Page 22 of Promise Me Sunshine

“You can’t add to the list!” I’m aghast. “It’slaminated.”

He grunts.

“Where are we going anyway?”

“You’ll see.”

I stop dead in my tracks and say the one thing that’ll surely get him to stop walking, thus saving my life. “I can’t take you up on your offer, you know.”

He stops stock-still, three sidewalk squares away, hands in his pockets, framed under a streetlight. His bone structure is so strong the man is standing in a beam of light and he’s still almost ninety percent shadow. “Why?”

I list on my fingers. “One. You called me emaciated, implied I have a drinking problem, and just generally made fun of the way I look. So yeah. Fuck you.” He takes a step and eats up one of the sidewalk squares between us. “Two. You judged me for eating Reese’s food while I worked a nonstop fourteen-hour shift, by the way. So yeah. Fuck you twice.”Another step, another sidewalk square disappears. “And three. Not tipping the waiter? Come on. That’s, like, sociopathic.”

The last sidewalk square disappears and he’s looking directly down at me, the toes of his shoes a centimeter from mine. “I know what you’re doing.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re trying to buy yourself a little time for a breather.”

I fake outrage. “These are legitimate gripes!”

“I tip waiters! I’m not a total dickhead, okay? He’s the first waiter in my life who I didn’t tip.”

“So why didn’t you?”

He does that sideways nod thing to get me to start walking alongside him again, and for some reason it works. This time he sets a more reasonable pace.

“On my way to the bathroom I heard him saying something really nasty and I didn’t think he deserved a tip.”

My spidey senses tingle. “Was it about me?”

He purses his lips, and that’s all the confirmation I need.

“Well,” I say. “It probably wasn’t worse than calling me strung out, right?”

He winces. “Look. That was really bad. I’m sorry I said that. I…thought one thing and it was wrong. It’s clear that you’re going through a tough time, but I judged you before I could see it. Again. I’m very sorry.”

I glare, but his apology has sucked all the venom from it. “You questioned my babysitting skills and told Reese to fire me.”

“That was before I knew there was a method to your—” He cuts off, probably because it’s a little too real to say the wordmadnessto someone who puts cocktail onions in cupcakes. “Before I realized you had a method. I was shortsighted. And for the record I wasn’t judging you for eating. Iwas worried that that was all you were going to eat. It wouldn’t have been enough food for a hamster and you barely finished it.”

I pull a face. “I’ve been having trouble with my appetite.”

He nods. “That’ll happen. Maybe this’ll help.”

We stop short in front of a hole-in-the-wall sandwich shop, and Miles goes inside to get our sandwiches. I sit on the bench outside and enjoy the sensation ofnotbeing in a hot, sweaty club.

A few minutes later he emerges with something called a Turkey Surprise and I get to experience a moment of nirvana.

“Holy guacamole,” I groan after the first bite.

“Totally.”

I’ve got half a sandwich hanging out of my mouth when he nudges me with his elbow.

“What?”

“Look up.”

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