Page 11 of Promise Me Sunshine

A sparkle catches my eye and I notice the gem-studded backpack of the guy holding his bike’s handlebars in front of me. The backpack is a constellation of twinkles in the city lights and—oh, shit—in the headlights of the car that screeches around the corner and nearly turns us into paninis.

I scream as the car skids so close that one tire clips the front wheel of the bike that Backpack Guy is holding on to. The bike rips from his hands, flattens, squeals, and drags against the blacktop.

There are more screams and I’m suddenly on my butt on the curb with an armful of backpack and guy. He scrambles to his feet and turns, helping me stand. He has medium-brown skin and a matching sparkly baseball cap holding his curly hair back from his face. His helmet that had beenhanging on the handlebars of his bike spins on its back ten feet down the block. We stare into one another’s eyes in shock.

“Roadkill,” I say at the same time he asks, “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

“I think so,” I say. “You?”

He pats himself down, then turns and sees the pretzeled mess of his bike. He groans, covering his face with his hands.

The front door of the car slams open and the driver unfolds himself. All six feet or so. He wrenches the bike out from under his car and wheels around, his narrowed eyes focusing on Backpack Guy. The driver bares his teeth and tosses the bike in our direction, the bell making a sad little cry when it smashes on the ground.

“What the hell were you doing standing in the street?” he shouts, his pasty face turning red as he stomps up to us.

I blink and process this absurdity, welcoming a familiar surge of liquid adrenaline. “Wait a second. Did you justthrowthat bike at us?” I ask, stepping around from behind Backpack Guy. “Afteralmost hitting us with yourcar?”

His eyes focus on me. “Drivers can’t see around the corner! What do youexpectto have happen?”

“Silly me,” I say, my voice rising to match his as I toe up with him. “Iexpecta driver to, I don’t know, not take a corner at fifty miles an hour in the middle of Manhattan?”

“You totally fucked my bike,” Backpack Guy groans from behind me, dropping to his knees next to it.

“You totally fucked your own bike, kid,” the driver shouts.

I push up my sleeves. I’m wearing a sweatshirt with Big Bird on it and pink Converse, so he probably doesn’t see this coming. I’m a foot away from him now, pointer finger at the ready. “You think you’re going to blame him for getting hit bythe caryouwere driving? Sir, how exactly do you think this works?”

He steps forward, his own pointer finger threatening to poke me between the eyes. “Somebody get this bitch out of my face.”

I laugh and it sounds bone-chilling even to my own ears. “Oh, buddy. You think you can embarrass me by calling me a name?Bitch,I regularly weep in public. There isnothingyou can do that’ll scare me!”

I’m slapping his hand out of my area, stepping into his personal zone, about to do God knows what when suddenly there’s a very broad, semifamiliar chest blocking my view.

“Uh,” Miles says, looking down at me with a confused frown. He goes to nudge me toward the sidewalk but seems to think better of it and just makes a shooing motion instead. “Maybe let’s…”

Maybe let’s not accost a stranger in the street,I assume he means. Which, honestly, is pretty valid.

“Hey, asshole,” the asshole pipes up from behind Miles.

“You talking to me, asshole?” I shout. There’re a lot of assholes flying around. I try to dance around Miles but he gets in my way again. This time I’m barred by an uncrossable arm. I do what comes naturally and make it look like Miles is the only thing keeping me from permanently separating this guy from his toupee. “Because trust me, guy! You don’t want it with us!”

I’m gesturing at Miles and he’s looking down at me, seemingly extremely bemused to be lumped into an “us” with a woman attempting to pile-drive a gigantic stranger on the street. Miles is a conveniently large prop in my one-woman show right now.

I’m still flailing and Miles has me around the middle, gently but inexorably moving me farther from the driver.

“My friend is about two seconds from kicking your ass into next Tuesday!” I shout at the driver.

“No. I am not,” Miles says point-blank, his eyebrows pulled down toward his nose.

“Well, could you at least do me a favor and pretend?” I hiss.

Miles sighs and then looks back over his shoulder, down at the man, and absolutely disintegrates him with a glare. “I mean,” Miles says to him. “Do youwantto fight?”

Which is, frankly, a brilliant question to ask someone who is pretending they want to fight.

Now that there’s another glowering six-feet-plus person in the mix, the driver is holding his palms up. He takes the opportunity to slam back into his car and peel away.

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