Page 46 of Even After Sunset

“Technotronic?” He looks up at me. “Seriously?”

“Pump Up The Jam. It’s a classic.”

“Bohemian Rhapsodyis a classic.All Along the Watchtoweris a classic. EvenEnter Sandmanis—”

“Pump Up the Jam is a positivity,mood boostingclassic.”

“Pump Up The Jam is what tripped-out carnies play on the scrambler all night on repeat.”

“Exactly.” I smirk. “To boost people’s moods.”

He narrows his eyes at me and shakes his head.

“Man…”

“What?”

He goes back to scrolling. “Nothing.”

I back away but keep watching over his shoulder as he skims through the songs.

“Everything Now, Arcade Fire…” he nods approvingly. “That’s a good one.”

“They’re all good.”

He ignores me, still scrolling.

“Beast of Burden,” he mumbles. “Also not bad.”

“Because it’s uplifting.”

“Because it’s The Stones.”

I raise my index finger. “Which is an uplifting band.”

He shakes his head again, eyes slanted at me like every word out of my mouth is beyond his comprehension. Which may actually be the case. His lips are slightly upturned though, like he might be fighting a grin. And that’s before he’s evenlistenedto my latest mood-boosting playlist.

When I glance down again, he’s tapping into my phone.

“Hey!” I nudge his arm out of the way to get a better look at the screen. “What are you doing?”

He leans away from me, scrolling now. “I’m making you a new playlist.”

Oh.

Wow… okay. I sit back against the post. I’m totally okay with that: he’s interacting with me. Sort of. In a non-confrontational, non-angry-explosion kind of way.

“Make sure it’s only upbeat stuff,” I tell him. “Nothing depressing.”

He keeps adding songs to the queue, and I keep watching him. And occasionally I make a suggestion, which he turns down every time. So after a while, I point out that it’s unfair that he gets to choose every single song on a playlist that I’ll be baking to.

“So.” He shrugs, still not looking up. “I’ll bake too, then.”

I’m glad he’s looking at my phone because my eyes must almost bug out of my face. Cranky Silas is offering tobake?Withme?

“Okay.” I say, cool as can be. “That sounds fair.”

Turns out, Silas is a boss in the kitchen. He measures and mixes and moves from task to task with the efficiency of a Michelin-star chef. Jimi HendrixCrosstown Trafficis blasting full volume from the speakers and Silas is in the zone. He squints down at Meryl’s block-letter recipe scrawled on a laminated card as he cracks an egg into the bowl.

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