Page 37 of Even After Sunset

After using the washroom and brushing my teeth, I open all the curtains, determined to let a little sunshine into my morning after being greeted by the storm cloud that is Silas Carmichael. I pull out my journal from the shelf beside my mattress, then sit at the table to drink my coffee and write an entry to one of the dozens of journaling prompts I keep in an envelope taped to the inside cover. And it works: I manage to bring myself back to a more positive mind-space. I can’t expect Silas to come around in one day. I don’t even know him enough anymore to figure out what sets him off into these sudden mood swings, or what hurts him.

Or what makes him smile.

I can try to get to know him again and be there for him, but I can’t let his moods cast a shadow overmymoods.

I spend the rest of the morning surrounded by flour and sugar, butter and eggs, chocolate chips and sprinkles. Also: ground cinnamon—which sounds disgusting but is actually the best cookie recipe-secret ever. The floury mess, the decadent smells and the dough-ey crumbs: they all remind me of Meryl and it makes me miss her.

I don’t want to call her yet, though. I can’t have my first conversation with her until I’ve had at least one great night of sales. Not that she’d ever judge me: she is supportive of literally everything I do. But that’s precisely why I want to make her proud.

Once I’ve glided the first two batches of cookies into the oven, I slide back into the bench at the table with another cup of coffee and my computer. I open up Photoshop and start designing a thriller cover I had an idea for last night. I am fascinated with all the effects you can achieve using different fog layers. Not just your average white or grey fog, but red and orange and pink and… well, any color, in any combination.

I get so absorbed with my design I don’t even hear the timer go off for the first batch. It’s not a big deal though: just four minutes past the time I was supposed to take the cookies out. And when I slide them onto the cooling racks, they’re a bit darker but still fine. They definitelysmellamazing.

And speaking of amazing, my thriller cover is coming together perfectly: I am beyond happy with it. And once it’s finished, I spend the rest of the morning creating a few variations of the same cover. Getting lost in Photoshop is the perfect way to shed any lingering stress or negativity. Of course, my awesome new cheesy boy-band playlist helps too.

Once I’ve taken the last batch of cookies out of the oven, I slide out wracks, starting from the bottom, to test a cookie from each batch. I’m just taking a bite of my second cookie when there’s a rapid couple of knocks on the door; then it swings open and Silas walks in, minus the storm cloud that was hovering over him this morning.

“Hey,” he greets me, like the weird episode never happened. He saunters over and peers at the racks of cookies.

“Smells good.”

I nod once. I do not understand this new mercurial Silas: angry one moment and mellow the next, broody then jocular, and always with this underlying sense that there’s a lit fuse tucked snuggly within the folds of his warring emotions, ready to go off at any moment without notice.

He props one hip against the counter across from me.

“I got a job,” he announces.

“A job?” I walk over to the sink and wash my hands. “Here?”

“Yeah.” he says a little defensively. “Loading and unloading gear for a couple of the bigger-name bands who are doing pretty much the same festival circuit you’re doing.”

I don’t know why I’m surprised, but I am.

“Oh. Wow—that’s awesome.”

It never occurred to me he might be able to get work doing stuff at the festivals. And under-the-table, I’m sure—which eliminates any of the red tape that would normally come with his criminal record. A record which Richard has assured me will get wiped once he turns eighteen. As long as he doesn’t get busted again for something after that.

But I’m not going to think about that.

Silas ambles over to the couch opposite me and falls into it. “Yeah,” he says, stretching out lengthwise and resting his head against his fist. “So next time we get food or whatever, I’m paying.”

I dry my hands with the towel hanging from one of the cupboards.

“Sure. Sounds good.”

He seems to be propelled by the need to sever any condition or circumstance that might make him reliant on anyone in any possible way. He is on a quest, apparently, to be a solitary force of nature.

But maybe now he’ll be less grouchy, I think. And hopefully less likely to steal food. Or anything else, for that matter.

“So, did you unload equipment this morning?” I ask. “Is that where you were?

He doesn’t answer and when I turn, his head is resting on the pillow, eyes closed and hand tucked beneath his cheek.

“Silas?” I prompt. But he just grunts, his eyes still closed. And within a couple of seconds, his breathing becomes shallower, his lips part, and I can tell he is fast asleep. I leave him there and after a sandwich and glass of OJ, I head out to get some fresh air myself, and to wander the festival grounds.

Silas is still fast asleep when I get back an hour later, so I get set up at the table with my laptop and guidebooks to do more research on some of the less known attractions on the back roads of northern Vermont.

Two hours later, he still hasn't stirred. I stash the books in one of the overhead cupboards and do all the final preparations for opening, and it’s only when I’m heating a bowl of chilli half an hour before the festival opens that Silas finally wakes up.

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