Page 144 of Promise Me Sunshine

He becomes a staple at Sunday dinner and my dad has—thankfully—stopped punishing him with grappa.

He signs a lease for the new apartment and starts putting his things in boxes. It aggravates me so much that I start hiding in his bed and regularly get him off-task by unzipping his pants.

“Lenny, I have to get this done!” he asserts, love-drunkenly sagging down to his own knees to meet me on the floor. He’s panting, I’m panting. For all his bossy words, he’s tenderly nuzzling my neck and rubbing his hands over my back. Blowjobs make him extremely affectionate and I bask in his afterglow. “I really do,” he tries again.

“I hate your new apartment. It’s different.”

“You haven’t even seen it yet,” he says firmly. And then much more gently, “What are you so scared of?”

“I don’t want to say goodbye to anything else in my life, ever. I love this apartment. I fell in love with you in this apartment.”

“Trust me, Len. The thing you think you love about this apartment is actuallyme.”

Well, he’s right, of course.

Then he’s all packed up and moved out. We hand over the keys to the new owners, and then we begin unpacking him in his new place. There’s a lot more pants-unzipping but now that the moving part is over, Miles doesn’t protest it in the least.

It takes time to get everything set up the way he wants it. His new place is far smaller and older. There’s creaky, original hardwood flooring and tin ceilings. He’s taken approximately two hundred photos of the tiny stained-glass window in the kitchen. He’s adamant that it looks different in all lighting.

He’s moved completely out of the studio, which has left more space for me, but honestly, I rarely stay there anymore.

Finally when we’re just careening into winter, he and I lie in his new bedroom, in his old bed, and enjoy a lazy Sunday. He’s reading and I’m laid across him, looking out the window at the chilly blue.

“Miles?”

“Hm?” He doesn’t look up from his book.

“Can you promise me something.”

“Maybe.”

“Can I die first?”

He turns a page in his book. “Sure.”

“Hey.” I lunge up and attempt to yank the book from him, but he must have been expecting the sneak attack because his grip is like iron. “That was a very emotional question I just asked. And that’s all you have to say?”

“Was I supposed to argue with you?” He pries my fingers off his book and smooths out one of the wrinkled pages.

“You’re supposed to take it seriously at least! I’m talking about dying over here. Isn’t that a pretty serious cry for help?”

“Cry for help? No.” He snaps the book closed. “For attention? Definitely.” He puts the book on the nightstand and gets out of bed and opens the top drawer of his dresser. The one with the workout clothes. “Come on, then.”

“What? What’s this?” My plan has gone south very quickly.

“You want attention, you’re getting it. Get your running shoes on.”

“I don’t want attention anymore. Now I want a divorce.”

“You said we can’t joke about divorce. Besides, we’re not even married yet.”

“I know you’re trying to distract me with marriage talk, you wily fox! Hey! Get off me!”

He’s attempting to squeeze me into a sports bra.

“Jesus Christ, these things are like a torture device!” He’s just snapped himself with the elastic.

“I prefer it when you take the braoffme.”

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