23. Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Three
Silas
T he sights and sounds of pre-festival chaos are starting to feel familiar. It’s a busy but happy vibe I could get used to, if I was the kind of guy who let himself get used to anything.
“Silas, my man!” The taco truck guy calls from a stepladder, where he’s changing one of the bulbs on his chilli-pepper string lights. “What’s shakin?”
We’ve hung out a couple times at night, sharing conversation while he takes an occasional smoke break. He’s a good guy.
I lift a hand in greeting and continue toward the main stage area, where I’m hoping to find Steve, so I can apologize for the other night. Depending on his reaction, I may or may not grovel for my job back.
I find him in the exact same spot as our last encounter: bent on one knee on the side of the stage, duct-taping wires to the floor. He stops when he sees me, straightening but not getting up.
His eyes widen when he realizes I’m heading right toward him and I stuff both hands in my pockets. I stop when I reach the edge of the stage, the floor at chest level.
Steve eyes me.
“I see you’ve recovered,” he says, his tone flat. Not pissed off, though, so that’s good. Clearly, my expectations for this encounter are appallingly low.
“Yeah…” I look away for a second, unsure how to start. “I was uh… a bit of a shit-show the other night.”
“Not gonna argue with you there. ”
There’s a heavy silence after that. He doesn’t go back to his task though, which is decent of him. I would totally be ignoring me if I were him.
“Anyway, I uh, just wanted to apologize. For being such a jerk.” I scratch the back of my neck. “Showing up late, too. But mainly for, uh… you know, the way I acted. I let it get outta hand.”
Steve’s eyes soften, like an apology was not on the short-list of scenarios he expected when I came over. I’m not sure whether to be flattered or offended by that.
“I ‘preciate you comin’ over and tellin’ me that, kid.”
I nod, and he studies me for a moment.
“Those bruises.” he lowers his voice. “You ever talk to someone ‘bout that?”
My jaw tenses. It takes me a moment to keep my anger in check, because “those bruises” are none of his damn business.
And why is it that suddenly everyone and their cat is so concerned about my uncle landing a few kicks to my side?
“Looks worse than it is,” I finally say, trying to come off casual, but sounding defensive instead. Probably because my jaw is so tense.
He keeps watching me and I don’t like the look on his face, like he’s turning something over in his head that I doubt will lead anywhere good for me.
“That why you’re here? Shacking up with that sweet little preppy chick in her sunny yellow camper?” He squints one eye at me. “D’you run away from home, kid?”
Man… This guy. A couple days ago, he had me pinned down and was reading me the riot act, and now he’s practically acting like my social worker.
“I didn’t run away.”
He nods.
“Just road trippin’ with your lady-friend, then.”
“Something like that.”
He’s still watching me with that same expression; his right eye half-closed.
I rock back on the balls of my feet and meet his eyes.
“Look, I’d really appreciate a second chance at that unloading gig,” I swallow, my mouth suddenly really dry. “I could really use the money… And I swear I’ll lay off the booze.” I lick my lips, because they’re dry now, too. “I’ll show up on time. I’ll even show up early. And I promise you won’t regret it… If you just give me another shot.”
His right eye opens to its full size and now I see what I didn’t see before.
Empathy.
I don’t know what this guy’s story is, but he gets it. Like, he really gets it. There’s understanding there, and he wants to help me out. But also, he doesn’t want to be taken for a ride. He doesn’t trust that a punk like me isn’t going to shit all over his kindness. And clearly, he’s not the sort of guy who lets people push him around.
“I mean it,” I tell him—because I do. “I won’t let you down.”
He nods slowly.
“Alright… I’ll pick up what you’re puttin’ down, kid. But you better not disappoint me.”
God. That line… Again.
“I won’t.”
We shake on it.
And I’ve got my job back.
And I want to head straight to the beer tent and flirt with the girl who works there—sweet-talk my way into a few free cans, because I know it’ll work. I’ve done it a couple of times before.
I bite down hard on my lower lip and curse under my breath. I bypass the beer tent and head back to Jax and Trudy.
I should feel proud. I don’t. I feel like a shot of something strong.
I feel shaky and frustrated as hell.
But also more determined than any of those other feelings, to prove Steve’s doubts about me wrong.
So there’s a chance, at least, that I won’t totally screw this up.
There’s a thin cloud of smoke wafting out of Trudy’s open window when I get back. I can see Jax’s silhouette inside, waving a dish towel around like a madwoman.
“Crap!” she shouts when she sees me standing in the doorway. “You’re not going to believe it, Silas… I—”
“Burned the cookies again,” I finish for her. “Are they all out of the oven?”
She actually has the audacity to look offended. “What do you mean, again? I didn’t burn the cookies that time! They were—”
“Crispy. Yeah, I remember.”
I reach around her and yank open the other window, then head into her bedroom and open that window, too.
“Oh my gosh… I don’t get it!” she wails from the kitchen. “I literally left them in for maybe three extra minutes!”
More like fifteen but, whatever… Potay-to, potah-to.
I come back into the kitchen and she continues: “The gates open in fifteen minutes! What the heck am I going to do?”
Still with the “heck” and “gosh” and “geez”. I’m genuinely curious what it would take for her to drop a big fat F-bomb.
More than four trays of ruined cookies fifteen minutes before opening, apparently.
Still, she looks devastated—like her entire baking career is over. Even though, yeah—on second thought: she’s probably right. Her baking career was over the second she stepped foot in a kitchen. Period.
Actually, it was probably over the first time she microwaved a bag of popcorn.
“It’ll be fine,” I tell her, grabbing two trays off the counter. “We’ll figure something out.”
I slide the blackened cookies into the garbage, then do the same with the other two trays.
“We don’t have time to figure something out! The gates open in fifteen minutes! ”
“Actually,” I glance at the clock on the microwave, “ twelve minutes.”
Her jaw drops like a character in a Disney cartoon, and she looks at me as if I’m personally responsible for the passing of time.
“This is just great. I’m going to have to close up early again tonight!”
“You’re not going to have to close up early.”
She sighs loudly. “I have a total of ninety-six cookies, Silas. I’m going to have to close early.”
“You’re not,” I tell her again.
I wiggle my eyebrows dramatically.
“I have an idea.”