Page 55 of Even After Sunset

“You’re drunk,” she says. It isn’t a question, but I can tell she’s expecting me to deny it. Which is exactly why I don’t.

She glances away for a moment, to look over at the order window. Checking for customers, I guess. I use the opportunity to grab my backpack off the floor and sling it over my shoulder as I get to my feet. I sway a little and steady myself with one hand against the table.

Okay, so I’m a little drunkerthan I thought.

My eyes dart instinctively in Jackie’s direction, but she’s busy taking some old lady’s order. I adjust the strap on my shoulder and make my way toward the door, and I almost make it out un-noticed. But then I feel her hand on my bicep just as I reach for the doorhandle.

“Silas, wait.”

I don’t even look at her. “What?”

“Are you sure you should…” Her voice trails off.

“Sure I shouldwhat?”

“Nothing. It’s just… I mean, I hope you’re—you know… using protection,” she practically whispers the last two words.

Christ.Did she seriously just tell me to wrap it?

Apparently, her need to meddle in every area of my life extends to my sexual encounters, too. She thinks I’m going back to bump nasties with Tammy.

“I’ll see you later,” I bite through clenched teeth, jerking my arm out of her grip. I shove the door open, clearing both steps in one stride.

“Silas, wait!” she calls, “I’m not… I’m only trying to—”

But I’m already out of earshot, stalking past the rows of vendors and food trucks. I steer clear of the stage area and instead push past the throng of jostling bodies toward the other end of the festival grounds, where eventually the crowds start to thin out. I veer left onto the concrete path along the practically deserted beach.

Up ahead, the lights from the pier reflect off the water in rippled columns of yellows, greens and whites. The sound of the waves lapping against the sand seems louder in the dark than it did at sunrise, which doesn’t make any sense. But then, I’m slightly inebriated, so maybe my senses are all out of whack.

I half sit/half stagger down into the sand, against the same wooden beam as this morning. I dig the bottle of vodka out of my backpack, and after twisting off the cap, tilt it to my lips for a long, full swallow.

I feel my body relax at the familiar taste and my brain shifts into low gear, the way I like it. Behind me, just beyond the beach path, a roller coaster rattles and teenagers scream as they dip and spin on the midway rides. The sounds remind me of the time my parents took me to the fall fair when I was six. My dad pukedafter one go on the scrambler and my mom had to go on all the rides with me after that, while he stood on the sidelines grinning and taking about a thousand photos. It was a good day.

A perfect day, actually.

I wash the memory away with a long swallow of vodka.

I’m not one of those types who cling to memories of people they’ve lost like it’s some sort of lifeline. I never got why you’d want to hang on to something that wrings out your emotions until they’re dried up and raw. No thanks. I’m an avoidance-at all-costs guy. The path of least resistance and all that.

I prop the bottle between my legs and lean my head against the pillar. The waves are definitely louder than they were this morning and I let the sound wash over the hundred-and-one thoughts crowding my brain. Seeing Jackie again after all this time is definitely messing with my head; bringing back stuff from the past. And like I said, the past is not a place I care to revisit.

I didn’t think I’d have to.

I didn’t think I’d have to see Jackie Delaney ever again.

Chapter Fourteen

Silas

Iwake with a jolt, horrified, because I think I may have actually pissed myself. My pants are soaked and stick to my body like a wet rag.

And then I breathe a sigh of relief because it’s just from the waves: I must have fallen asleep for long enough that the tide rose a good few feet and now it’s lapping up to my thighs, drenching my lower body.

I pat the pocket of my jeans frantically and, thank God, the water hasn’t reached my ass yet. The seat of my pants is a little damp but not soaked, and my phone in my back pocket is dry. I take it out and stumble to my feet when I see the time. It’s twenty past midnight, and I was supposed to be in the backstage area at midnight to start tear-down and loading.

I reach down to retrieve my backpack and the bottle of vodka. The backpack is fine: wet, but at leastthere. But the bottle is not. I walk in circles, skimming the beach around the spot where I was sitting. But it’s nowhere to be found; obviously washed out with the tide.

That bottle was three-quarters full.

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