Page 98 of Even After Sunset

“Did something happen,or…”

“Nothinghappened, Silas. I just realized I’ve been selling more candy when my goal was to sell cookies.”

See? Definitely a weird vibe.

“Okay…” I say cautiously. “Well… goals can change, right?”

She huffs. “Yeah, likeyouwould know.”

And things go rapidly downhill from there, setting off the spiral of events that lead to the inevitable implosion a few hours later.

“Okay, what the fuck, Jax?” I ask. Trying to make sense of her inexplicably frosty mood. “Are you mad at me or something?”

She ignores the question and goes back to mixing the batter like it wronged her in some past life, and now she’s out for revenge.

I’m not used to Cranky Jackie, so I’m not exactly sure how to proceed. So I roll up my sleeves and try another tactic.

“You want me to help?”

“No thanks. I’m good.”

I wait a beat.

“You sure?”

“Yup.”

She starts spooning mounds of batter onto a cookie sheet. This task, go figure, she undertakes with the delicate precision of a surgeon.

I decide that if she is this cranky right now, then I need to give her a heads up about the no-salt issue that I suspect is going on with her current batch of cookies. Because if she finds out from a customer this evening, she may fly so far off the rails, she’ll land in an entire other solar system.

I take a step so I’m standing behind her and massage her shoulders.

“Uh, I know you’re not gonna want to hear this… but I think you may have forgotten the salt.” Then, to appease her, I add: “It’s probably just this batch, though.”

She slams the spoon down and some of the batter splatters onto her T-shirt.

“What?”

I drop my hands. “I could be wrong… I just tasted a tiny—”

“What the heck iswrongwith me?”

“Jax… It’s fine. I can just—”

“I don’t want your help! If I can’t make a few dozen chocolate chip cookies without screwing up, then I’m sure as heck never going to make it as a professional pastry chef!”

I watch her for a second, so tense and sounhappyright now. I don’t like seeing her this way.

“So what?” I finally venture. “So you don’t become a pastry chef. I mean, do you even reallywantto be a pastry chef?”

She whirls on me like I just said the most preposterous, insulting thing. Which is ironic, since I’d argue that what’s preposterous is the idea of her becoming a pastry chef. But I keep my trap closed.

“My dream is to be a pastry chef. And you know that.”

I back away and fold myself onto the bench at the table. Out of harm’s way.

“Okay, yeah…” I say, choosing my words carefully. “But is it maybe possible that you want to be a pasty chef because you think that’ll make Meryl happy?”

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