Page 96 of Even After Sunset

I spend the rest of the evening working on my covers and manage to get all three done. At nine-fifty, I notice Silas is still not back, so I text him. He’s set a recurring reminder on his phone, so he’s never missed a check-in-call. But he’s cutting it really close tonight. He doesn’t answer, and at ten o’clock, he’s still not back. I try calling, and again—no answer.

At ten-fifteen, my phone rings. It’s Richard—not Silas, like I was hoping. I consider not picking up, because talking to him means I’ll have to lie. But I’m assuming he’s tried Silas’ phone, and if neither of us picks up, then he’ll really be worried.

I take the call. I tell Richard that I was supposed to let him know Silas ended up having to go out last minute to help fix something on the stage canopy, but that it slipped my mind. I think the excuse is so random that he buys it. He certainly has no reason to mistrust me—I’ve never lied to him or Meryl before. And I’m gutted that I just did.

We talk for a while and it’s so nice to fall into the familiarity of his voice. It makes me miss him. And Meryl, too. This is the longest I’ve been away from them since they adopted me. Richard catches me up on the local Sandy Haven happenings. The town hall is being re-shingled (again) and there’s a new board game cafe opening up on Main Street. And also, Scarlett’s neighbors were on the news last week. The husband just found out that his ex-wife, who he assumed had taken off with his son to Switzerland twelve years ago, was actually killed by some guy in California. One of those crazy psycho serial killers. The kid is still alive, though. He’s sixteen now, and has been living with the killer since he was three, believing he was his dad. And now he might be coming back to live with his real dad in Sandy Haven, next door to Scarlett.

Honestly, it sounds like something from one of the soap operas Silas has yet to admit he watches with his friend, Maggie. The girl who sent him those texts.

After a while, Richard tells me he and Meryl are heading to bed shortly and that he’ll just catch up with Silas in the morning. He wants Silas to call him at nine, which means he’s still at least a little suspicious of Silas’ absence this evening, otherwise he’d just tell him to hold off calling until his usual scheduled ten pm time-slot tomorrow night.

We say our goodbyes and after I hang up, I suddenly feel really alone. And really let down. I know Silas is off somewhere getting tanked, and I feel like a sucker for giving him the benefit of the doubt and accepting his excuses these past few days for why he’s been going out. Because I know he’s been going out to drink. I just don’t getwhy. He has a job, and he loves how we’re spending our days. He’s even become invested in the business-side of things, trying out new items to sell and stuff. He admitted the truth—to me and to Richard—about what really happened that day when he was ten. And Richard’s really been helping him get over the guilt. So why the need to go back to sneaking off for these stupid nightly binges, or whatever they are? Why does he need the liquor at all?

Sure enough, Silas shows up shortly after two in the morning, completely hammered. He doesn’t even make it onto the couch this time: he passes out on the narrow section of floor between the couch and the counter. And he’s too heavy for me to move, so I tuck a pillow under his head and that’s where he stays for the night.

When I wake up sometime shortly after eight-thirty, he’s already awake, sitting at the table with his fingers curled around a mug of coffee. His hands are so large that there’s barely any of the actual mug visible.

He watches me with heavy eyes. His face is pale and there are dark circles under his eyes. When he sees my expression, he looks totally dejected.

“Shit, Jax… I’m sorry.I amso sorry.”

I roll my eyes.

“Well, if you’re sorry, thenstop doing it.”

“I will.” He winces. “I let it get out of hand and I’m done. I swear, Jax. It’s the last time.”

I hate that I don’t believe him.

I pour myself a cup of coffee and take a sip, leaning against the counter across from him. He strokes his thumb back and forth along the curve of the mug.

“What did you tell Richard?”

He doesn’t look up when he asks. And for once, I’m glad to see him feeling ashamed.

“I lied to him, Silas! I told him you had to go out last minute to help the guys fix the tent over the stage.”

He swallows… His eyes meet mine.

“I’m sorry.”

I offer him a nod, acknowledging his apology, but not actually accepting it.

“It was a dick move,” he adds, “putting you in that position.”

“Yeah, it was. I’ve never lied to him before. Ever. And I hated it.”

He doesn’t say anything. He looks gutted.

Good.

“Richard has gone out of his way to be kind to you. And to help you… and he trusts you.”

“I know.”

“So then, why did you do it?” I practically yell. “Why have you started drinking again? And don’t tell me it’s because it’s fun—because I’ve never seen you look like you’re having fun when you’re drunk.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Habit, I guess.”

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