Page 145 of Promise Me Sunshine

“Me too,” he says on a grunt.

“You’re not going to give up on my cardiovascular health, are you.”

“Never.”

I glare at him, push him aside, and put on my own workout clothes. “It’s terrible to be loved! Who wants to jog!”

“Yes. A true burden, all.”

“I’ll run, but I’m not happy about it.”

“I can accept that.”

“And you better put out tonight,” I grumble.

“Understood,” he says with a grin. But then the smile falls and he steps back. Studying me. “Cry for attention or not…you weren’t serious, were you?”

I’m digging through my drawer for the matching athletic sock. “I mean…obviously one person can’t promise that to another.”

My unsaidbuthangs in the air between us: But how could I ever go on without him?

He studies me again for a long moment and then leaves the room. He’s back just as I’m tying my hair up into a stubby little bun. He has something in his hands that he holds out to me.

“Your Nancy Drew notebook?”

He recoils. “What makes this a Nancy Drew notebook? The fact that it’s a notebook at all?”

“Obviously.”

“Here.” He wags it at me until I take it. “I actually thought this issue might come up at some point.”

I open the notebook and see pages and pages of his scribbled notes about babysitting. My heart skips when I get to his list, untitled, that has almost everything crossed off. The Kiss Lenny list.

He hands me a pen. “There’s plenty of space for more.”

“But you’ve already kissed me! Like every single part of me!”

“You’re the only one who thinks that list is about kissing. That list is about making sure you’re okay.” He takes a step toward me. “And I’ll never stop adding to it. And if I died first…thenyoushould never stop adding to it.”

—

“What’re you lookingat?”

“Nothing.”

We’re drinking an afternoon coffee on his new (used) couch. He’s watching a sport (that I don’t even bother to identify) and I’m scrolling on my phone.

There’s a pause where I think I’ve thrown him off the trail.

But then he lunges out of nowhere and snags the phone halfway out of my hand, tipping it so that he can see. “Are you staring at pictures of me?”

“No! Who cares!”

“Why?”

“I’m not mooning over you. I’m trying to decide which photo of you to print out and put in my locket.”

He pauses and this time I can’t take the silence. His expression is inscrutable, his eyes bouncing between mine. “Really?”

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