The next day is Sunday, and at noon Michaela is back.
She looks just the same as she did yesterday: same pink nose, same scarf and the lingering scent of late autumn. This time, by what I wish were pure coincidence, I too am dressed for the outdoors when I answer the door, half hating myself as I do so.
Michaela can’t help but smile when she sees me. “You read my mind. Please walk with me.”
Begrudingly, I follow her outside.
“I can’t believe you told Gemma,” I say abruptly as we reach the end of my street.
“I didn’t think it was such a big deal! I just told her about Drew. I didn’t know you’d mind!”
“Well, I do.”
“Please, Ally…” she stops and faces me, her eyes swimming with tears. “Won’t you believe me?”:
I hesitate.
“I….”
She looks at me pleadingly. I have never seen Michaela, ususally full of good fun and laughs, look so sincere and regretful.
“I’m sorry, too, Mi.”
Michaela burst into tears and flung her arms around me.
I return her hug, and realize with a shock that I am crying, too.