Page 23 of Promise Me Sunshine

“Ah. Pigeon butts. Appetizing.”

“Not at the pigeon butts. At thesign.”

I can’t read it from this angle, so I stand up, sandwich and all, and read out loud: “Cousin Sammy’s Sammies, home of Omar’s one and only Turkey Surprise.”

My breath catches and my gaze drops to Miles. “Number seven,” I whisper through bright pressure in my eyes.

I mean, I knew I was following him because he insisted he could cross one off, but I was not prepared for what it would feel like to actually do it.

“ ‘Eat something famous you can only get in New York,’ ” Miles quotes from the list. “Not so hard, right?”

I look from him to the sign. I’m speechless.

He holds out his hand and I wordlessly hand him the turkey sandwich. He wraps the rest of it back up.

“It was so easy for you.” I plunk back onto the benchbeside him. “I think I must be bad at this,” I murmur. “Like, maybe other people handle this better than I do.”

He barks a sad laugh. “Lenny, not a soul on earth is good at this.”

He takes a deep breath, then turns to look me in the eye. Smile lines, stubble, honest eyes, unswerving, unhidden face. Not friendly but not mean. “My mom and cousin were killed in a car accident about ten years ago. My life kind of…ended for a little while after that.”

“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry.” Sure, it’s a platitude, but I’ve got two hands wrapped around his arm and I mean it from the bottom of my heart.

“Believe it or not, it gets easier to talk about after a while. A long while. But I’ve been there, Lenny. Right where you are. Where you lose control of your life and nothing makes sense anymore. When you can’t remember how basic things function. Like when to eat or shower. Grief…it’s not like any other emotion. It is utterly discombobulating. Among many other things.”

“I’msosorry,” I repeat.

“Thanks. I’m still sorry about it too.”

I study his profile. “I get…I get that you’re wanting some guidance on how to be there for Ainsley. I understand you need my help with that. But honestly, why would you ever want to wade into all this with me? Especially if you have experience with it. Wouldn’t you want to be as far away from it as possible?”

He considers this for a long time, chewing his sandwich and folding his legs in and out when pedestrians pass on the sidewalk in front of us. “Ainsley and Reese, they’re my only family left. I’m not…well…you’ve seen it. I’m not always good with people. And you…even when you’re likethis,people like you. I need help.” He shrugs. “Besides, look,seeing someone go through this…and not being able to help? It’s awful. Not everyone will accept help when they’re grieving. Some people just…go inward and bear it all alone.”

I get the distinct feeling he’s talking about someone in particular.

“We don’t need to get into all of it,” he continues. “But this has been a pretty useless couple of years for me. I mean me.I’museless…Look, a project would be good for me.”

I point to my heart. “Me being the project.”

He shrugs. “And the list.Andme. It’s a really big project.”

My phone buzzes and I see that it’s a text from my mom. I quickly scan it. She wants to know how I am. But I ignore it and the two missed calls from her that came through while I was in the club, clearing away the notifications and blacking my screen.

Miles looks from my phone to me. “You’re really living out of that backpack? Never going home?”

I shrug. “Home is where the heart is. My heart died in a cancer ward six months ago.”

I say it like it’s just another thing to say, but Miles makes a sound in the back of his throat, like those words hurt him as much as they do me.

“I know what you mean about going back to your apartment…” he says in a low voice, and I turn to watch his profile. “We all lived together. Me and Anders and Mom. When they died, it pretty much meant losing my entire family at once. So yeah. I get it. It’s awful to go back to the place where they just were but aren’t anymore.”

Images from my apartment crash over me. Lou burning Christmas cookies in our kitchen. Lou’s coconut Suave shampoo in our bathroom. Lou’s handknit sweaters drying in the sun after she washed them.

Being back in that apartment is like touching electricity.

“Miles, how does anyone do this?” I whisper, leaning forward and letting the tears pit-pat off my nose and onto my leggings.

“A very little at a time,” he says, balling up his sandwich paper and giving me a squeeze on the shoulder. “And virtually none of it tonight. Tonight is all about finding you a place to sleep.” He pauses. “And shower.”

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