Page 107 of Promise Me Sunshine

“That’s a lot ofPs.”

He frowns. “I didn’t get any peas. Should I get some—oh.Ps. Right. Hey, are you sure I don’t look stupid? I feel stupid. These pants are way too tight.”

He’s wearing freshly creased jeans and a dark blue flannel button-down. He holds his hands out to his sides, basket of fruit and all.

“You look nice,” I assure him. Trying very hard to play it cool. “Fresh out of a J. Crew catalog.”

“Oh.” He frowns down at himself. “That’s exactly what happened.”

“Huh?”

“I went to J. Crew and bought this outfit this morning so that I’d have something to wear.”

This news is literally painful for me. My chest is tight and achy. I’ve never had anyone dress up to meet my parents before.

“Well, you look nice,” I eventually say again.

Miles cocks his head to one side and studies me. “Lenny, should we talk about why you’re—”

“We’re gonna be late!” I chirp, pretending to study the time on my phone but actually seeing nothing at all.

We make it out to Brooklyn in record time, not even close to being late. The two of us stand outside my parents’ apartment door.

My mom, a recovering Roman Catholic, has given up almost all of her family’s Sunday traditions except for thegigantic, sprawling meal starting at about fourp.m.I’ve tried to warn Miles about what he’s set to endure.

I still don’t think he’s prepared.

Miles and I are barely through the threshold before my mom is yanking our coats off and bustling us toward the living room. There are already aperitifs sweating on coasters on the coffee table.

“Sit. Sit!” she commands. Then she sprints off to the kitchen.

“Your mom is…” Miles blinks.

“Energetic,” I supply.

“This apartment is…” He slowly looks around at the potted herbs spilling off the top of the never-used piano, thegilded map of Italy, the red velvet couch we’re sitting on, the framed needlepoints of our deceased Siamese cats, my dad’s corner of the room with its two years of half-read newspapers and two-decades-old television.

“Unique,” I offer.

“This drink is…” He holds up the bright red concoction.

“Campari and soda with an orange peel,” I inform him. “The only—”

“—suitable drink for the cocktail hour,” my mom finishes, bustling back in with a platter of olives.

“Where’s Dad?”

“Picking up the cookies from the bakery.”

I blink at my mom. It’s not like her to outsource the baking. Is she trying to impress?

“So.” My mom has finally settled herself on the armchair across from us. She reaches across to Miles with one hand out. “Eva. And you’re Miles.”

“Yes, hello.” Miles shakes her hand, and then, in a moment of brilliance, quickly picks up his drink and holds it out to cheers my mother.

Her eyes flicker with approval and she takes a hearty swig. So does Miles. I watch him carefully for reaction to the flavor of the drink. I love Campari, but he’s a lifelong beer drinker. He does nothing but lick his lips and set the cup back down.

Just then we hear the front door opening and my typically quiet father absolutely shouts down the hall. “Elena? Elena!”

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