Page 125 of Promise Me Sunshine

“Why?” Ethan asks.

“I mean, aesthetically, painting brick…” Miles says.

“Is achoice,” Ethan confirms. “But that’s why I hired a designer. So that I don’t have to make choices on my own.”

“Okay, fine. But painting fireplaces is usually a bad idea. Most paint is flammable at certain temperatures. So if you ever wanted to use the fireplace for its intended purpose, then you’ve basically put a trail of kindling out into your living room.”

“Oh.” Ethan looks stymied. “Well…yeah. Okay, then it is a bad idea.”

“I can help you choose the right paint, if you’re in love with the aesthetic. But if you’re not…”

“Yeah, whatever. I’m not. I just want my place to be nice for Mimi.”

“Is that your nickname for Miriam?” I ask, lips sucked into my mouth as I try to gird my loins for such cuteness.

He laughs and shakes his head at himself. “Yeah. I just bought my place and I really want to make it a home. Mimi’s mom’s place is so nice and…I just want my place to compare, you know? Does that sound petty? I don’t mean to be petty.”

It doesn’t sound petty at all. A father who’s hired an interior designer so that his daughter will feel just as comfortable at his house as she does at her mom’s? Swoon. I tip my head back and make aggressive eye contact with Miles. “Youmusthelp this man paint his fireplace.”

Miles smiles. “Apparently I have marching orders,” he says to Ethan.

“Thanks,” Ethan says to me.

“Do you have any pictures of it?” Miles asks, and they are back to chatting and planning and looking at Ethan’s phone.

Apparently they already had plans to head out to dinner at some place Ethan knows in Harlem, and even though both of them insist I’m invited, I’m notthatmuch of a party crasher.

They do walk me home, though, each of them carrying one of my bags of groceries. And then I head upstairs and start a viciously determined Google search. I’m delighted with my findings.

I wait until I’m certain there’s no way I’ll be interrupting Miles’s friend-date and I snuggle into the twin bed, cup of tea clutched in one hand and phone clutched in the other.

Are you good at bricklaying?I text Miles.

What kind of question is that?His reply is almost immediate.

Ah, you’ve gone with evasion, I see. So you’re bad at bricklaying, huh?

I’m good at it, Lenny.

How good?

What are you actually asking me?

I send him a link to the Google page for bricklayers in NYC. There are, seriously, not very many.

This skill is hot,I inform him.

Hot in what way?

You could be a hot fucking commodity, Miles Honey.

There’s silence, so, of course, I fill it.

You could wear a tool belt and go impress sad, rich women.Charge exorbitant prices.Custom design brickwork for their renovations. You’ll be the hottest shit on the Upper West Side.

What brought this on?

You seemed really happy and interested and knowledgeable when you were talking to Ethan today. I think you need a job.

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