Page 37 of Promise Me Sunshine

“I was trying to find a way to gethertalking instead of hearing more adult opinions. Yes, we all know that Reese is gone a lot and it obviously bugs Ainsley, but what we don’t know is how Ainsley actually feels about it all. If I want to know howyoufeel about it, I’ll just ask you. But that’s not how it works with Ains.”

He’s quiet. We make it to the lobby of the building and, as previously promised, she’s waiting for us with the doorman, talking to him while he leans down to hear her. As soon as he sees us he stiffens and steps out to formally open the door.

His name is Emil. He’s Ukrainian and a big soccer fan. I had to pry this information out of him. He’s so painfully professional it borders on rude. I’m certain that on the inside he’s a sugar cookie. Someday, after fifty years of marriage, we’ll soak our feet side by side while we watch television and unwrap each other’s Hershey’s kisses.

“Really?” Miles says, studying my face as the three of us pile into the elevator to head up to the apartment. “He’s like ten years old.”

“He’s twenty-two.”

“Regardless, he’s not old enough for you.”

I shrug. “I’ve got time.”

Miles laughs and drags a hand over his face.

When we arrive, Ainsley kicks off her shoes and scampers into the bowels of the apartment, away from the adults as fast as possible. Miles moves to go after her.

“Miles.”

He turns.

“Let her do her own thing.”

“You’re not even going to check on her?” he asks. When I first met him, all I would have heard was judgment in thatquestion. But now I can hear his earnest concern and confusion.

“Kids usually need some space after school. She’ll come out when she’s hungry.”

He’s posed, looking over his shoulder at me, and behind him Reese’s gigantic black-and-white photographs loom. A face in the photo comes into focus next to his. Something big finally clicks.

“Come on,” I say, leading him into the apartment. “Let’s get her snack ready.”

We head to the kitchen and I dig out some spinach artichoke dip and chips.

He dips a chip with an absurd amount of dip and hands it to me. “Eat.”

I’m not hungry, but once a chip is dipped, what are you supposed to do?

“So,” he says after a while, sitting back and dusting chip dust off his hands. “The whole what-are-they-eating-for-dinner thing, that was you backing into talking about Reese?”

I nod. “Sort of…I’ve noticed that kids rarely answer direct questions.How do you feel about your mom’s work schedule?Those kinds of questions feel like a quiz. And she knows what she’s supposed to say.It’s fine.Canned answer, right? But if you can get a kid talking about their life in a different way then you’ll usually get more insight into how they actually feel.”

He nods. Thinks. Nods. Then pulls out that little Nancy Drew notebook and writes something down.

“This is good stuff. Gimme more,” he says.

I press two fingers to each temple and close my eyes. “Condensing a lifetime of experience into a few simple sentences…Okay, well, kids are actually pretty easy. If you can figure out how to feed and water them in a calm place, they’llmostly be all right. Most meltdowns are because they’re hungry or thirsty or tired or overstimulated. So if you can meet their immediate needs in a low-key way, everything will probably be all right.”

“What about an emotional meltdown? Like when Ainsley misses Reese?”

“Well, a little comfort goes a long way. And then distract her. TV or a game or a book or an errand.”

“So…that’s why you set Ainsley up with TV right off the bat that very first day.”

“Yup.”

“I had thought you were being lazy.”

“But…”

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