Chapter 67
The night before Milan’s play, I went to her apartment bearing a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts. She was cleaning her refrigerator in her underwear. The April heat was so oppressive that the pink box fan churning on her counter felt insulting.
I flicked cold faucet water on myself. “When are they fixing the air?”
She tossed her cleaning rag on the floor. “When they feel like it.”
It was late evening. Outside, screams of delirious delight rose from kids playing in the alley.
With a nervous energy, Milan picked through the doughnuts like they weren’t all the same glazed variety.
I remembered the debilitating shyness she’d told me she had as a child, how she’d vomit on the first day of school each year and get yelled at for ruining her new shoes.
“Remember when Jay came to our room junior year with doughnuts?” she said. “And you ate the entire box and threw up? I couldn’t believe he stayed with you all night at the toilet. That’s when I knew he was your person.”
I was surprised she remembered this. “Yeah.”
“Why do you sound miserable?”
“I’m not.” I’d been hiding the fact that I’d been fired by saying I was taking a break from work to write. LOL, like I could afford a break to write. Flashing her a smile, “Your big day’s tomorrow!”
“Chill, it’s not my wedding.”
I cradled her sweaty face, pecking it all over while she pretend fought me off. I didn’t tell her this was more important than her wedding.
Her mom called. She took the phone into the bathroom.
I could hear the hum of their conversation but tried not to listen, checking the health of the plants on the windowsill.
They were dead. My phone buzzed with a notification.
The headline was “Why Australia Is Shooting Koalas Out of Trees from Helicopters.” It was like reality had finally collapsed into a heap of smoke.
Milan bulldozed out of the bathroom. Rising from the pothos, I said, “What happened?”
“I took Ryen to meet her.” She ripped apart a doughnut but didn’t eat it. “She doesn’t like him.”
I didn’t mention seeing him come out of the actress’s bedroom. The last time a boyfriend had cheated, it ruined her. I couldn’t tell her, not before the play.
“Why doesn’t she like him?”
Milan cackled. “She wants me to be single and miserable like her. But Ryen, he’s gonna be a famous director.” She nodded at my bandaged fingers. “Oh, I used to do that shit to my nails out of nerves. You know what helped me stop? Thinking of all the bacteria I was putting in my mouth.”
She tossed the doughnut and picked up the dishrag. Dropping to her knees, she scrubbed the inside of her fridge in the same spot she was cleaning when I arrived. Her point was gross but well-taken. I didn’t say anything, reaching for a rag to join her.