Page 38 of Even After Sunset

He squints over at me as he adjusts to the soft evening light beaming in at him through the window.

“What time is it?”

His voice is low and scratchy and honestly kind of sexy. And why am I even having these thoughts? AboutSilas Carmichael?

“Five-thirty. You slept for almost four and a half hours.”

He scrubs a hand over his face as he pulls himself to a seated position.

I scoop some chilli into another bowl and offer it to him. “Here. Dinner.”

He eyes the bowl like he’s deliberating, and for a second I think he’s going to get defensive again about accepting a free meal, but he leans over and takes it.

“Thanks.” He takes a couple of bites, then adds. “This is really good.” Almost like he’s surprised.

“Yeah, it’s my favorite… Meryl made it.”

We eat in silence for the next few minutes. I’m really nervous about tonight. The crappy turn that first night took really dented the confidence I’d managed to build up before starting on this whole venture. Although if I’m being honest, I don’t think that confidence was ever very real to begin with. It was more a compilation of pep talks I’d given myself in the weeks leading up to my departure. And I’m starting to wonder if maybe psyching yourself up isn’t always an effective substitute for confidence.

I knew there would be some festivals that wouldn’t go as well, but I didn’t think any of them would totallybomb. I never allowed my thoughts to even drift into that realm of possibility. Anyway, there’s no way I’d ever talk about any of this with Silas. In fact, I kind of wish he’d slept right through till morning. If I do bomb again, I don’t want him to witness any part of that. I want him tosee me as strong and capable and fearless. After everything I was handed, it’s the least I should have become.

Once Silas has cleaned both our dishes, he brushes past me to go into the bathroom, where he proceeds to pee with the door open, which, come on — he has to realize is kind of gross. We may be living in a box here, but it doesn’t mean we have to live like a couple of frat guys.

I hear the tap going, so I guess at least he’s washing his hands. So there’s that.

I’m pushing open the order window when he comes out.

“Kay. I’ll see you later,” he calls, heading straight for the door. I have to bite my tongue to keep from asking where he’s going. It sounds like he’s met some of the other vendors and bands and stuff that are doing the circuit, which is great. I’m just not convinced it’s the company he’s going out for, and I really don’t want a repeat of the first two nights. Especially since he has to check in with Richard at ten o’clock.

He can’t screw this up; it feels like we may have actually broken down some of the barriers yesterday at the waterfall. It’s given me hope that helping him find happiness might not be a completely insurmountable task.

The edge of the counter digs into my stomach as I lean forward to see better out the window. I watch him saunter casually through the already growing crowds.

“Please don’t do anything stupid tonight,” I whisper as he disappears behind a group of rowdy college guys near the edge of the stage.

There aren’t as many people tonight as there were at the first festival and definitely less traffic at the food trucks—probably because the seaside town of Old Orchard Beach is made up entirely of greasy food joints and snack food bars.

My first customers are a middle-aged couple. The guy orders a bag of six assorted cookies, which he hands to his wife while he pulls out his wallet to pay. She takes one out and bites into it as he thumbs through his bills for a five.

“Oh,” the woman puckers her lips, her eyes scrunching briefly. “I think these are burned, sweetie.”

My stomach drops.

No. Nonono…Not tonight, too.

I’m still no better at handling the situation than I was on my first night, and I stutter through my response.

“Uh, are you… Are you sure?”

They can’t be burnt: I took them out right after the timer went off. Well, maybe I left some of them in a few minutes longer. But still. Only by a couple of minutes max. Maybe five. And I tested them all before— shoot. I only tested cookies from two batches, and then Silas walked in and I got distracted.

She turns the cookie over and, sure enough, it’s rust brown. Not black, but close enough. At least this woman has the decency to look apologetic, as if she feels bad that she’s the one who has to break the news to me.

I scurry the four steps over to the column of racks. “Oh, um. I’m so sorry… Let me uh…” I pull out the second tray from the top. I can’t for the life of me remember which batches I tested. “Let me get you some from another batch.” I flip over a cookie with my gloved hands.

Burnt.

I turn over a couple more. Burnt and burnt.

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