Page 104 of Even After Sunset

I misseveryonemore.

I text back and forth with Xavier and the rest of the crew back home, sometimes for hours at night. And just like Richard and Meryl, Xavier assures me I did the right thing, which helps. It’s also pretty big of him, I think, since obviously he isn’t exactly Silas’ biggest fan.

I try finding out from Richard how Silas is doing, but all he says is that it’s going to be a tough few weeks for him, which presumably means he’s not doing so well. But when I push for more details, he just tells me it would be wrong for him to relay information to me about a minor undergoing treatment, even if it isn’t one of his patients. And for once, I curse his unwavering integrity.

He does tell me that Silas is allowed to get mail. Emails, to be specific—which all get read beforehand and approved (or not) by a staff member.

I consider writing to him, for all of about two seconds. Before I realize it would be stupid to send a note to someone who hates my guts. And who willdefinitely never write me back, except maybe to send shards of broken glass and envelopes filled with arsenic.

But there is one good thing that happens in the days following Silas’ departure: I get asked to do an interview for an online foodie magazine. It happens on one of the nights when I sell out of cookies. I end up chatting for a bit with the woman who buys my last six cookies, and she goes on about how amazing they are (takethat, Silas Carmichael).

She wants to know how old I am and is fascinated when I tell her I started up the business myself. And when she finds out who my adopted mother is, she is even more intrigued. By the end of the conversation, she’s shared that she’s a writer for a well-respected cooking publication and wants to know if I’d do an interview with her in two weeks. I’m so shocked and so flattered and soproud, that I barely manage to stutter out a response: that of course I’d love to do an interview. It’s the best thing that’s happened all week. The only good thing, actually.

She agrees to drive to meet me in Tilton, New Hampshire in five days, where I’ll be located then, since it’s only fifteen miles from where she lives.

The conversation bolsters my mood. It’s just the reminder I need to get back on track with the cookie-selling focus of my business. It should be mywholebusiness, not the cereal and taffy and cotton candy or any of that other stuff.

And my phone call with Meryl that evening, when I tell her the news, is even more confirmation that it was a mistake for me to let myself get so distracted by my book cover side-business, and my easy willingness to substitute a big portion of my cookie sales with all those other items.

Meryl actually tears up when I share my news.

“You have no idea, sweetheart…” she hiccups. “No ideahow proud I am of you. That you have been running this business on your own. And doing it sowell.”

And of course, hearing her cry makesmecry too. And by the end of the call, we’re both a mess. But I feel like I have a mission again, like I’m not as lost as I’ve felt these last few days.

I throw myself into my baking after that. I put aside the hours of trip planning and book cover designing and pour all my energy into achieving the task that I set out to do in the first place.

I am going to follow in Meryl’s footsteps and pursue a baking career. And I am going to be happy.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Silas

Ifeel like hell.

More specifically, I feel like someone kicked me in the head for hours and then I found out the next day that I also caught the flu.

The first few days were bad. They told me it should start to get better after that.

It didn’t.

The sweating got worse. And the tremors. I feel like barfing every few hours, but I don’t. Probably because I haven’t been eating. I haven’t felt like eating. Or sleeping. I’ve barely left my room.

Withdrawal is a bitch.

They’ve given me meds to ease the symptoms, but I still feel like garbage. Apparently, the fact that I’ve been drinking almost consistently since I was a kid is making it extra hard on my body. It makes me wish I’d never stopped.

It makes me hate Jackie for doing this to me; for sending me to this place that feels more like a prison than even Trenton ever did. She narked on me, even after I tried cutting back on my own. Forher.

It’s all I can think about: the way she lured me into believing we were friends again.Morethan friends. I fell for this new, confident Jax. Hard. And fast. And I don’t even have the energy to make up some sexual quip about the way that just sounded. I don’t even have the energy to curse at the nurse who just came in for the fiftieth time today to ask if there’s anything she can do to make me more comfortable.

You know what would make me more comfortable?

A bottle of rye.

It might even make me agree to leave this shitty ten-by-ten room. Maybe even take part in one of their bullshit group therapy sessions. It might even make me hate Jackie a little less. Or at least, it would help me forget about her, even for just a day or two. And right now, I crave that almost as much as I crave the liquor.

Almost.

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