Page 19 of Even After Sunset

His silver eyes take in the shelved racks of cookies, organized by variety along the back corner wall. Then he peers lazily over his shoulder at the festival grounds.

When he looks back at me, his eyes are narrowed in confusion.

“There aren’t a whole lot of people. Isn’t this supposed to be a concert or something?”

“A festival, yeah. It hasn’t started, though.”

“Oh.” He nods.

His cheeks are still flushed from sleep and the contrast against the rest of his pale skin makes him look like one of those guys from a cologne ad, which is a funny analogy, since I’m pretty sure Silas has never worn cologne in his life.

My mouth twitches into a nervous smile, and there’s an awkward silence. His eyes dip to the flattened grass just beyond the doorway where he’s standing, and for a second he looks kind of sad. A little lost, maybe. It isn’t a look I’ve seen on him yet and it makes me long even more to reach him; to make him a little less sad or defeated or whatever it is he’s feeling right now.

But all I think to say is: “You want something to eat?”

I can’t offer him a lot, but Icanoffer him food. I motion to the plug-in griddle, the one I found on eBay for fifteen dollars after five weeks of searching.

“Huh?” He looks up. “Oh. No, I’m good.”

“The gates don’t open for another twenty minutes. I was going to make some grilled cheese and heat up some soup before the masses arrive.”

I want him to think this is no big deal for me—that I’m completely at ease with all of this. I want him to notice that I’m so on top of things that throwing a couple grilled cheeses on the griddle and making soup just minutes before opening does not rattle me in the least.

He’s distracted, though. Obviously, he’s got more on his mind than grilled cheese sandwiches and cookie sales. He glances over his shoulder again. “I’ll just grab something later from one of the burger trucks or something.”

But I know he only has thirty-two dollars to his name, which won’t go far over the next ten weeks. Richard told me he wants to cover the extra food expenses and stuff for Silas, but no way do I want to tell Silas that right now. That will only make him more annoyed.

I try a different approach.

“I’m making it, anyway.” I shrug. “I honestly don’t mind. I’ve got enough cheese to—”

“I said I’m good.” He turns to face me and his gaze is arrow straight now—not even a trace of softness anymore, even though the light outside is exactly the same as it was just a few minutes ago.

He’s already turning away as he finishes: “I’m gonna go look around. I’ll see you later.”

I take a couple of steps toward the open door. “Did you want a couple of cookies to take with you at least?”

“I’m fine.” He calls, walking toward the stage area where the last band is doing their final mic check.

His abrupt departure makes me feel even more deflated. I had no delusions of spontaneously rekindling our friendship or anything after how things went down this morning, but I also didn’t expect to feel likeI’mone of the triggers that causes him to close himself off.

Also, a brief “good luck on your first night” would have been nice. Even from a stranger, if that’s what he insists on being.

But I can’t let Silas’ issues affect my opening night: I’ve invested too much to be this easily discouraged. I scroll through the dozens of playlists I created on my phone specifically to appease any post-opening jitters. I press ‘shuffle’ andmy spirits already begin to lift as the first few notes of Haim’s“The Steps”fill the cosy space.

I’m ready: I’ve gone over everything two, three, four times, even. I’ve reviewed my check-lists. There are extra cookies stored in air-tight bins, just in case things go unexpectedly (miraculously) well, and rows of chocolate milk and lemonade stocked in the fridge. I’ve got every eventuality covered, because even though I may not have done this before, and Silas’s presence is throwing me off my game, I’ve done enough research and re-tweaked my business plan enough times to pull off at least a half-decent first night of sales. I’ve got this.

I think.

I hope.

People don’t trickle in slowly or in spurts. Instead, they seem to all appear suddenly and out of nowhere. Hundreds of them. Thousands actually, if the past few years’ attendance numbers are right. And they’re loud and giddy. And hungry.

I wasn’t expecting many people to head toward the concession trucks first. But a lot of them do—mostly toward the lobster roll and merch vendors. The rest of them swarm the beer tents.

It’s only ten minutes before I have my first customers: a family with three little kids. Parents with wind-swept hair and their freckle-faced, sunburned kids. And it goes well. The POS system works. I’m efficient at processing the payment and slipping ten cookies off the trays and into the small paper bag. The family goes happily on their way, oblivious to the fact that they were my first ever official customers, and I am ecstatic right now. And I AM AWESOME!!!

I’m high on the early whisper of success, and the feeling continues through my next three batches of customers. I don’t even care that some of the other trucks have lineups because this pace is perfect for me: enough to feel busy and like there’s hope for me to actually make a go of this, but not so chaotic that I get overwhelmedright off the bat.

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