32. Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Two
Silas
T hings feel different between us after the fight. Jax says she isn’t mad anymore, but she’s definitely acting differently. I feel like I’m being watched or judged or something anytime I’m with her now. So I end up going out more when we’re not on the road. I met a few guys from one of the bands and have been hanging out with them. And for whatever reason, Jax has been spending more time baking cookies than working on her book covers.
I come back from doing setup one afternoon and find her surrounded by an entire harem of cookies. About three times the number of filled cookie racks than we usually have before a festival night. It looks like she’s made at least the same number of cookies as she used to during the first couple weeks on the festival circuit—before we started adding all the other menu items and cutting back on the cookies.
And she’s in the process of baking another batch.
“What’s going on?” I ask, leaning over her shoulder to dip my finger into the batter. “What’s with the cookie bake-off?”
I lick the batter off my finger. I think she forgot the salt, but I don’t say anything.
“Nothing. I’m just baking cookies for tonight.”
My eyes narrow in confusion. “Like, three times more cookies than you need.”
“I run a cookie food truck. I need to be selling more cookies.”
She sounds pissed. I am getting seriously weird vibes from her.
“Did something happen, or…”
“Nothing happened , Silas. I just realized I’ve been selling more candy when my goal was to sell cookies.”
See? Definitely a weird vibe.
“Okay…” I say cautiously. “Well… goals can change, right?”
She huffs. “Yeah, like you would know.”
And things go rapidly downhill from there, setting off the spiral of events that lead to the inevitable implosion a few hours later.
“Okay, what the fuck, Jax?” I ask. Trying to make sense of her inexplicably frosty mood. “Are you mad at me or something?”
She ignores the question and goes back to mixing the batter like it wronged her in some past life, and now she’s out for revenge.
I’m not used to Cranky Jackie, so I’m not exactly sure how to proceed. So I roll up my sleeves and try another tactic.
“You want me to help?”
“No thanks. I’m good.”
I wait a beat.
“You sure?”
“Yup.”
She starts spooning mounds of batter onto a cookie sheet. This task, go figure, she undertakes with the delicate precision of a surgeon.
I decide that if she is this cranky right now, then I need to give her a heads up about the no-salt issue that I suspect is going on with her current batch of cookies. Because if she finds out from a customer this evening, she may fly so far off the rails, she’ll land in an entire other solar system.
I take a step so I’m standing behind her and massage her shoulders.
“Uh, I know you’re not gonna want to hear this… but I think you may have forgotten the salt.” Then, to appease her, I add: “It’s probably just this batch, though.”
She slams the spoon down and some of the batter splatters onto her T-shirt.
“ What? ”
I drop my hands. “I could be wrong… I just tasted a tiny—”
“What the heck is wrong with me? ”
“Jax… It’s fine. I can just—”
“I don’t want your help! If I can’t make a few dozen chocolate chip cookies without screwing up, then I’m sure as heck never going to make it as a professional pastry chef!”
I watch her for a second, so tense and so unhappy right now. I don’t like seeing her this way.
“So what?” I finally venture. “So you don’t become a pastry chef. I mean, do you even really want to be a pastry chef?”
She whirls on me like I just said the most preposterous, insulting thing. Which is ironic, since I’d argue that what’s preposterous is the idea of her becoming a pastry chef. But I keep my trap closed.
“My dream is to be a pastry chef. And you know that.”
I back away and fold myself onto the bench at the table. Out of harm’s way.
“Okay, yeah…” I say, choosing my words carefully. “But is it maybe possible that you want to be a pasty chef because you think that’ll make Meryl happy?”
“It will make Meryl happy. And it will make me happy, too. I don’t know why you have such a hard time with that.”
Jax is never happy when she’s baking. It stresses her out. Baking makes her tense and brings out that crease above the bridge of her nose.
“I’m just saying—it won’t make you happy if you’re just doing it to please someone else.”
She rolls her eyes. “Thanks for the insight. But I’m not exactly going to take advice from you right now.”
So she is pissed at me.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Figure it out, Silas… I’m sure you know exactly what it means.”
“No, actually I don’t.”
Seriously. I really, really don’t. Actually, I have a hard time understanding what any of this conversation means.
“It means it’s pretty rich of you to be giving someone else life advice, when you have a full-fledged drinking problem you’re totally in denial of.”
“ What the fuck? ”
She rolls her eyes.
“Yup. See: there’s the total denial part.”
“I’m not in denial—because there’s nothing to be in denial about . I haven’t had anything to drink since the other night when I missed my call with—”
“I saw you flirting with Cheryl-Anne this afternoon.”
“Oh, so that’s what this is about, then? You’re jealous because you saw me talking to another girl?”
That I can handle. That’s an assumption I can easily explain, because I truly have no feelings for gum-snapping, overly flirty Cheryl-Anne.
Jax folds her arms across her chest.
“Cheryl-Anne works in the beer tent.”
I wait for a second before responding. She’s dropping her sentences like breadcrumbs, luring me down a path that feels like it will lead straight to a trap.
“Talking to Cheryl-Anne doesn’t mean I’ve been drinking,” I finally say.
Deny. Deny. Deny.
She fires right back:
“Having four cans of beer and a bottle of rye in your backpack does, though.”
I jump to my feet.
“ You looked through my backpack? ”
She rolls her eyes again and makes a huffing sound.
“Like that’s the real concerning issue here.”
“It is to me!” I bark.
“Anything that forces you to confront the fact that you have a drinking problem is an issue for you!”
She has tears in her eyes now, and they’re spilling down her flushed cheeks. And it’s like a knife to my gut, realizing that I put those tears there. But I don’t know what to tell her. I literally have no idea what to say. Especially since what I want to ask her is if she got rid of that bottle of rye.
And I know that is definitely not the right thing to say.
“You need to get help,” she says, more calmly this time.
I shove my hands in my pockets and lean against the edge of the table.
“I don’t need help. I’ll stop drinking, if it’s that important to you. ”
“This isn’t about me… And anyway, you’ve said that before.”
Now I’m the one who rolls my eyes.
“How can you say this isn’t about you? You’re the one who’s upset! And who went looking through my personal stuff!”
“Because I’m worried about you!” she yells.
“Great. So now we’re back to this. Back to you trying to fix me.”
“And you’re back to getting defensive as soon as someone shows any signs of caring about you.”
I shake my head. “You are such a hypocrite… Two minutes ago I tried pointing out that you’re basing your entire life goals on some kind of… on your guilt and your need to prove yourself and trying to be the person you think other people want you to be—and you lost your shit on me! So yeah, you want to talk defensive? Then maybe take a look at your own issues instead of harping on about mine.”
Her jaw drops and she actually flinches, like I just slapped her. And then her eyes narrow.
“Stop trying to twist my relationship with Richard and Meryl into something that it isn’t. I know you're hurt about the fact that I ended up in a loving family and you didn’t. And that I have an opportunity to go after my dreams. And I get that. But you need to stop trying to put down my dreams and go after your own.”
“Oh, give me a break. You don’t even like baking!” I scream. “And guess what? You suck at it!”
I don’t wait to see her reaction. I push past her, grabbing my backpack by the couch. The one she took the liberty of rifling through behind my back.
The one I’m praying to God still holds those four beer cans and almost full bottle of rye.
In three quick strides, I’m at the door and down the steps. I let it slam shut behind me and head straight for the festival gates. I need to get away. I need a break from being judged and fixed and made to feel like I’m some sort of colossal disappointment.
I need a drink.