35. Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Five
Jackie
T he look Silas gives me when the guy from Henderson House escorts him out of the camper hurts more than any words ever could. His silver gaze cuts into me, slashing me with disappointment and hurt; anger and hatred. And I could handle all those things, if I didn’t think he was shutting me out for good, too.
Richard hangs back for a few minutes before joining them in the car for the drive back to Connecticut, folding his arms around me in a hug that makes me feel whole again, even if it’s just for a few minutes. He offers to come back with Meryl in a day or two once he’s sorted everything out with Silas. But I tell him I’ll be fine. It would feel like cheating if I leaned on them now—in the middle of a venture that I specifically set out on to prove I was stronger than the girl I was at ten years old, who needed a whole team of people to put her back together when things were crumbling around her.
I need to get back on track—spend less time designing book covers and more time focusing on what I came here to do. So after a shower and another cup of coffee, I get out the ingredients and spend the rest of the morning baking. I bake until every single Tupperware container is filled with cookies, and almost all the other vendors have packed up and hit the road, en route to the next festival location.
I eventually follow, taking my own winding route. It starts to rain about twenty minutes into the drive though, and I’m secretly glad because it gives me an excuse not to stop at the handful of mainly outdoor attractions I had highlighted on my itinerary for today. My heart just isn’t in it, and my thoughts keep drifting back to Silas. I still feel like I failed him. I wanted him to be happy, and right now, he’s anything but happy. He’s angry and alone.
And he hates me.
The day he leaves isn’t even the hardest. It’s the days that follow that are the worst. It’s driving along miles of scenic roads in silence, and listening to hours of my epic playlists without one interruption or snarky comment or roll of the eyes, or trying to figure out the cotton candy machine on my own and making a huge mess that isn’t even any fun to clean up. It’s eating meals by myself and coming back after sitting around a campfire with some of the other roadies and not having someone to laugh with about an anecdote someone brought up, or analyzing who we think hooked up after the rest of us went home to bed. It’s opening my itinerary binder and finding every green sticky in exactly the same spot where I put it. None of them switched around or mysteriously removed, and no new ones added.
I call Richard and Meryl more… I miss them more.
I miss everyone more.
I text back and forth with Xavier and the rest of the crew back home, sometimes for hours at night. And just like Richard and Meryl, Xavier assures me I did the right thing, which helps. It’s also pretty big of him, I think, since obviously he isn’t exactly Silas’ biggest fan.
I try finding out from Richard how Silas is doing, but all he says is that it’s going to be a tough few weeks for him, which presumably means he’s not doing so well. But when I push for more details, he just tells me it would be wrong for him to relay information to me about a minor undergoing treatment, even if it isn’t one of his patients. And for once, I curse his unwavering integrity.
He does tell me that Silas is allowed to get mail. Emails, to be specific—which all get read beforehand and approved (or not) by a staff member.
I consider writing to him, for all of about two seconds. Before I realize it would be stupid to send a note to someone who hates my guts. And who will definitely never write me back, except maybe to send shards of broken glass and envelopes filled with arsenic.
But there is one good thing that happens in the days following Silas’ departure: I get asked to do an interview for an online foodie magazine. It happens on one of the nights when I sell out of cookies. I end up chatting for a bit with the woman who buys my last six cookies, and she goes on about how amazing they are (take that , Silas Carmichael).
She wants to know how old I am and is fascinated when I tell her I started up the business myself. And when she finds out who my adopted mother is, she is even more intrigued. By the end of the conversation, she’s shared that she’s a writer for a well-respected cooking publication and wants to know if I’d do an interview with her in two weeks. I’m so shocked and so flattered and so proud , that I barely manage to stutter out a response: that of course I’d love to do an interview. It’s the best thing that’s happened all week. The only good thing, actually.
She agrees to drive to meet me in Tilton, New Hampshire in five days, where I’ll be located then, since it’s only fifteen miles from where she lives.
The conversation bolsters my mood. It’s just the reminder I need to get back on track with the cookie-selling focus of my business. It should be my whole business, not the cereal and taffy and cotton candy or any of that other stuff.
And my phone call with Meryl that evening, when I tell her the news, is even more confirmation that it was a mistake for me to let myself get so distracted by my book cover side-business, and my easy willingness to substitute a big portion of my cookie sales with all those other items.
Meryl actually tears up when I share my news.
“You have no idea, sweetheart…” she hiccups. “ No idea how proud I am of you. That you have been running this business on your own. And doing it so well. ”
And of course, hearing her cry makes me cry too. And by the end of the call, we’re both a mess. But I feel like I have a mission again, like I’m not as lost as I’ve felt these last few days .
I throw myself into my baking after that. I put aside the hours of trip planning and book cover designing and pour all my energy into achieving the task that I set out to do in the first place.
I am going to follow in Meryl’s footsteps and pursue a baking career. And I am going to be happy.