Page 59 of Even After Sunset

“It won’t happen again,” I cut her off. “I overdid it last night, that’s all.”

She looks like she wants to say more. But I win because I give her an even more intense look that makes it clear Idon’twant her to say more.

“Do I have time to shower before we leave?” I change the subject.

I’m wearing the same clothes I had on last night and even I can tell I smell like hell. Pretty sure I look like hell, too.

“I’d like to be pulling out in about half an hour,” she says. “So as long as you’re fast, then go for it.”

“Cool.”

I get up and Jackie takes a last spoonful of cereal before turning toward the sink. I notice I don’t have my shoes on, despite the fact that I’m wearing every other piece of clothing from yesterday. And when I glance around, I spot them on the step by the door, neatly lined up, side-by-side. Definitely not how I would have left them if I’d pulled them off before collapsing on the couch in a drunken stupor. Which means Jackie must have taken them off and placed them neatly by the door. And for some reason, that sends a pang of guilt straight through my chest.

She’s treated me with way more patience than I’d have for some cranky bastard who crashed my carefully planned summer. She’s so goddamn kind, and as much as I say it drives me crazy, it also makes me want to cry with relief: that she never lost that sweetness. Because that’s what always made her stand out.

It still is.

Chapter Sixteen

Jackie

I’m worried about Silas. His drinking is beyond just going overboard at weekend parties like a lot of kids I know. I think he legitimately drinks every single night. And I can’t talk about it with him because he gets all defensive anytime I bring it up, just like he does with any topic I broach that skirts around anything remotely personal. He is the most closed off person I’ve ever met. And it’s hard to reconcile this with the Silas of my pre-teen years, because he used to be an open book.

It scared me so much last night when there was a knock on the door at quarter to one, and I opened it to find two huge scary-looking middle-aged biker dudes propping Silas’ limp body up between their burly frames. He was barely coherent. Barely awake, actually.

They assumed Silas was my boyfriend and seemed genuinely confused when I explained the situation to them in a nutshell. Which, thinking about it now, makes sense.I’mstill confused about our situation and what we are. Are we friends… or just ‘old friends’? Or something completely different—because even though I know whatIwant (to please pleasepleasebe friends again…), I’m in the dark when it comes to Silas’ feelings, which he seems to keep caged behind barbed wire, floating in a moat of vodka.

They had to basically carry him over to his bed, which I pulled out in record time. The larger guy, who introduced himself as Steve, started asking questions after that. He saw the bruises on Silas’ torso, and I guess Silas muttered something about his uncle. Steve wanted to know if his assumptions were correct about how Silas got the crap beat out of him.

I filled in a few of the blanks for him, without getting into too much detail, knowing how fiercely Silas guards his privacy (understatement of the year). It turns out Steve is the guy who hired Silas—and then fired him when he showed up drunk to work last night. Honestly, I think he was just looking for information that would help redeem Silas, or at least excuse him for his erratic and stupid behavior. Which I guess is what I’ve been doing myself for the past five days.

That, and trying to get to know him again after all these years.

We pulled out of the festival grounds fifteen minutes ago and Silas has been quiet the entire drive so far; his nose buried in one of my Maine Guidebooks. His cheeks are the only blotches of color against his pale face, which I recognize now as his hangover complexion. It makes his dark lashes stand out even more against his marble-white skin. Meaning: he’s still beautiful. I’ve given up trying to pretend that he isn’t. Or that I don’t notice. I’m going to accept that it’s just one more new aspect about him that I need to get used to.

He managed to fit a shower in before we left, so his hair is still damp; and he keeps brushing it out of his eyes with his fingers. I know this because I keep stealing glances at him. Silas, however, hasn’t looked my way once since our conversation this morning. I don’t know if it’s because he’s annoyed or because he’s embarrassed. Could be he’s just oblivious, but I don’t think so.

Our first stop is the International Cryptozoology Museum in Portland, which I’m less excited about than some of the other stops I’ve researched for my road trip, but it’s just so unique that I couldn’t pass it up knowing how close it was to my route.

Silas’ expression when we pull into the parking lot is curious more than dubious, the way it was during our first day of excursions together. So I take this as a positive sign, even though he still hasn’t said a word to me. He insists on paying his own six dollar entrance fee and I don’t put up too much resistance. I’ve learned now to pick my battles.

It’s a much bigger space than the Toilet Museum (ha! Even that sentence makes me smile), and other than maybe five other visitors, we’re the only people here. It’s cool to read up on famous scientifically unverified species like BigFoot and Yeti and the Loch Ness Monster, but also a bunch of less known species, too. And there’s a pretty compelling case to be made for their existence, based on some of the artifacts on display. But still… I’m skeptical. Silas, though, is seemingly fascinated. He actually takes out his phone and snaps a photo of the giant Sasquatch replica. Then later, of fecal matter from a small Yeti, apparently collected during some expedition in 1959.

So weird.

When I walk over just after he’s snapped the photo, Silas slides his phone back into his pocket and glances over at me for the first time all morning. He quirks a perfect dark eyebrow.

“Surprised they don’t have this on display at the International Museum of Poop.” The corner of his mouth twitches in a playful smirk. “You know— in Weirdville, Ohio.”

I grin, shaking my head.

“I know, right? They missed out, for sure. Tickets for this display alone probably could’ve funded that expansion they’ve got in the works… With the food hall and oversized gift shop?”

He nods. “The Shitty Diner, yeah… The baked beans are supposed to be to die for.”

We both break into laughter, and it shatters the tension that’s been weighing on us since we left Old Orchard Beach. And a little while later we’re back in the camper, on speaking terms again. We fix a picnic lunch which we pack into my insulated backpack (like I said: I thought ofeverythingfor this trip), and then it’s just a short ten-minute drive to the pier, where we’ll be taking a ferry over to Peaks Island.

We time it perfectly and a ferry is departing just a few minutes after we pull into the parking lot. Silas pulls the backpack from my shoulder as we jog to get our tickets.

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