Page 77 of Even After Sunset

But I don’t believe him.

He’s already turned his back on me, though. He’s busying himself pulling out his blanket. It’s his way of shutting down the conversation, now that he realizes it could become one that’s as much about him as about me.

But he did let me in tonight, even if it was just for a while. Even if he assumed that what he revealed would make me want to push him away.

But he was wrong. It didn’t make me want to push him away. It just made me want to pull him closer.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Jackie

We’re both up early the next morning. Silas makes eggs and toast while I pack everything up and get stuff ready to pull out once we’re done breakfast.

He seems a little distracted this morning… Jittery.That’s the best word I can think of to describe his mood. Like a guy who’s been up all night, then denied his morning cup of coffee. But I know he slept, because he was fast asleep when I woke him up to come inside in the wee hours of the morning. And he’s had two cups of coffee already. Possibly three.

Neither of us has brought up the conversation from last night. I do think about it, though, as I sit at the table eating what are quite possibly the best scrambled eggs I’ve ever had. Mostly, it’s made me think about my mother. And it makes me miss her.

I haven’t missed my mother in a long time.

Mom was never really present when I was a kid. I mean, physically she was, just not in all the other ways that count. She was always distracted by a sadness that had a stronger pull on her than I ever did. And I went through a phase, about a year or so after her death, where I resented her for that. I was angry about it, even—that I got short-changed on the number of years I had with her, but then also on the amount of meaningful memories she left me with.

And then I spent another year feeling guilty aboutthosefeelings. Because she may not have been the best mother in the world, but she was a good person and she loved me, deep down… I think. And that’s more than a lot of people can say about their parents.

Then these past few years, as the distance between my present and my childhood grew wider, and with the absence of any remaining neediness to fill whatever hole her absence initially left, I now just feel bad for her. I’m sad that she never got the help she needed, because what a horrible existence that must have been—to live a life filled with sadness.

I wonder if Silas is thinking about it too, but I don’t ask. I think it’s going to take a while before he sorts everything out in his head.

We just have one stop this morning on our way to Bar Harbor: Lumberjack Lucy’s. We’re going for log rolling and axe throwing lessons.

“I didn’t think you could possibly top the umbrella cover museum,” Silas murmurs as we pull into the parking lot. There’s a hint of awe laced with the sarcasm, though. We’ve arrived right at opening and it looks like we’re the only ones here.

“I aim to exceed expectations,” I tell him, putting Trudy into park.

“In all areas?” he asks, with a mischievous grin, “Or, like, just scouting out tacky roadside attractions?”

I roll my eyes, shaking my head. And also pretend I’m not turning fifty shades of red.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Carmichael.”

“Aw…” he fake pouts. “So, no gutter museum, then?”

I laugh “Shut up.”

“Giant fiberglass gutter sculpture?”

No answer this time. Just a snort I fail to contain.

“World of Gutters theme park?”

“No.”

He sighs. “Aw, man… you’re no fun.”

I swat his arm, but it doesn’t wipe the grin off his face, which is fine with me.

We’re greeted at the entrance by Lumberjack Lucy, a middle-aged amazon of a woman with bleach-blond shoulder-length hair, beefy muscular arms, and a smile the size of Texas.

“Yo-ho!” she calls over to us, as we approach the axe-throwing station.

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