Page 111 of Promise Me Sunshine

“You need to sleep.”

“Yes. Let’s go to bed.”

I ignore the lurch in my gut at the idea of going to bed with Miles. It’s ridiculous to feel this way. Miles and I have slept beside each other a handful of times and it’s never made me giddy-sick before.

He slumps sideways onto the couch and closes his eyes. And then he abruptly rolls off the couch and lands on the floor in a shocking heap.

“Are you okay?” I rush over to him.

“That was a preemptive strike,” he grumbles into the floor. “I figured if I was sleeping on the couch and you were sleeping on the floor, I’d roll off and crush you in the night. So I did it first.”

“Good point.” It’s not a good point, but he’s too drunk to argue with right now. I’m calmer now that I fully realize he meant “let’s go to bed” on the couch and floor. Of course he did.

I help him onto a floor bed I’ve just made and take his pre-warmed spot on the couch. His head is on his pillow and his eyes are closed, so I guess we’re going to sleep now. But then there’s a poke-poke on my shoulder.

“Hm?” I lean over the edge of the couch and peek at him.

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

His eyes come open. “What’s been going on with you.”

“Oh.” I shift and the locket falls out of the collar of my shirt, hanging suspended between us. Miles lifts one big finger and taps it, makes it swing.

“Should I not have given that to you?”

“What? No! I love it.” I tuck it back into my shirt and roll back onto the couch where he can’t see me.

“So, what is it?”

How can I explain this to him without actually explainingit?

I’m racking my brain, trying to think of a way, when there’s a long, low rumble coming from the floor and I realize the poor sucker’s already snoring.

Which is a good thing because what would I have said?I just realized I have feelings for you and for some reason it’s making me feel like a humongous bag of trash?

Yeah, that’s probably something one should keep to oneself.

I get up off the couch, because it’s only ninep.m.and I’m not tired. I make my way to his desk under the window and look out at the silvery moonlight. I can’t get close enough to the sky, so I crawl on top of the desk and lean against the glass. From this vantage point I can see a sliver of the Hudson, the hulking stalagmites of the buildings, the glowing orange squares of everyone’s unique and common lives.

I’m still curled in that position, knees to my chin, head against the glass when, a few hours later, Miles stirs, groans, and goes to the bathroom.

He washes his hands and emerges, heading toward the darkened kitchen, probably for water.

“Hungover yet?” I ask from my dark corner.

“Whoa!” He spins to face me. “I thought you went home!”

He pours a glass of water and pads over to me, free hand in his pocket.

“I was just about to call you to make sure you made it all right,” he says.

“I won’t leave without telling you.”

He stops in his tracks at my words, as if I’ve just said something very important, and even though I’m still looking out the window, I can feel his eyes all over my face. He clears his throat. “The hangover hurts like hell. I’m never going to your parents’ house again.”

I laugh but then pause. “Wait. Really?”

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