Page 7 of Promise Me Sunshine

“Deal. Wear whatever you want, the Met is on the list as its own bullet point. Now for the next item—”

“Can there be no more items for now? It hurts to think aboutit.”

“I feel I should warn you. It’s probably never going to not hurt. Just thought you should know.”

“I know.”

“And that’s why you need the list. When I’m not around you can use it to—”

“Let’s watchCluelessand eat BLTs.”

“You’re a true queen of distraction. Okay, fine, but only because you know bacon is my weak spot—Hey…You’re not throwing the list in the trash?”

“Well. You’re going through all this trouble to make it. I figure the least I can do is keep it safe.”

This is a love story, I swear.

This is what happens when you’ve promised someone you’ll live again.

Chapter Two

Little-known fact: the Staten Island Ferry is the city’s only twenty-four-hour bar. It goes back and forth all night and they never kick you off. Which is extremely useful whenever I can’t face going home.

I didn’t see Miles again before this Harper person came to relieve me. I had to be back at work in just six hours, and let’s just say the commute all the way out to Brooklyn and back was the reason I chose to call the Staten Island Ferry my home for the night.

Let’s ignore the fact that even in the best of circumstances I avoid my apartment at all costs. It’s a mausoleum and the physics of time and space do not make sense in there. I can step into my apartment and three days will pass with nothing but a box of cereal to eat and nary a shower.

So these days I prefer to sleep anywhere but my own bed.

Which is why at twelve-forty-five at night I find myself washing my face in the ferry’s bathroom and admitting that this Miles guy might be right about my appearance. I’ve got raccoon eyes and messy hair—far too long and scraggly—tied back haphazardly. My skin is dry, no makeup. My (once beloved) eyebrow piercing looks depressingly like a mistake in this lighting. My clothes are rumpled from the day and it’s clear I’ve lost way too much weight way too fast.

Just because he’s right about the way I look doesn’t make him less of an asshole. Because he blamed it on alcoholism ora drug addiction, which is dickish to disparage in the first place. But what am I supposed to do, wear a sign?Not strung out, just having a debilitating mental health crisis while navigating the most excruciating chapter of my life.

That should go over well at the babysitting gigs.

All of the peppy laughter and encouraging creativity I dug up for Ainsley evaporates as I look at my dripping face in the mirror. All I’ve got left is the suffocating, impending fog of the night, trying desperately to find sleep that will definitely not come.

I find a secluded area and prop my backpack behind my head. Hey, who turned on the waterworks. All the tears I didn’t cry in front of Ainsley start sliding down my face.

Maybe I sleep. Hard to tell, really, but at five-thirtya.m.a businesswoman in pumps clacks past and I jolt back to full consciousness. I’m a symphony of creaky joints and yawns as I head to the other side of the ferry to wait for dry land.

Disembarking in Manhattan, I start the ascent back to Reese and Ainsley’s. When I make it to the Upper West Side, I reach into my pocket and search out the little laminated slip of paper I carry with me everywhere I go. The corners, once sharp, are softened with relentless worrying from my fingers. It reminds me that all I have to do is get my shit together long enough to hang out with this awesome kid. I can do that much.

Once I’m on their elevator, I slide my hand off the laminated paper. By the time I step onto their floor, I’ve fully gathered myself for work.

Of course Miles is the first person I see, waiting outside the door to their apartment for Harper to come let him in.

“Oh. Hi,” I say.

He grunts and stares at the closed door.

He’s clearly not going to provide any chitchat to fill thesilence. Because he’s a ghoul. But in my former life, I was actually quite a lovely person and apparently old habits die hard even when macheted. “How was your night?” I hear myself ask.

He turns and glances at me from head to toe. I’m sure I look like a Monster Mash loyalist.

“Restful,” he says, and I swear there’s a world buried in that word.

“How lucky,” I reply, and Harper swings the door open.

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