Page 40 of Promise Me Sunshine

I stare at my phone, turning this sentiment over in my mind when he texts again:

How much longer will you be there?

I’m packing it up now.

I’ll meet you at the studio apartment. There’s something I wanna do with you.

I hobble the three blocks and reflexively scowl when I see him haunting my doorstep. He hoists the laundry from my back and runs it upstairs.

When he comes back I’ve got my hands on my hips. “What, exactly, are we doing?”

“It’ll be fun.” He stops midway through jogging down the brownstone steps. “Actually, there’s a good chance it’ll be terrible.”

“We need to work on your elevator pitch.”

Thirty minutes later I find myself standing on a gigantic sailboat moored off the financial district at sunset, staring at a list of cocktails that have first, middle, and last names and cost more than my hourly babysitting rate.

It’s one of the few bar/boats that dot the coastline of Manhattan, permanently moored and apparently lovely on a late-August night. I glance around at the beautiful people swilling drinks and flashing bone-white teeth in the candlelight. “I don’t think we’re supposed to wear ripped jeans and sneakers here.”

“Yeah.” He’s frowning like everyone is stupid and he’d really prefer if this boat were sinking. “Well, let’s get a drink.”

He orders a beer from an unimpressed bartender with hair like the Fonz. And I order something called a Madam President Obama. It’s the most delicious drink I’ve ever tasted, and I clutch it with two hands.

“So…why are we here?”

Miles takes a huge swig of his beer. “For that.” He points at the prow of the ship. He sighs. “And that.”

The second “that” is apparently my right leg. I frown in confusion.

“The list, Lenny,” he prompts, nodding with his chin toward my front pocket.

“Oh!Oh.Oh no.”

“Yup.” He looks resigned as we weave our way through couples. “Let’s do it.”

I don’t even have to pull the list out to reread the bullet point. Apparently, neither does he.

“So.” He clears his throat as we approach the prow of the ship. “Number eight, was it?Find a big boat and do theTitanicthing.” He glances at me. “WhichTitanicthing exactly?” He’s leaning over the railing and eyeing the sunset-dyed water distastefully. “Should I be taking off my boots?”

I laugh. “No. It’s the…” I hold out two arms and sway to show which part I’m talking about.

I expect him to look even more embarrassed about what we’re about to do, but he only looks resolute. “Okay.”

I ignore all the trendy people behind us, stepping up right where the two railings meet, and press my midsection there.

Oh, why not?

I throw my arms out and wait.

Nothing happens.

I turn around and glare. “Miles!” I hiss.

He sighs but steps forward, behind me; his clothes touch my clothes and his arms extend six inches beyond either of mine. We sway and I burst out laughing.

“Is this it?” he asks, understandably with a hint of incredulity. “There’s no line or something we’re supposed to say?”

“I…don’t think they say anything at that part of the movie? I mean…we could sing the Celine Dion song?”

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