11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Jackie
I wake up the next morning feeling positive.
I’ve got the entire day ahead of me to bake enough cookies not only for the festival tonight but for tomorrow, too. I’ve got the first run under my belt, ironed out the kinks, and now I’m ready to kick butt.
Also, there’s the fact that yesterday didn’t end up totally sucking. Silas wasn’t sullen and angry the entire day: the afternoon was good. And yesterday evening at the falls was actually amazing. There were glimpses of the old Silas. He actually smiled. He even kind of laughed.
When I sit up, I spot him leaning against the counter. He’s sipping a mug of coffee, still wearing the same clothes he had on last night. He looks shot.
“Hey,” he says when he sees I’m awake. His voice is deep and groggy. He unhooks a mug from one of the hooks above the sink. “You want coffee?”
His actions are kind; but I’m getting broody vibes again.
“Sure. Thanks.” I glance over at the couch, but his sleeping stuff is all stashed away, and my laptop is sitting on the seat cushion exactly where I left it last night. Like it was never even moved.
I look back at Silas. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Sure.” He takes a sip of coffee. “You?”
“Um, yeah.” I get up and study him more closely from the galley between my bed and the kitchen. There are serious dark circles under his eyes.
“Are you sure you slept okay? It looks like you pulled an all-nighter.”
He waits a beat, then passes me my coffee. Then he dumps the rest of his into the sink, practically slamming the mug back on the counter. “Great.” He sneers. “We’re back to this again. Questioning every thing I say. ”
I’m so stunned by his reaction—at the bitterness in his tone, that I actually freeze with my mug halfway to my lips.
“I’m heading out for some fresh air,” he mumbles, brushing past me. “I’ll see you in a couple hours.”
And then he’s gone, slamming the door behind him and leaving me with my mug still gripped mid-air.
Okay… what the heck just happened?
After using the washroom and brushing my teeth, I open all the curtains, determined to let a little sunshine into my morning after being greeted by the storm cloud that is Silas Carmichael. I pull out my journal from the shelf beside my mattress, then sit at the table to drink my coffee and write an entry to one of the dozens of journaling prompts I keep in an envelope taped to the inside cover. And it works: I manage to bring myself back to a more positive mind-space. I can’t expect Silas to come around in one day. I don’t even know him enough anymore to figure out what sets him off into these sudden mood swings, or what hurts him.
Or what makes him smile.
I can try to get to know him again and be there for him, but I can’t let his moods cast a shadow over my moods.
I spend the rest of the morning surrounded by flour and sugar, butter and eggs, chocolate chips and sprinkles. Also: ground cinnamon—which sounds disgusting but is actually the best cookie recipe-secret ever. The floury mess, the decadent smells and the dough-ey crumbs: they all remind me of Meryl and it makes me miss her.
I don’t want to call her yet, though. I can’t have my first conversation with her until I’ve had at least one great night of sales. Not that she’d ever judge me: she is supportive of literally everything I do. But that’s precisely why I want to make her proud .
Once I’ve glided the first two batches of cookies into the oven, I slide back into the bench at the table with another cup of coffee and my computer. I open up Photoshop and start designing a thriller cover I had an idea for last night. I am fascinated with all the effects you can achieve using different fog layers. Not just your average white or grey fog, but red and orange and pink and… well, any color, in any combination.
I get so absorbed with my design I don’t even hear the timer go off for the first batch. It’s not a big deal though: just four minutes past the time I was supposed to take the cookies out. And when I slide them onto the cooling racks, they’re a bit darker but still fine. They definitely smell amazing.
And speaking of amazing, my thriller cover is coming together perfectly: I am beyond happy with it. And once it’s finished, I spend the rest of the morning creating a few variations of the same cover. Getting lost in Photoshop is the perfect way to shed any lingering stress or negativity. Of course, my awesome new cheesy boy-band playlist helps too.
Once I’ve taken the last batch of cookies out of the oven, I slide out wracks, starting from the bottom, to test a cookie from each batch. I’m just taking a bite of my second cookie when there’s a rapid couple of knocks on the door; then it swings open and Silas walks in, minus the storm cloud that was hovering over him this morning.
“Hey,” he greets me, like the weird episode never happened. He saunters over and peers at the racks of cookies.
“Smells good.”
I nod once. I do not understand this new mercurial Silas: angry one moment and mellow the next, broody then jocular, and always with this underlying sense that there’s a lit fuse tucked snuggly within the folds of his warring emotions, ready to go off at any moment without notice.
He props one hip against the counter across from me.
“I got a job,” he announces.
“A job?” I walk over to the sink and wash my hands. “ Here? ”
“Yeah.” he says a little defensively. “Loading and unloading gear for a couple of the bigger-name bands who are doing pretty much the same festival circuit you’re doing.”
I don’t know why I’m surprised, but I am.
“Oh. Wow—that’s awesome.”
It never occurred to me he might be able to get work doing stuff at the festivals. And under-the-table, I’m sure—which eliminates any of the red tape that would normally come with his criminal record. A record which Richard has assured me will get wiped once he turns eighteen. As long as he doesn’t get busted again for something after that.
But I’m not going to think about that.
Silas ambles over to the couch opposite me and falls into it. “Yeah,” he says, stretching out lengthwise and resting his head against his fist. “So next time we get food or whatever, I’m paying.”
I dry my hands with the towel hanging from one of the cupboards.
“Sure. Sounds good.”
He seems to be propelled by the need to sever any condition or circumstance that might make him reliant on anyone in any possible way. He is on a quest, apparently, to be a solitary force of nature.
But maybe now he’ll be less grouchy , I think. And hopefully less likely to steal food. Or anything else, for that matter.
“So, did you unload equipment this morning?” I ask. “Is that where you were?
He doesn’t answer and when I turn, his head is resting on the pillow, eyes closed and hand tucked beneath his cheek.
“Silas?” I prompt. But he just grunts, his eyes still closed. And within a couple of seconds, his breathing becomes shallower, his lips part, and I can tell he is fast asleep. I leave him there and after a sandwich and glass of OJ, I head out to get some fresh air myself, and to wander the festival grounds.
Silas is still fast asleep when I get back an hour later, so I get set up at the table with my laptop and guidebooks to do more research on some of the less known attractions on the back roads of northern Vermont.
Two hours later, he still hasn't stirred. I stash the books in one of the overhead cupboards and do all the final preparations for opening, and it’s only when I’m heating a bowl of chilli half an hour before the festival opens that Silas finally wakes up.
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? About Silas 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 totally bomb . 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 to see 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.
I work my way down the racks, growing more frantic by the second. Burnt… burnt… also burnt.
Then, jackpot! I find one tray of normal cookies. I grab another bag and slide six cookies into it, then go back to the window. The relief I’m feeling right now is huge.
“Here you go. These are on the house.” I hand the bag to her. “I am so sorry about that.”
The woman smiles and thanks me. Her husband looks to her, then back at me. “Alright, then. Thank you.”
She gives me another pitying smile over her shoulder as they walk away, which makes me feel like even more of a loser.
“Thanks again,” she calls. “Hope your night gets better.”
“Yeah,” I mutter to myself. “I think that ship has sailed.”
I head back to the racks and scour each one. I find four batches that didn’t burn. Four . Which means I have eight batches that did .
I run a hand through my hair, forgetting it’s tied up in a scrunchy, so it all falls back into my face and I have to pop into the bathroom mirror to tie it up again, making sure I don’t look as haggard as I feel.
“Hello? Anyone there?” a woman’s voice calls from the order counter.
I scurry out of the bathroom, plastering a smile on my face and serve her. And just twenty minutes later, I’ve run out of all my non-burnt cookies. I close up shop, beyond humiliated. Humiliation is what I felt the first night. This is more. This is scarily close to wanting to throw in the towel and give up completely, because I can’t take another night of this. I really can’t. I mean, what is even wrong with me, that I managed to screw up almost every single batch of cookies I’ve baked so far?
I am Meryl Pemrose’s adopted daughter; this is my thing. This endeavor is supposed to make her proud—not make me look like a spoiled rich kid who can’t even make it on her own when she’s been handed every single tool to succeed.
I let out a long breath. I can not unravel. I need to put on my big girl panties and get it together. Again.
I get to work pulling out each rack and dumping the burnt cookies into a garbage bag. Then I take out ingredients and set to work baking. I figure if I get at least six batches done tonight, I can churn out another six tomorrow and hopefully make up for at least some of the profits I lost out on tonight.
This time I force myself to tear away from my computer screen as soon as the oven timer goes off.
I’m on the fourth batch when the door opens and Silas saunters in. He smells of pretzels and peach schnapps this time.
“What’s going on?” He gestures to the closed order window. “How come you’re not open?”
“I was.” I say, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. “I sold out of cookies in the first hour.”
Which, technically, isn’t a lie .
His eyes widen. “Oh, wow. Really?” He steps closer and peers over my shoulder. “Then what are those?” He reaches past me, takes one of the burnt cookies I put in a bowl to crumble and feed to the seagulls later, and pops it in his mouth.
“I uh… Those are just—“
“Ew. Burnt.” He finishes for me.
“They’re not burnt,” I bite back on instinct. “They’re… crispy.”
I have no idea why I deny it. I guess because I can’t handle the thought of failing at anything in front of Silas.
“Okay. If you say so,” he chuckles, tossing the rest of the cookie over my head toward the garbage. Only it misses and bounces off a cupboard instead and then lands on the floor… Intact.
“Wow,” he snickers. “Shatter-proof, too.”
“Screw off.”
“Ouch,” he chuckles again; louder this time, as he slumps onto the bench at the table. With the extra counter ledge in place, the couch (ie his bed) is inaccessible right now. He takes out his phone and starts dialing.
“Wait—” I put down the container of flour I was about to put away. “You’re calling Richard right now?”
“Yeah.” he gives me a funny look. “It’s ten o’clock. Why?”
I pick up the flour again and start toward the storage cupboards, trying to seem nonchalant. “Nothing. Just… I’m right in the middle of baking right now. So if he asks, just let him know I really need to finish these last batches of cookies. Tell him I’ll call him and Meryl tomorrow night.”
He gives me a puzzled look, so I open the cupboard and start rifling through its contents, hoping it will emphasize how swamped I am with all this baking. Far too busy for a phonecall.
“Um, okay,” Silas says. “Sure.”
But I can tell he thinks it’s weird. He doesn’t push further, though. I offer for him to make the call in my bedroom so he can have a little more privacy, but he declines. Clearly, he has no intention of discussing anything even remotely personal .
And he doesn’t: his call with Richard is short and sweet. He’s polite, direct, and so, so closed off. It’s like he’s in a competition with himself to see how short he can make each of his answers. And it’s not like I expect him to suddenly let down his guard with Richard and start spilling his feelings after two brief phone calls or anything, but it’s the fact that I suspect he hasn’t opened up to anyone since he found his parents shot to death in his kitchen that worries me. Because seven years is a long time to stew in the kind of emotions that get triggered by the level of trauma he went through. I mean, I didn’t have to deal with half of what he went through, and I still have to work at coping with my mother’s death and the aftermath of her actions. And that’s after I had all kinds of support, and several people to open up to. Silas hasn’t had any of that.
When he’s hung up from his call, he leans back against the window, legs stretched out in front of him on the seat, ankles crossed. I can feel his eyes on me as he spins his phone absentmindedly on the tabletop.
“So…” he finally says. “Trouble in paradise?”
I can’t tell if he’s mocking my obviously made-up excuse for not talking to Richard and Meryl, or if he’s genuinely curious. Either way, it’s easier to go back to ignoring him in the hopes that he’ll just drop it.
I continue with my baking and he continues with his phone-twirling.
“Okaaaay then,” he drawls after a few minutes. And I try to keep ignoring him, but I can’t take the loaded silence any longer.
“My sales were crap, okay?” I say, practically slamming the spoon on the counter as I turn to face him. “You happy? Can we drop it now?”
But apparently he can’t.
“Because you burned the cookies?” He pushes, still sprawled oh-so-casually across the seat. And for some reason, his accurate deduction annoys me even more.
“I already told you: they were not burnt.”
“Whatever you say,” he chuckles, and it makes me want to hurl the spoon at him.
“Obviously you don’t know the difference between a burnt cookie and a crispy cookie,” I retort. “Why am I not surprised? ”
But he just laughs again; this deep scratchy laugh that sounds almost seductive. Except for the fact that he’s being a total jerk. He arches a cocky eyebrow at me.
“ I don’t know the difference?” he holds my gaze a second longer then picks up his phone and starts scrolling. “Yeah, sure,” he snickers. “Let’s go with that.”
“Whatever,” I say, which even I can tell makes me sound like a bratty five-year-old. But I don’t care, as long as he drops this line of conversation.
Which he does, for a while anyway. Long enough that I turn and go back to placing the rest of the cookies onto the cooling racks. Then I spoon more batter onto the pans and slide them into the oven, almost forgetting Silas’ presence after a while. Until his voice interrupts me again.
“Are you doing this because they wanted you to?” he asks, sounding serious this time. “This whole ‘taking off and making your own way for the summer’? Was that their idea? Richard and Meryl?”
I whirl around. “No!” He has the entirely wrong idea about them. Totally wrong. “I’m doing this because I wanted to.”
He studies me for a moment, and when he speaks again, it’s softer and more tentative.
“So then, why are you so scared of telling them you bombed your first couple of nights?”
“I didn’t bomb!” I shoot back, horrified.
I totally did.
He’s watching me really intently now, like he’s trying to read me. And I don’t like it; I feel judged. He lowers his phone to his lap.
“You’re worried about what they’ll think,” he muses. “You’re scared you’ll disappoint them.”
I turn around and start cleaning up.
“My reasons for doing this are none of your business.”
I turn the tap on and start filling the sink. Maybe the noise will deter him; he’ll get the hint that he’s distracting me .
“Oh.” He lets out an annoyed laugh, raising his voice above the sound of the running water. “So we’re allowed to talk about my issues every five minutes, but we’re not allowed to talk about yours?”
I start scrubbing one of the cookie sheets. “Wanting to make Meryl and Richard proud is not an issue .”
“It is if that’s the main reason you did this whole thing,” he says.
I shut the tap off with a firm push. “I did this because I wanted to! Why do you have such a hard time accepting that?”
It’s not entirely a lie. It’s also not entirely the truth.
He doesn’t believe me, anyway. He presses on: “You know you don’t have to be perfect at everything, right? You don’t owe them anything.”
I turn. “Actually, I owe them everything .”
The cookie sheet hangs in my hand, suds sliding along its length toward the floor.
“Why?” he asks, annoyed. “Because they took you in seven years ago because they felt bad for you? Now you think everything you do for the rest of your life you owe to them?”
“Can you please just drop it?” I ask again, placing the pan into the drying rack. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“No,” he shoots back. “You’re right. I wouldn’t.”
And then I immediately feel bad. I just let my own issues make me totally insensitive to his. I’m a terrible friend.
I look back at him.
“Sorry… I didn’t mean that.”
But he’s on his phone again, closed-off expression back in place. I wait another minute.
“Silas? I mean it: I’m really sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he says, still scrolling. Still not looking at me.
I sigh and eventually resume washing the dishes and wiping everything down. I don’t know what else to say.
Once the kitchen is cleaned up and all the cookies are on racks or in tupperware containers, I remove the extra counter-shelf and bring it outside to place in the exterior storage compartment. It’s dark out now and there’s a cosy glow streaming through Trudy’s windows. With the concert in full swing, it’s crowded and buzzing outside, and stepping back into the camper feels like entering a cocoon.
Silas is still on his phone and he looks like he’s settled in for the night, which makes me relieved. When I open the overhead cupboard to get out my computer, I grab a couple of guidebooks and hold them out to him. “You want to look through these?”
He eyes them for a second and then shrugs. “Sure.”
After he takes them, I slide into the seat across from him. He puts his phone aside and flips through The Road Tripper’s Guide To New England while I dive into a new book cover design on my computer. After about fifteen minutes, Silas places the book on the table and leans down to unzip his backpack on the floor. He reaches in and pulls out a bottle of some kind of alcohol, and I watch as he unscrews the cap, then brings the bottle up to his lips. He takes a long swig as if it’s Gatorade he’s chugging after a ten-mile run.
His eyes meet mine as he lifts the bottle for another sip. I don’t say anything, even though I can tell he expects me to. He holds it out toward me. “You want some?”
“Um, yeah. Sure,” I say softly, because it’s not really booze he’s offering: it’s an olive branch. I lean forward and take the bottle, then lift it slowly to my lips. I take a tentative sip, and even though I mentally prepare myself, it still shocks me how strong it tastes, and I can’t help coughing.
“God, that’s horrible!” I squint at him, flapping my hand in front of my mouth as if that will somehow help lessen the burning aftertaste.
Silas laughs. “I guess it’s an acquired taste,” he says, and I take another even smaller sip. It isn’t any better though, and my faces scrunches up instinctively.
“Ugh! No kidding.” I say through puckered lips.
Silas reclaims the bottle and takes another two long pulls. He swallows, still watching me. No squinting. No face scrunching. Because clearly he has acquired a taste for it .
He extends the bottle toward me again, eyebrows raised, but I shake my head this time. He grins and takes another couple of swigs. Then four more. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and screws the cap back on. He places the bottle back in his bag and takes the guidebook over to his bed, where he stretches out with a muscled arm cradling his head.
I play around a bit more with the cover design I was working on while Silas skims his guidebook, but I’m having trouble concentrating. It’s getting late, anyway. I scoot out from the table alcove and walk the seven and a half steps to the bathroom to get ready for bed.
When I come out, Silas is in the same position he was in a few minutes ago, only now he’s bare chested, his lower body under the covers. I climb onto my own mattress and pretend that it doesn’t feel weird for him to be lying in his skivvies, just a few feet away. This is the first night he’s come to bed at the same time as me, I realize.
The overhead light is on above his bed and it casts a warm glow across the hard planes of his face. His lips look pinker. His cheeks are a little flushed. And he isn’t giving off that angry energy that usually makes him seem so closed off.
He pulls himself to a seated position, resting back on his forearms. “Is the light gonna keep you awake?”
“Oh. No. It’s fine,” I say. “It won’t bother me.”
But he turns it off anyway, and then I hear him shuffling back underneath the covers. We’re technically in different rooms, but he’s still really close. I’m hyper aware of his presence, just a few feet away.
I turn onto my side. “Goodnight,” I say, closing my eyes.
I hear more rustling of blankets. And then: “Goodnight.”
And then it’s quiet, except for the muted chatter from a group gathered around a campfire a few sites over. My thoughts start to wander, but they don’t seem to be able to settle; just images and emotions flitting around, barely skimming the surface of anything with any real weight or substance.
“Hey, Jax,” Silas interrupts my thoughts, his voice barely above a whisper. And I suddenly go really still, because he just called me Jax— his nickname for me when we were kids; back when we were still friends .
“Don’t ever do anything just because you feel you have to prove yourself,” he says softly. “You’ll never win that game.”
I squeeze my eyes even more tightly closed and inhale as quietly as I can. My breath is shaky, and it feels like I’m holding back tears, but I have no idea why.
I pretend to be asleep. And he doesn’t say anything after that.