Page 11 of The Sun and the Moon

Sydney

The plan is simple.

Like the most iconic little black dress.

Like an exceptional martini.

We’re going with a classic bait and switch.

Tonight at the meet the fam dinner, we’ll start by getting them to open up about the progression of their romance.

I’ll prod Moira about her business, using the very real truth that I don’t know anything about it and I’m curious how someone can make a living doing what she does.

Her self-published books aside, it seems the bulk of her income comes from Kismet.

We’ll push for a timeline with hard facts.

Have they set a wedding date? Are they planning on having a ceremony or eloping?

Anything we can use to gather clues about the fast track they’ve put themselves on.

“They’ll probably both cite their age,” Cadence had said as we plotted. Poking holes in the plan, prodding it, looking for flaws. Vigilant and earnest . Those were the words I thought as I observed her mind at work.

Her warm hazel-gold eyes were molten; her voice took on this manic, urgent rhythm.

Vigilant because she’s always had to be. A feeling I relate to more than anyone knows.

Us against the world isn’t exactly a mantra that makes a kid feel secure.

Sure, Dad was there for me growing up—I’m convinced it was the best he could do.

An old-school kind of guy, he wasn’t great at feelings.

He wasn’t great with periods and mood swings, and there was an Airbus-size gap in his knowledge about everything from proper bra fits to how to handle broken hearts, but he never missed a parent-teacher night and he never forgot to sign a form or attend a band recital.

He was there in a lot of ways that count, but not in many of the ways a girl needs as she becomes a woman. Vigilance can become the coping method even when you look like a messy, devil-may-care, youngest female pilot in your airline type of gal.

“We’ll ask them why bother at all, then?

” I replied, shrugging and smiling. Playing it like I was the one who would bring the chill to this duo.

“The excuse for that one is a lot less obvious.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners with her smile.

The levity in her face didn’t last long, which was good, because the way her skin flushed beneath her freckles made my stomach feel off-balance.

Pilots constantly experience our equilibrium going out of whack.

We’re masters at maintaining balance against all odds.

I just wasn’t used to the tilt while sitting at a metal bistro table in a Pasadena coffee shop where origami cranes hang from the ceiling and the windows are painted with an elaborate rose motif.

Now I flip my phone out of my purse to check the time.

I’m the first one to the restaurant despite my preference for always being a cool ten minutes fashionably late.

My nerves got the better of me while I was getting ready.

Joe got into my head about traffic. I worried there wouldn’t be parking.

It was a mess in my head, and the only solution was to act.

Lean into the nerves; that always gets me through it.

The sidewalk is damp from a light mist of rain; shadows and light play on the ground.

The Eastside really isn’t my scene, but this little strip of road is the main drag in the neighborhood, and it shows in the variety of shops, bars, restaurants, and even a movie theater lining the road.

The restaurant entrance is down a quiet street off the main drag, on the second floor of a brick deco building, with a balcony that overlooks the hustle and bustle.

I’m waiting downstairs for literally anyone else in the party to arrive.

I have half a mind to hide out in the bushes until they do.

I open my texts, considering starting a thread with Cadence.

She gave me her number so we could coordinate or communicate under the radar from our parents.

I saved her in my phone as Ranger Girl and have convinced myself (almost) that I did so simply because I didn’t want either parent to know I was texting her, in the event they got a peek at my phone.

I tap the icon for her fake name and open a text box.

Hey, I’m here already , I start to type.

No, that will make her think of me as both punctual and impatient.

And it’s not that either of those labels is wrong, per se, it’s just not how I want the Ranger Girl with the wild hair and the sad eyes to think of me.

I’ve never been late to a flight. Never been one to go with the flow.

I just don’t want anyone to know I’m that way.

“You beat me,” a voice—Cadence’s voice—says.

I look up to see she’s halfway down the block and moving stealthily.

My breath gets caught in my throat, like a bug I’m about to choke on.

Cadence has tamed her mane into a low ponytail, the curls smooth and soft as they billow over her shoulder in a cascade toward her chest.

She’s paired a hunter-green button-down blouse made of some kind of gauzy, clingy material with dark jeans and simple loafers.

Ranger Girl can sure clean up nice.

“Google got the estimate wrong,” I reply, dropping my phone back inside my purse. My mouth is parched—I wish I had a drink. Thirst is totally the issue here. I take a couple of steps, meeting up with her on the sidewalk, a few feet from the entrance to the restaurant.

She’s wearing a sharp swoop of black liquid eyeliner and a simple nude lip. Otherwise, I can’t detect a stitch of makeup.

“Have you heard from your dad with an ETA?” she asks. Her hand tucks into the hip pocket of her jeans.

“He isn’t a big texter, and he never, ever would distract himself while operating heavy machinery,” I reply, smirking. “Especially with what he considers precious cargo inside.” Her lips pinch. The annoyance gives me a tingling thrill in my stomach. “What about your mom?”

“She texted me to confirm I hadn’t changed my number,” Cadence says, still gritty from my needling. “Which was an unpleasant reminder that the last text convo between us ended with me telling her to get out of my life.”

“Ouch.” I make a sizzle sound. “That’s gotta sting.”

“Her, maybe,” she says. “It just made me reevaluate my decision to come here at all.”

“You can’t bail on me,” I say, lifting my brows in warning, “partner.” The last part comes out too late and a little strangled. Her lip kicks up at one corner, and she fits me with a penetrating stare. It’s easy with those simmering eyes.

“It’s not like we made a pact.”

“Pinky swear me.” I lift my hand in a fist, my pinky erect and ready.

“What are we, eleven years old?” she asks.

She’s incredulous, but her mouth is fighting against a smile.

There’s a chuckle at the back of her throat that’s evident in her voice.

Her eyes focus on my finger, which I am not moving.

It’s silly, but there is a small part of me that wants the stupid reassurance that she won’t run off and leave me to untether our parents alone.

Security is never a guarantee, not even with the steadiest of people.

I wiggle my finger. She rolls her eyes.

When our skin connects, there’s a zip . Static electricity in the air, maybe, or some other spark I don’t feel safe naming—not even in my own mind. I twist my finger around hers. Locking us together in this scheme.

Just the scheme , I tell myself. Nothing else.

Our hands drop back to our sides, and I’m unsure what to do with the lingering energy zipping over my knuckles. The click-clack of women’s shoes and shuffle of men’s loafers from down the street jerk our attention from each other.

Even if I didn’t know them, even without my suspicions, these two as a pair make no visual sense. Dad will forever cosplay the off-duty Gen Xer on the cusp of boomer airline pilot.

Moira, in the flesh, embodies the modern witchy motif.

Not fully Morticia but headed firmly in her direction. The hair is long, board-straight, and raven black. Like, almost illogically so considering her age. She must dye it on a semiregular basis to combat the appearance of grays.

Tall and slim like her daughter, but where Cadence has rounded features—a button nose, wide eyes, curvy lips, and a defined but still somehow soft jawline—Moira is all angles and lines.

Catlike green eyes, sharp cheekbones, chiseled like a statue.

She’s in a flowy dress with a bright pattern; around her neck is a black stone hanging from a thick silver chain. Every finger has a ring on it.

They approach with their hands clasped, and Dad leans over to press his lips to Moira’s ear. She throws her head back, releasing a bright, melodic chuckle before lightly slapping his chest. He grabs her hand, holding it over his heart.

The chai latte I had on my way over threatens to make a return. I flick my eyes to Cadence to see, yep, she’s watching with the same look of abject horror painted on her face.

Dad finally looks our direction.

“Good, you both made it,” he calls out to us.

His smile is broad, toothy, and his eyes sparkle with joy.

I almost feel bad about what we’re planning to do when I see the expression on his face, and I have to remind myself that it really is for his ultimate good and happiness (and possibly safety and security).

He releases Moira’s hand when he reaches us so he can scoop me into a swift hug and peck me on the cheek.

He’s wearing some kind of overly masculine–smelling cologne.

Spicy and manly and so not his usual fresh-soap style.

It sets my teeth on edge, another out-of-character move.

He pushes me back, looking over my face.

His eyes are just as blue as mine, just as incorrectly sky-like.

“Birdie, Birdie,” he says.

“Daddy-o,” I reply. He chuckles, and then his eyes shift over to Cadence and Moira’s arctic greeting.

Cadence stands with her hands stuck down in her front pockets, her shoulders stiff, her eyes on her mother.

Moira doesn’t reach out to touch her, though the energy that radiates from her makes me think she’s itching to.

Her eyes rove up and down her daughter’s face to her curls, to her hands, and then, without any warning, over to me.

I don’t look away, even if inwardly I flinch and my heartrate skyrockets.

“You must be Sydney,” Moira says, her voice rich and cavernous like a canyon. It’s a sound that almost gives me vertigo, throws my skillful equilibrium off-balance.

I know she’s a psychic, but is she also a witch?

I grapple for the right move, suddenly in my head about her putting a spell on me. I extend a slightly shaking hand toward her. “I must be.” She swipes at my hand.

“We’re about to be family,” she says, placing both hands on my shoulders and tugging me in for a hug–air-kiss combo. And I just fucking go with it .

She’s definitely a witch.

Her smell is an earthy combination of something sharp and herbal mixed with a sweetness that reminds me of buds in spring, carried by a dense, thick scent that reminds me of the way smoke billows in the air.

“And I feel like I already know you,” she continues, pushing me back but not releasing my shoulders.

“What with how much Rick has talked you up.” I am desperate to pull away but immobile.

She twines her finger through a long strand of my blond hair and then places her hand back on my shoulder.

“Youngest female pilot in your company. You must really love what you do.”

There’s nothing wrong with what she says.

But still, it hits my adrenals like a warning.

Because when I lie in bed at night, unable to sleep from my inner clock being fucked by the changes in time zone, I wonder if I actually love what I do or if I just do what I do well because I never gave myself another option.

“It’s a dream job,” I say, my voice too pinched. Her brow does the tiniest twitch, there and gone. She knows I’m lying. Witch . First thing tomorrow, I’m going to that crystal shop near my apartment to get something for protection.

No, I will not feel silly about it.

“I see you two have already met,” Dad interjects, moving toward Cadence with his hand extended.

This does the job of breaking Moira’s grip on my shoulders since Dad has to practically push through us to get to Cadence.

“But I haven’t yet had the pleasure.” His eyes shine, friendly like always, just like his tone of voice, but there’s also an edge of mistrust in them.

Not as wide-open as usual. “Rick Sinclair.”

Cadence lets the ice around her thaw enough to shake Dad’s hand.

“Nice to meet you,” she says to him. Her eyes trip to mine. “And you.”

That was the other thing we agreed on at coffee.

Beyond the scheme to break them up for the sake of my father, Cadence asked me to keep the circumstances of our original meeting a secret from Moira.

I agreed—it works better for our plan if they think we haven’t met before anyway.

They won’t expect us to be working together, two strangers.

But the soulmate thing doesn’t matter to me. No matter how hot I may think Cadence is.

Soulmates are for fairy tales. I prefer the drama of reality TV.

“Same here,” I reply to her, letting my eyes linger for just a second on hers before tearing them away to our parents. “Shall we? I think we’re about to be in danger of unforgivable lateness under LA restaurant law.”

Dad takes Moira’s hand, and she lets him lead her through the door.