Page 29 of Even After Sunset

“Wait—you tagged The Vermontasaurus in butt-fuck nowhere Vermont with a green stickie?” He holds the book out toward me as proof.

I nod. “It sounds awesome: a twenty-five-foot dinosaur sculpture made out of scraps of wood! It’s art. ”

“It’s a pile of scrap wood.”

“Nailed together to look like a dinosaur.”

He shakes his head. “You are such a sucker.”

I snatch the book from him. “You are such a cynic.”

He tugs the book back and slumps back into his seat like a petulant child. “I was reading that.”

He keeps reading for another couple of minutes, and I can’t help noticing the way he bites down lightly on his lower lip when he’s concentrating. He used to do that when he was a kid, too.

Suddenly, he leans in closer to the book. “Hey! Did you know there’s a three-tiered waterfall just an hour from where we are right now? Right near…” he bends closer, scrunching his eyes. “Near Fitchburg.”

I think for a second. “Scott Brook Falls?”

“Yeah.” He confirms. Then: “Why isn’t there a green sticky onthat?”

“Because I don’t really have a lot of interest in hiking four miles to see a waterfall.” I shrug. “Once you’ve seen one, they’re all pretty much the same.”

“It’sthree levelsof waterfalls.” He leans in to look more closely at the accompanying photo. “And you can swim at the base of the lowest one. Come on… You have to admit that would be sick.”

I don’t say anything. I mean, I guess it’s cool—just not a unique experience. Like a toilet museum or a vintage carousel. But I haven’t seen him this animated since he got back from Trenton.

He thumbs through a few more pages, then looks up again. “Seriously? You put a green sticky on theMuseum of Bad Art… but not on a three-tiered waterfall?” He removes the perfectly aligned green stickie.

“Silas, no! What are you doing?”

He flips back a couple of pages. “I’m moving the green stickie to the waterfall. Where it should have been in the first place.”

I reach out and grab his forearm. The one with the mysterious tattoo. “You can’t do that!”

His skin is warm beneath my fingers, and I feel the muscle tighten when he tugs his arm from my grasp.

“Aw, come on.” His voice is light, but I can tell there’s real emotion hidden beneath his words. “I’ve never seen a waterfall before.”

Stunned, I yank my eyes momentarily from the road to gawk at him.

“What? How have you never seen…” and then I let the rest of my sentence trail off, because I get that familiar twinge of guilt again: Meryl and Richard have been taking me on nature hikes since I moved in with them. We’ve gone on road trips, we’ve taken sun vacations and a trip to France and a couple of skiing trips. Silas has never done any of those things.

He would have if he’d never met me, though. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing. I don’t know how he couldn’t be.

We pass a large sign welcoming us to the town of Hull, where the vintage carousel is located. I hand Silas the map.

“Here.” I glance over and point to the tiny carousel icon. The paper crinkles at my touch. “Can you direct me to the wharf there?”

All talk of waterfalls and green stickies is put aside as we focus on manoeuvring our way to the small but bustling town center. We manage to find a spot in the parking lot out front that actually fits Trudy’s larger-than-average size.

We head into the gift shop to buy tickets for the carousel. While I go up to the counter, Silas wanders around the shop checking out the knick knacks and over-priced candy.

“Don’t buy a ticket for me!” he calls over.

The woman at the counter looks up at me, midway through tearing off the second ticket. I shake my head and in a low voice, tell her: “Just ignore him. Two tickets, please.”

She smiles and continues tearing off the ticket. While I wait, my eyes stray to the small screen above the cash register: the image from the in-store security camera. And that’s when I see Silas pocketing two chocolate bars as he brushes past a shelf of candy and fudge.

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