Page 48 of Even After Sunset

He keeps stirring.

“It was fine,” his mouth says.

“It was hell,” his eyes say.

My gaze dips to the floor, then back up. He’s rolling the batter into balls and placing them on a large cookie sheet. He’s way faster at this than I am.

“Is it because of juvie that you have a hard time sleeping?” I venture. It’s the first thing I want to help him with, I’ve decided - to figure out how he can get a good night’s sleep.

His body stills and he turns to look at me, cookie dough still in his calloused hand. Our gazes lock for a moment.

“I sleep fine,” his mouth says.

“Back off,” his clenched jaw says. So I do.

For now. I look away; outside the window at the food truck next to ours. A middle-aged fat guy is up on the roof, securing a waving burger sign.

Silas places the doughy ball on the pan alongside the others, and I shift.

“Your playlist isn’t awful,” I tell him, hoping it will lighten the mood. And I’m not completely lying: his playlist is pretty decent. Definitely heavier than my usual taste, but still good.

Silas’ face relaxes, and it makes me feel bad for putting him on edge a second ago. But how am I supposed to help him if he won’t even let me in?

“What about you?” he asks then, taking me by surprise. “Sandy Haven Prep - what’s that like?”

I stare back outside at Burger Truck Guy, who’s climbing down a ladder now at the back of his truck. He’s wearing cut-off sweatpants and they slip a little lower every time he takes a step down. By the time he reaches the final rung, he’s pretty much flashing me afull, hairy moon.

“Sh Prep is good,” I shrug. “I mean, there are definitely a lot of douche-bags and stuff… but I’ve made some good friends. And I like the classes, mostly.”

I actually love the classes. I love most things about the school, if I’m being totally honest. But I’m not going to come out and say that: rub it in his face how great my life’s been… while he’s been stuck in Allerston Lake. Or locked away at Trenton.

“Cool,” he says, “That’s good…” His voice is barely audible above the music; barely more than a whisper.

I’m starting to think he doesn’t hate me as much as he makes out he does. I think he’s just angry—at his situation. At me. At the whole world.

But anger can be unraveled and flattened out. If he lets me in, surely together we could find a way to deal with the anger. But if itishatred, that’s a whole other thing. Because hatred runs bone deep. I wouldn’t know what to do if he truly did hate me.

Once we’re done with the oatmeal cookies, we move on to chocolate chip. I’m the ingredient-fetcher; he’s the measurer. He stirs, I taste-test. I put away,hetaste-tests. He forms the batter into balls and puts them on cookie sheets. I re-organize them into straighter rows: line them up; everything equal, everything aesthetically pleasing. He smirks. I shrug dismissively—because, yeah, I may have ruined the last two days' worth of cookies, but not once did I toss them carelessly onto the pan, disorderly and sloppy before even touching the oven. They alwayslookednice before going in.

When they’re done, we taste-test one cookie from each batch. Just to be sure. I’m doing whatever I can to stack the cards in my favor this time, because I’m not having them tumble down on me again tonight. And by one o’clock we’re both full from all the cookies we’ve tested and the batter we’ve licked… chocolate chips we popped into our mouths one by one at first, then by the handful; and the milk we drank to wash it all down. We’re like a couple of eight-year-olds who don’t know any better and it’s the best feeling in the world.

The last batch is finally in the oven and it’s almost time to open up shop. I slide into the banquette to quickly check on my CreateHire account, in the off-chance that I made a book cover sale.

Silas is sitting opposite me, legs stretched out on the bench as he scrolls through his phone. It feels nice. Amiable. I don’t ask if or when he needs to head out to help backstage. I want to soak up as much of this day as I can, because I don’t want anything to ruin this feeling like maybe things could be easy between us again… Like we could become friends again.

Chapter Thirteen

Silas

I’ve been ignoring my texts for the last two days. Not that I’m avoiding anyone, but there just isn’t anyone I really care to hear from. Except Maggs, I guess. But she and I aren’t close or anything. She’s just my neighbor and the least fake of my acquaintances. Because my friends aren’t really friends; they’re people I hang out with. And a lot of them aren’t even that nice. In fact, most of them are assholes. I mean, let’s face it: it’s not like I had the pick of the friendship crop when I came home after two years in juvie.

So when I decide to finally check my messages, I’m not surprised they’re all from people wanting to know if I’ll be at this party or that bonfire or some rager or whatever. And then texts from girls just being flirty. Sexting, I guess? Only a little more subtle.

I can’t say I hate it. It's good knowing I have options. I need the parties—partly for the social aspect, the girls… partly for the booze. Okay,mainlyfor the booze. Still, all of it is just a series of distractions—diversions and props to keep me awake when I need to, and give me access to liquor when I’m ready to crash.

Basically, my nightmares control my entire life. I’ve become their little bitch over the years.

I have no idea where Jax fits into all of it. She doesn’t; I guess. There’s no way she could; she’s already too connected to everything I’m trying to black out. I can’t take on another thing. I’m exhausted enough as it is: I walk around half the time like a goddamn zombie. It always stuns me when the school gets pissedabout me missing two or three days a week, because honestly, I’m impressed that I even make it to school at all.

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