Page 8 of Even After Sunset

And then just a couple seconds later, another text comes in.

My fingers are sweating where I’m clutching his phone, and my heart is shattering. All of this is so wrong: everything that happened that horrible afternoon when we were ten, the way Silas has changed… that he seems so angry now. And then this text; which sounds like his uncle actually beat him up—when he was passed out on his front lawn, which, God… that’s just awful. It’s sickening and so utterly unfair and probably not the first time, either.

The guilt digs into my ribslike a blade, because if I hadn’t been so wrapped up in myself all those years ago—in my quest to fill every single minute of my life with any kind of distraction from my home life—then maybe I would have paid more attention to the signs… to the fact that my mother was veering so rapidly off the rails. But I was too intent on milking my childhood for all it was worth; even as my world began to crumble around me, spiraling toward the hell my mother would put everyone through in the fall of grade five. But instead, I escaped deeper into my childish realm of adventure and escape and “let’s-act-like-nothing-exists-except-for-me”.

And now Silas is the one paying the price. The one person who had nothing to do with what happened that day. And who, afterwards, at least had living relatives. Relatives who drove over a thousand miles to live with him…because they were supposed to take care of him. And look out for him and help him make it out the other side okay. Scarred maybe, but still at least okay—at least recognizable as the same carefree boy who taught me how to do backflips off the dock at Lyman’s wharf, and make homemade water bombs out of old sponges that he found in his mother’s broom closet.

Out of the two of us, I was the one who didn’t have anyone left: no relatives to claim me or family friends. Except that everything got flipped on its head. Someonedidshow up for me—probably the most unlikely couple of all: the older couple who my mother had worked for as a cleaning lady for years. Richard and Meryl Pemrose.

And they may have treated me like grandparents since as far back as I can remember, every Saturday afternoon when I tagged along while my mother cleaned their house. But still,they were the people my mother cleaned for.They didn’t have any obligation toward me. They didn’t even really have any motivation to take me in, besides just being exceptionally kind. So it shocked me just as much as everyone else when they showed up and took me in, no questions asked. They folded me gently into their world as if it was the most normal thing in the world for them to do.

And over time, it did beginto feel normal.

But never fair. Especially now, when I’m more aware than ever of how unjust the aftermath really was. And how wrong. I have this feeling that I want todosomething. To change something—make it better.

What I really want to do is text back this MAGZ girl (at least, I’m almost positive it’s a girl), but I’ve already crossed a line by reading Silas’ texts; probably even by questioning him about an incident he wanted to keep to himself when I saw the bruises. Although nothing can change the fact that all of it: the bruises, the texts, the way he acted at the party, the empty look in his eyes—it’s just confirmation that I have every reason to be worried about him. And that he needs my help, even if I have no idea how I might do that. Or if he’ll even let me.

I place his phone back on the seat where I found it and make my way outside. It’s been about twenty minutes since he stormed out, so I’m hoping he’s had time to cool off and smooth out some of his anger.

When I can’t find him outside, I head into the diner and eventually spot him sitting at a booth by a large window overlooking the parking lot. I keep my hands shoved in the shallow pockets of my shorts as I make my way down the aisle of avocado-green pleather benches and chrome tables, my eyes watching him the entire time.

He doesn’t look seventeen. He looks like someone who’s lived a thousand different lives that are finally catching up to him. My former best friend is in the middle of ordering a large orange juice from a grey-haired waitress when I reach him. His eyes brush over my face, casual and cool. Soserious.

When I slide into the bench across from him, his only reaction is a glance back at the waitress to add a hot chocolate to his order. It’s what I always used to have when we hung out at his place after a long day playing outside, and I feel silly for how much I love that he remembers.

I don’t ask again about the bruise, even though Iwantto. I’m determined, more than ever now, to get him out of that place. But I’ll bide my time for now until I figure out what I can do that will actuallyhelp: a strategy that will get him away from his aunt and uncle and that house. For good.

That’s the longer-term plan. The short-term plan is to do whatever I can to help him get whatever he wants right now. And he insists that’s getting back to Allerston Lake. So we spend another half hour using the diner’s free Wi-Fi to research options, and we figure out there’s a bus leaving the next morning from Provincetown, which is where I’m headed, anyway. The ticket is over a hundred dollars, but Silas only has thirty-seven dollars and sixteen cents to his name. I know this because he sat across from me counting his money on the linoleum table while I was looking up bus options.

I have more than enough to cover the ticket. I mean yeah, I’m on a tight budget for the next couple of months since that’s the point of this whole thing after all: to make my own way and live off the money that I earn—so any money I didn’t sink into fixing up Trudy is technically already accounted for. Except that really, at the end of the day, I am not going to be left hungry or broke or lacking for anything if I use some of that money now. Richard and Meryl are already trying to subsidize this venture as it is. So I can definitely pay for Silas’ ticket. Iwantto pay for his ticket. But he is as prickly and resistant to my offer as he seems to be about everything else.

We keep going back and forth: Silas insisting that he can just hitchhike back, and me digging my heals in because that is such a bad idea. And un-necessary. So we eventually come to a compromise, which is still not ideal but the best we can come up with under the circumstances: he’ll let me chip in toward a bus ticket from Provincetown to New Bedford, and he’ll hitchhike for the final stretch.

The waitress shows up with our drinks and it suddenly dawns on me it’s all he ordered: these drinks are our breakfast.

I tap the waitress’ elbow as she turns to leave. “Actually, could we get a couple of breakfast platters, too? Just like, eggs and bacon and toast or something?”

“Sure, honey. I’ll just—”

“Only one breakfast.” Silas cuts her off. “I’m fine with just the juice.”

But I know he’s only saying that because all his money’s already accounted for with his portion of the bus ticket.

“Breakfast is on me,” I tell him. “To make up for the way I screamed and freaked out last night when I found you.” I smile, trying to loosen the tension that’s rolling off him and ribboning around every obstacle between us.

But he doesn’t smile back.

“Just the one breakfast,” he repeats to the waitress, who nods once and then hurries off before I can amend our order again.

Now the tension between us is even thicker and I’m grateful for the steady murmur of conversations going on around us, and the scraping of cutlery against plates and the occasional rattle of dishes being stacked and carried back to the kitchen. Silas takes a long sip of orange juice, his gaze focused somewhere outside the window.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” I finally say softly. “About the bruise; I didn’t mean to—”

“So, what do you sell?” He cuts me off, his voice pointedly louder than mine. “Out of your food truck? What’s your thing?”

Okay… so I guess we’re going to just pretend it never happened. That I didn’t see those horrible bruises.

I thread my fingers around my mug of hot chocolate.

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