First message
First, Miley left for France for three months. A funeral, time with family. She didn’t want to talk about it, and he didn’t push.
Then came three months of excuses.
I’m stuck at work.
My pipe burst.
I can’t come. My cat died.
“Miley, stop this circus. You don’t have a cat.”
Silence for another week.
Finally, he’d had enough.
“Listen. We’ve been friends for five years. We’ve been through a lot of shit, and whatever happened, we’ll deal with it. I’m not taking no for an answer. Get. Yourself. Together. I’m tired of this.”
She agreed. He waited at a café two blocks from her place. Half an hour. An hour. His phone buzzed on the table.
“My door broke. I can’t get out. Waiting for someone to fix it. I’m sorry…”
His jaw tightened. He dropped a couple bills on the table and headed straight to her apartment. Screw it. Enough.
The doorbell rang.
Miley opened the door, and her face froze in silent horror.
“What is your problem, Miley?” he asked, dangerously quiet.
“Can’t you see?”
“See what?”
“This!” She gestured vaguely at herself with both hands.
He stared at her, looking her over.
“What? You dyed your hair ginger?” he asked, genuinely confused.
Miley let out a defeated breath.
“Want some coffee?”