Page 19 of True Honey (The Hornets Nest #4)

“Maybe,” he poured more whiskey for us. “Maybe I just firmly believe that everything has a solution and every bad day has a matching good one.”

I thought on that for a moment, the idea that bad days weren’t lonely, just separated from their good days. “Like soulmates?”

“Sure,” he said, “not everyone can be everything all the time, everyone needs help during the lowest times. Bad days just need a good day.” He downed the next glass of whiskey faster than the first and sighed.

“Do you have anyone?” he asked quietly.

“August,” I said.

“What about his dad?” Silas asked and I should have expected it but it surfaced those feelings I constantly tried to repress.

“I haven’t really spoken to him since Auggie was ten, we have conversations here and there,” I confessed. “ If he calls, it's for his son.”

Silas’s jaw tightened but he nodded his head.

A man who was working through his own father's troubles could see the harm in near and far phone calls. It didn’t bother me that August’s father was like that, when he did call he only ever made August feel inferior or weird about his interests.

It was always a harsh conversation about what August should be doing and never about what he enjoyed doing.

Sometimes when he would call, I’d ignore it on purpose just to save August the soul sucking disappointment of remembering his father was a misogynistic asshole.

“Are you in legal trouble is that why—”

“No,” I cut him off before he could say anything else. “It’s nothing like that, we were just better off without a man like that in our lives even if it meant moving around and living in a car.”

“Well you’re out of the car now,” Silas said.

“For now,” I corrected him. “But now it won’t be so difficult to save up for a proper place for us. So,” I paused, not meaning the conversation to get so tender, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome,“ he said, pouring me more whiskey. “I guess if you have a study sheet about me, I should have one about you?”

“What do you want to know?” I said, standing up straight and waiting for his first ask. I’d rather answer myself then look at the sheet Ella had me fill out anyways.

“You know my favorite color,” he said.

“You mentioned something about Harbor blue,” I said and his lips curled at the corners of his mouth making the lines around his eyes crinkle. I could tell he wasn’t entirely comfortable in his glasses but they highlighted all the most handsome features of his face.

Maybe it was the whiskey, or just the quiet ease of the moment, the first of which neither of us were trying to convince the other of something.

But I took notice now. In the way his top lip was a perfect, muted pink cupid's bow, hidden beneath an old shave and his cheekbones were sculpted high but rounded in pleasure when he smiled. Sun spots and freckles showed his age worse than the glasses but he had a handsome, kind face that made it easy to get comfortable around. And that wasn’t something I took lightly.

I took the empty plate and set it in the sink with all the other dirty dishes, giving myself a chance to cool down and allowing my cheeks to return to their normal pale color.

“Green,” I said, turning around and leaning against the counter.

Silas was standing up straight and removed his glasses, setting them on the counter. “Like your eyes?” He said, sparking something that had long died inside of me and the collection of the whiskey in the pit of my stomach started a fire.

“Like Granny Smith apples,” I corrected him and he nodded.

“Are they your favorite food?” He asked, circling the counter and grabbing the bottle of whiskey by the neck, pouring more into my empty cup.

“Pickles,” I said, almost embarrassed to admit it.

“Pickles?” Silas laughed, he didn’t move away after pouring my drink and I could smell the whiskey and syrup on his breath.

“Plain, garlic, baby, fried…” I said, my lips curling up into a smile. “I’d eat pickles three meals a day and be perfectly happy.”

“Very classy,” he said, taking another drink before setting the bottle on the counter next to me.

“Alright, my turn. You take care of athletes, you seem to have a soft spot for the ones upstairs, but did you play baseball too?” I asked him, taking another sip. The whiskey went down better than hours spent studying.

“I’ve been playing since I could run,” Silas said.

“Our family has interests and investments all over Harbor but my Grandfather only has one love and it’s the Hornets.

I played five years with them, had the opportunity to go professional out of high school, but as nerdy as I sound, I wanted education. ”

“Playing baseball your entire life left you stuck under your family's thumb,” I said with a nod. I didn’t understand the pressure he was under but I could sympathize with the feelings of letting someone down. I had been on that pedestal before, the fall sucks.

“I watched baseball tear the King family apart, I never wanted that life. I wanted to be able to fix stuff, hold people together, and create spaces where they felt safe.” Silas explained and I was slowly starting to understand him a little more. “What did you do before August was born?” He asked.

I hadn’t been asked that in a long time, and for a split second I almost couldn’t remember and then it came back in a strange, emotional wave that threatened to wash away all the walls that kept the darkness at bay.

“I taught art at an elementary school,” I said. “Easily the worst age group to teach art to.”

Silas chuckled. “Do you ever think about doing that again?”

I shook my head. “They’ve got more requirements for teachers now, my education wouldn’t get me hired. I never really wanted to do that, it was just a way to gain some independence in my life.”

His cautious approach to asking questions was twisting all my coherent thoughts and I knew that the whiskey was partially to blame, but I didn’t want him to stop.