displayed the time
[ 1:11 PM. ]
The batteries were gone.
Mike had a concerned look on his face as his tears dried on his face. He didn’t know why this was happening; it felt extremely weird.
This one only ticked like a regular clock, no unpropitious tone. Mike took the clock with him as he slammed the door open, running out of his room as he went to his Mother, just for a question.
“Mom, listen.”
“I know this is gonna sound really dumb, but has the clock always been making a ticking noise without the batteries?”
He showed the clock as his mom looked at it, eyeing it, and then looked back at Mike with a puzzled face.
“Weird, I know, but for some reason-”
“Mike, the clock isn’t even on.”
“Are you trying to do a magic trick or something?”
Karen spoke in a troubled tone. Mike looked at the clock again as his eyes widened. Just like his mom said,
It wasn’t even on.
The red LED light that was displayed wasn’t there, and the ticking was gone.
Mike bit his lip as he walked over to the countertop, grabbed a pack of batteries, and inserted them inside. The clock turned on, but. It wasn’t even ticking like how he remembered. How could it not be ticking now? He remembered it making that obnoxious noise, like something was counting down. He walked back to her as he grew bothered.
“I'm telling you, Mike. You need to sleep earlier!”
“This sleep schedule you’re doing right now isn’t gonna take you anywhere in life.”
“Mom! It was literally working a minute ago! I promise I’m not hallucinating.”
Mike spoke in a pleading manner; he wasn’t the person to lie over some stupid clock. Why would he? If he was lying, he would’ve said some crap like ‘oh my clock blew up,’ Not how it was working when it wasn’t supposed to! Mike looked at her, His eyes looked like if he was begging her to trust him this one moment. He was hoping his mom knew he wasn’t lying. He was a liar, but not this time.
“Mike, listen, baby.”
“You need to start sleeping earlier.”
“What does that even have to do with this clock!”
“I said the clock was working when it wasn’t supposed to be!”
“And I know damn well my clock doesn't tick!”
He raised his voice, huffing. Today was not his day. Mike glared at his mom as he walked over to the countertop, slamming the clock as he grabbed the Car keys. He knew he shouldn’t be wasting time right now. So he decided what to do.
“Make sure to pick up, Holly!”
Mike ignored her, grabbing the jacket he left on the chair and his bag. Leaving the house and slammed the door behind him.
It was raining. Mike put on his jacket, then put his hood on his head.
Mike walked over to the car as his hands were in his pockets; it was cold outside. He couldn’t believe how Nancy wasn’t able to help him. Nancy said she will help him whenever he needs her, but of course, nothing is true. Coming from her mouth. Mike got in the car as he adjusted himself. He sat comfortably as he twisted the key as the engine started.
The engine spurred, so did his mind.
Mike knew his mind wasn’t playing tricks back there; he believed the clock actually was on without the battery. Mike knew he wasn’t delusional, but he felt everyone around him called him delusional.
The car was steady, almost soothing at most. He didn’t feel like he was there. Mike kept his eyes on the road, but his mind refused to stay there. Nancy’s voice always kept replaying in his head.
‘It’s Fiction,’
If it were fictional, then how did they live through it? It didn’t make sense why she couldn’t at least recommend him to some publishers. Every time he heard her voice, he grew more tired. He started to dislike hearing her, even though he loves her. Nancy is his sister, the one who helped him sometimes, even if she was a dick.
He turned the radio on, then off.
It felt quiet,
Mike’s hands tightened on the wheel as his nails dug into the leather. He heard that ticking noise back there; he didn’t understand why his mother wouldn’t believe him. Karen even got attacked by a demogorgon and survived; she knew how Hawkins was cursed. Yet, she acted like nothing happened.
He rolled up his sleeve as he checked his watch. It sounded normal. There was never a ticking sound coming from his watch.
Still, Mike swore he heard it.
That stupid ticking.
It almost drove him mad. Why was all this shit happening all over again? They killed Vecna, didn’t they? Yeah, they did. They all saw his chopped head fall to the ground. It didn’t make sense. El died too to solidify this plan of that bastard to never come back, El was gone because of him.
The main issue is why Mike is troubled; he never hallucinated such things, and he knew damn sure he wouldn’t hallucinate a clock. It would’ve been considered normal if Max never told the party about how she saw Vecna and almost died from him. Vecna always haunted his victims before he attacked.
Was Vecna actually alive, or was it just Mike losing his mind? He didn’t know the answer to that.
Mike finally snapped back into reality as he realized he was already close to the library. He didn’t even focus on the drive. He was occupied with a trail of thoughts.
He figured he could just park the car and just go. Mike turned the engine off in the car as he left, walking to the library.
The wind blew on him, his hair flowing with the wind. Mike never actually realized how cold it was; he only had a couple of layers and called it a day. He went up the stairs as he skipped some steps. He wanted to get there faster.
✫・。.⋆˚ੈ✩‧₊࿐࿔
Mike opened the doors to the library as he walked in, going straight to the receptionist without thinking. The smell of old paper and dust hit him first, that weird, dry smell that always stuck to his clothes after he left. The place was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet where even your own footsteps felt too loud.
He stopped by at the front desk, clearing his throat.
“Uhm, excuse me.”
The librarian looked up at him, over her glasses.
“Yes?”
“Im looking for books about publishing.”
She stared at him for a second, then nodded.
“Writing and publishing guides are in aisle 3. The business side is aisle four. Card catalogues over there.”
She pointed,
“Thanks.”
He spoke, then walked away. His hands in his pockets, his shoulders tense. He stood in front of the card catalog like it personally offended him. A giant wooden cabinet full of tiny drawers, all labeled with neat little letters.
He pulled one open, and he only saw Index cards. Hundreds of them. His eyes skimmed through them; he didn’t know which one he needed, and he didn’t know what he was searching for.
He pulled out another drawer, then another, and another.
More categories he didn’t understand, great.
Mike dragged his finger on the index cards; it felt rigid. He grabbed a few cards at random and followed the numbers written,
He skimmed through them, his eyes growing wary as he placed them back inside, dragging himself to aisle 3. Mike put his hands on his hips, grabbing his glasses from his pocket as he wore his glasses.
He had nearsighted visibility issues, always slunching down with a shrimp posture as he wrote on his typewriter. No wonder why he couldn’t see up close. He walked over to the shelves of books, walking as his finger dragged on the array of books, each cover felt different. Some were hardcovered with a fabric overlay on the top, while others were hard paper; his eyes gleamed on each title that was displayed on the bind of the book.
Nothing really piqued his interest on the first aisle, it was all ways on how to improve your own writing. He spent numerous years being a ‘storyteller’ to his party. In what way would he need to improve his own writing? He was proficient at it, definitely!
Mike came to the end of the aisle, and a ladder was in the distance.
The bottom row had nothing that was helpful for him. Mike grabbed the ladder just to be jolted back; his eyes looked down, noticing the metal frame on the ground. It was a rolling ladder, just for this aisle. He gripped the ladder as he dragged it across the aisle, it letting out a noise that pierced the quiet atmosphere while it rolled. He winced from the noise as he stopped.
Why did such a thing have to be that noisy?
Wouldn’t it be greased so it won't make such a noise?
Apparently not,,
Mike glared at it as he pondered. Mike could’ve started in that area, but he didn’t. He didn’t want to drag the ladder all the way back, even though he didn’t have to. That's just Michael; he always wanted to start in a specific way. He closed his eyes, shutting them as he gripped onto the ladder, running from the other side as he let out that noise.
It felt like a pen being dragged on metal, Thankfully it was short lived. Mike sighed as he stood in front of it, then dragging his feet up the stairs. It didn’t creak, thankfully.
He went up the ladder as his eyes narrowed, he felt his vision still blurred the words in some of the titles. Maybe it was time for him to ditch his old prescription and go for a new one.
While squinting his eyes like a wet cat, he noticed one book that stood out.
“Finding A Literacy Agent.”
He grabbed the book alacrity as he grabbed onto the side beams of the ladder, sliding down in an instant.
Mike ran over to the table as he opened the book, flipping the pages as he got to the table of contents.
He skimmed through the pages, the paper sometimes getting caught in between his fingertips, he licked his fingers, turing each page while quickly reading the contents. He noticed some stuff that stood out; it was worth writing notes for it.
The pen clicked.
‘NOTES,’
“Polish manuscript to send.”
“Send manuscript to William Morrow & Co.”
Those were the only things he had written, his eyebrows furrowed, sighing.
It wasn’t a lot, but he felt like the information he saw and read was retained. He took his glasses off, rubbing his eyes. It felt relieving to do so; Mike at least had a grasp on what to do. The only thing that crushed his dream was, well.
It was already too late to professionally publish a book.
Maybe he could try to publish the book while in college? That would’ve been a great stat, for college. A book being published and turned in as a portfolio would’ve been perfect, but like Nancy said,
“You had all the time in the world to do it.”
Mike always noticed stuff too late, never really understood or realized how dire a situation was till it was too late. He closed the notebook, pinching his nose bridge as he sighed. That feeling made his blood boil, the amount of opportunities he missed because he was careless, carefree to be exact.
The chandelier dimmed its lights, flickering naturally from a bright hue to a darker hue. Mike looked up, glaring at the chandelier as the library went quiet, the only thing he was able to hear was the lighting humming. The lights went dark for a moment, his pupils dilating to the sudden change for a second. The lights went back to normal.
“What the fuck?”
Mike mumbled to himself as he tucked his hair behind his ear; the lights felt like a sign to him. He just couldn’t realize what it was telling him. He stood up, grabbing the notebook he had as he shoved it in his bag, he felt like he actually had some stuff done in that library. Mike felt a warm feeling in his chest as he walked triumphantly down the hallway. He felt like he was satisfied with what he attempted to do originally.
It wasn’t exactly what he wanted, but.
It is what it is.
He walked down the library, heading to the car as he rolled his sleeve up to check his watch. Mike wiped the glass display, his eyes narrowing as they suddenly went wide open.
“Shit, I forgot about Holly.”
His words left his mouth without thinking. He changed his pace from walking to now sprinting; How the hell could Mike forget about her? He checked his watch once again; it read [ 3:21 PM ] . Mike pushed the door open, running down the stairs at first, then jumping down. He felt his shoes dragging across the pavement as he ran; it felt like he was running for his life even though the situation wasn’t dire.
It's just that he wanted to avoid the awkward conversation with his Mother.
Mike took the keys from his pocket, dropping them on accident as he gritted his teeth. He picked the keys up as he flipped each one, trying them on the door. Why the hell did they have so many god damn keys !? Mike only knew that they needed 2 keys, one for the house and one for the car.
Each key was inefficacious till he heard one that clicked; he twisted the key as he entered the car. Mike grabbed onto the door handle as he slammed it and then jammed the key into the starting ignition switch.
The engine spurred as his hand went on the stick shift, yanking it down to reverse as he then pushed it to its drive mode. Mike didn’t understand how he forgot about her. Did his mom tell him to pick her up? He didn’t recall. Why wouldn’t his mom tell him?
Why was everything recently a mess to him? It's like he couldn’t tell the difference between similar lines, those lines appearing, and looking different. He could tell the difference, yeah.
Only thing Mike recalled about this week was the fact that he actually started taking steps, those steps being small at first, then more drastic. It felt like the foot on the door phenomenon. Mike struggled to answer the phone out of guilt for not answering in the past; he let himself get buried with more guilt instead of confronting it. It would’ve been the same, but.
That conversation he had with Will opened his eyes.
The same eyes that were glued shut.
Mike arrived home, parking the car as the smell of gasoline leaked from the car. It was probably time for Ted to repair it, if he even wanted to get his lazy ass out of the recliner. He slammed the car door shut as he ran over to the doorstep, finding the key for the house.
The keys clinked from each other while flipping through them. Mike found the right key, shoving it into the bolt lock, twisting it as he opened the door with force. Panting, He walked inside as he heard the tv play loudly. Mike peeked his eyes over the couch. He was expecting Holly to be sitting there mad, hell, furious, but. She wasn’t there.
Mike sighed with relief as he turned back, just to be met with Holly.
She stood in front of him, her fists clenched as her hair was wrapped with a towel, her jacket was dripping with water, as her face gave off a look he was hoping not see. She was fuming with exasperation. Her eyebrows clearly said it all. Mike hoped the day was tolerable. Which, it was.
“Why didn’t you pick me up, Mike?”
Holly spoke as she crossed her arms, rolling her eyes. She looked like she wanted to rip his head off.
Mike was to pick his cuticles, digging his nails into them as he avoided eye contact.
How the hell was he supposed to answer that? If he just stated he went to the library, she would’ve probably lashed out at him.
He'd better have to do some explaining on why he decided to get sidetracked from picking her up.