Page 103 of Promise Me Sunshine

“Yup.”

He waits for me to say more. But I can’t. So he heads back inside and I wait on the porch for him to do whatever he needs to do to prepare his house for winter.

I drink my coffee and try not to think too hard about the man who delivered it. Because Miles? Miles is? Miles is my list shepherd. My constant companion. My ace. Miles is mypal.

Friends to lovers is not, like, groundbreaking, I know. But I’m having a lot of trouble imagining changing literally anything about my relationship with him. He’s seen me unkempt, unwashed, crying on sidewalks, shouting at strangers. He’s dragged me off dance floors. I’ve shamelessly gotten crumbs on his couch.

Impertinent, teasy, bratty, goofy, unbothered…this is my wheelhouse. But suddenly, none of that seems even remotely reachable. I’ve broken a boundary between us. Our entire house of cards is built on the fact that we’refriends.

And aren’t feelings likethissupposed to feel good?

Because this doesn’t feel good. This feels…uncomfortable. There’s a certain high-flying euphoria with every inhale, sure, but on every exhale, there’s a corresponding emotion. One that pierces my gut and almost makes me gasp. Why am I feeling like total shit right now?

This isn’t, like,Oh, I’m so scared of what the future might hold with Miles,this is abadfeeling. Almost overwhelming. It’s creeping up from my gut, into my throat, stealing my words, battling for control.

I grasp the locket in one fist and fight to breathe. The coffee, for once, is not helping. I set it aside and try to focus on the trees in his backyard, the blue sky, the icy-damp air.

“You’re shivering,” Miles says behind me. I hadn’t even heard him open the glass door.

“Yeah. Should we get going?” I hop up and force myself tolook at his face. My euphoria blooms and so does this nameless awful feeling. I’m being torn in two.

—

On the driveback to the city I sit on my hands and look out the side window. Miles has noticed my silent anxiety and can’t stop worrying himself. “Seriously, what the hell is happening right now?” he asks approximately eighteen times.

“Autumn’s here,” I observe, because I have to say something. And indeed. The weather’s finally turned. There were spiderwebs of frost on the Jeep windshield this morning. There are comets of red and yellow and orange on every tree. The world is on fire with change.

When he pulls up outside the studio apartment, I grab my bag from my feet and scramble out of the car. His door slams and then he’s in front of me on the sidewalk.

He’s got one hand tugging on his short hair. “Lenny, are you sure you’re okay? Is this…a Staten Island Ferry sort of thing?” he asks.

“I’m okay,” I say, trying to reassure him. I see the worry etched in stone. “This isn’t that kind of problem.”

His hands slide into his jeans pockets and he suddenly looks so bewildered that I just want to koala-bear-hug him.

“Oh. Okay…” He clears his throat and then bounces on his heels. “Obviously you don’t want to talk about it but…could you tell me whatgenrethis problem is?”

I laugh, because cute. But then I get serious. Because what genre problemisthis? This is a love-life problem. An ache-in-my-heart problem. A hysterical terror at the thought of loving someone wholeheartedly. And maybe it’s also me realizing that I simplycan’tlove someone wholeheartedly. The love-maker in my chest is too injured. When it creates love, it creates dread in equal measure.

“It’s…out of your jurisdiction,” I eventually say.

He recoils like I’ve slapped him. I almost take it back. He’s the man who helps me. That’s his job and he’s proud of it. I’ve just stripped him of the SupermanSon his onesie.

“Just…I’m fine,” I say. “It’s okay. I think this weekend was a lot and I just need some time on my own to get my head on straight.”

“Okay.” His eyes narrow and he cocks his head to one side. I think he’s gotten over the shock of my rejection and has moved back into problem-solving mode. “I’ll…give you a little space.”

My heart skitters with panic. He’s turning away from me toward the car and I drop my bag on the ground and leap forward, pinching his sleeve. “Just alittlespace.”

He’s paused, turned back toward me, his eyes on my hands white-knuckling his sleeve. When our eyes meet, there’s a softness there that’s almost immediately wiped away by resolve. “Just a little,” he agrees.

I don’t watch him go. I gather my bag and run upstairs. I slam the door of the studio behind me and collapse onto the tiny bed, trying to take a catalog of my emotions.

Giddiness, disbelief, sadness, panic, happiness, fear, excitement, confusion. It’s a wall of white noise bearing down on me and turns out, I didn’t want to be upstate and I don’t want to be in this tiny apartment either! There’s so much adrenaline in my system that when a plan pops into my head, I just barrel toward it, advisable or not. It’s a bandage that I’ve been needing to rip off anyhow; might as well do it now, when everything already feels intense.

After a quick shower, I open the old wooden dresser and there, look, my Big Bird sweatshirt is holding hands with an old red hoodie of Miles’s. My knees hit the floor and I try my best not to hyperventilate. If this were two days ago I would’veworn Miles’s sweatshirt in a heartbeat. Cozy, pre-loved, oversized men’s wear? I mean, come on.

But today, right now, with the locket pressed against my heart, the thought of wearing Miles’s clothes makes me feel like I just did cocaine.

---