Page 35 of The Sun and the Moon

Cadence

We’ve been stuck side by side with my mother and Rick watching the opening ceremony of the festival, but in my head I’m still back in that hotel room with Sydney. My mind flits over images of her as I stand, the back of my hand pressed against hers in the crowd.

Her tan skin like silky cream, soft and supple in my hands.

Her mouth, pliant and plump, her tongue hot as it lapped mine.

The way her voice tipped over into a command. The force of her hands gripping my hair.

I’ve never toyed with the idea of someone being made for me. Another human put here who will embody my desires and needs. I can’t say with any amount of certainty whether she is that for me. But for a second my mind toys with the hope. Bats it around like a cat with a toy on a string.

The Danish Maid is crowned, and the festivities officially begin with the sound of triumphant cheers.

The crew gathered around us is made up mostly of Moira and Rick’s invites—Pam and Greg, Adria, Lola and Hawthorne.

I don’t see Kit and Julia, but I expect they’re somewhere in the crowd.

I secretly hope we don’t cross paths again while Moira is around.

I’d hate for her to get the opportunity to gloat over her successful pairing.

Still, I’m glad I met Kit when I did.

The Ten of Cups is a card I never wanted to see again. The weight of my mother’s interpretation of it from my soulmate prediction felt impossible to carry, so it was shackled to me, and I was left dragging it behind me like a ball and chain.

Just because she predicted it doesn’t mean she holds your fate in her hands , Kit said. Catalysts don’t decide a lifetime loving each other. Your choice to work hard at it every day is what does.

She used herself and Julia as an example, but I knew the you in the sentence was me. If I wanted to let my feelings for Sydney become more than a passing attraction, whatever came after would sink or swim because of the actions, the choices made by Sydney and me.

Lola surprises me, coming up from behind. She bumps me on the side that isn’t pressing up against Sydney, and I turn to see a sheepish smile and hopeful but apologetic expression on her face. I want to tell her she has nothing to apologize for.

I want to tell her she was right.

“I sent Hawthorne ahead of me to get in line for axe throwing,” she says. “I figure we can all cut if he’s there.”

“Right,” I say, searching inside myself for the cool ease Sydney is so good at, which I struggle to ever exhibit. “Unlikely that anyone would challenge him to a fight.”

“Based on looks,” she says. “Little do they know he’s fully a pacifist.”

I grin at the idea of sequoia-size Hawthorne hugging it out instead of throwing a punch.

“Should we get our axe-throwing tickets from the parents?” Sydney asks, moving her hand from its place bumping against mine.

Lola’s gaze latches on to the now-empty space beside my hand, and her left brow hooks.

I lock on to her gaze before she looks back at me.

I try to send telepathic signals for her to play it cool. Please.

“You wanna ask them, Sydney?” Lola says, a tiny smirk twisting her lips. Fortunately, Sydney doesn’t seem to notice the moment passing between Lola and me.

“Sure thing,” she says, walking off in their direction. My eyes follow her for a second before returning record-scratch fast to Lola.

“Were you two holding hands?” she asks, a little too loud for my liking. I press into her, grabbing her by the wrist and giving it a light squeeze.

“Not so loud,” I say, cutting my eyes toward Moira, Rick, and Sydney.

“Why does it matter if they hear? It’s not like you’re forbidden from hooking up with the adult daughter of the guy marrying your estranged mom,” Lola says, thankfully lowering her voice to a volume that doesn’t carry so easily.

“Maybe not the most advisable decision, but—” She stops dead when her eyes meet mine.

“Don’t,” I try, but she’s putting the pieces together.

Lola knows me well, a truth I wish didn’t run so deep.

“Hold the fucking phone,” she exclaims in a whisper-scream. “How is it possible? You two met at dinner, not Kismet.” I give her a tiny headshake. “Explain, motherfucker.”

“We met while you were out getting us coffee,” I say. A scowl twitches over her features, making them all pinch up.

“That’s why you weren’t there when I got back.” She smacks me on the arm with just enough force that I feel it through my thick denim jacket. “And you didn’t run straight for the hills?”

“What good would that have done?” I ask. “Her dad is marrying Moira. Running would only remove her from my life if I never came back.”

“Seems like a perfect excuse.” Her voice ripples with sarcasm.

“Not when I came here because I don’t trust Moira to begin with.”

She cocks out a hip. “I knew it was more than just generalized concern.”

“Okay, yes, I was sus, and I came here to expose her.”

“You came here to make her pay,” Lola says. She’s not pulling any punches, and I don’t blame her. My behavior may have been grounded in good intentions, but my heart wasn’t in the right place. I can admit that, embarrassing as it is.

“So what if I did?” I say, but as soon as I do, and before she can reply, we are interrupted by Sydney’s immediate approach. She’s holding four red tickets in her hand and wearing a grin.

“Wrangled all of us a chance,” she says, smiling ear to ear. “Dad didn’t want to give one to Hawthorne on account of your situationship status.”

“Oh geez,” Lola exclaims, her vitriol now focused on Rick and not me. “I really did a number on him when I broke up with Wednesday.”

Sydney snorts. “Like the beloved television and comic book character?”

“In more ways than one,” Lola replies. Sydney chuckles. Thankfully it looks like she’s dropping both the Moira vengeance plan and the topic of me and Sydney’s developing whatever this is .

For now.

Dancing around the whole soulmate prediction would be bad enough, but getting into the ins and outs of our hookup is more complicated territory. Sydney and I haven’t had time to talk about it between us, so I really shouldn’t be talking about it with Lola.

Sydney doles out our tickets, giving two to Lola, and we all head off down a narrow side street that leads to the area where they have set up the axe-throwing arena.

I’m tall for a woman, and so is Moira, so it’s easy to see her across the crowd.

Easier still to feel her gaze traveling along with me.

At some point I will have to talk to her. I can’t avoid it forever. Not if I truly am abandoning the scheme, letting this whole ride go to its natural conclusion. Accepting that the conclusion might be her grand romance with the father of my intended-by-the-Universe soulmate.

Sydney steps up closer to me when Lola breaks off from us, spotting Hawthorne in the line winding its way out of the axe-throwing tent.

“Is it true?” Sydney questions. I’m thrown, worried that somehow my inner monologue made it out of my mouth.

“Is what true?” I ask. Don’t knee-jerk the response. God, her skin shimmers.

All along this courtyard they’ve set up real fire-burning lanterns lighting the way to the tent and providing ambiance to the many food and merchandise vendors who have set up shop.

Across the cobblestone courtyard, they’ve roped off a section for brats and beers, expanding from the normal beer garden to accommodate the heavy crowd.

“Moira’s claim that you were an excellent axe thrower once,” she says.

“Oh,” I say, huffing a laugh through my nostrils.

“She’s a liar.” Sydney’s expression twitches at the word.

We are abandoning the scheme, and maybe that means she wants to give Moira a chance at character redemption.

I decide to brush past the look, and tell the story with as little Moira slander as possible.

“I got lucky,” I say.

“You don’t believe in luck.” Sydney’s eyes narrow.

“Touché,” I reply, fighting a grin. “The toss was all aerodynamics. But she had told me I would win if I got on the platform.”

“Ah, I get it. You want to pretend it had nothing to do with that.” Sydney nods, not surprised. I really wish I weren’t so predictably wounded.

“It was my idea, not hers,” I say with a flare of defensiveness.

“I was angry with her about the soulmate reading and was ruining her trip as a result. So when she realized I had interest in the competition, she ran with it. She wanted me to stop brooding, and she thought if I won, I would. So she told me it would happen. She could see it or whatever.”

“And you took that to heart,” Sydney says. Somehow she doesn’t look surprised.

“Hope leads to action. Luck has nothing to do with it. I fucking believed in her despite all the bullshit.”

“And then you won,” Sydney replies. She raises her brows.

It was a nightmare having a mother who is the center of her own universe, but there were times when my wants aligned with hers perfectly.

In those times, she was my fiercest ally.

“Yeah, my least favorite kind of win.” I tread lightly back over the memory. “I spent most of the afternoon watching others trying. Studying their form. Watching the way weight was shifted from left to right and the angle of the handle when it left their hands.”

“Ooooh, tell me more,” she says in a playfully seductive tone. It sends a thrill right through my stomach. I chuckle nervously, hoping I can deliver more goods.

“There’s a bravado to throwing an axe,” I say, and she leans in just enough that I can smell the sharp citrus scent of her perfume. “A certain steadiness is needed. I guess I had that. Because when I threw it, it landed dead center in the bull’s-eye.”

“I bet you were beaming,” she says in a breathless sort of way.

“For a second I was definitely shiny.” We’re nearing the line now. I don’t know where my mother and Rick are in the crowd, but I can still feel the pressure of her awareness nearby.

“And she let you shine?” Sydney asks, her voice dropping, mood shifting.

“She took my prize and got her free beer—which she didn’t even want,” I say, nibbling my lip. “Told everybody about the win. Talked me up like I was some kind of axe-throwing prodigy—so stupid, but people ate it up. They were drunk.”

“She made your win her win.”

I nod, relieved she seems to understand. “And I remember thinking, I could just decide to not let it bother me. I could play my own game, one where I didn’t have to respond to her poking and preening. It was the first time I realized I could do that.”

She presses her hand to my shoulder. Her eyes trip over it, and I know she’s spotted Moira somewhere in the distance.

“Cadence.” She says my name softly, like a secret. “You think of her as having all this power over you and that you have to do all this stuff to assert yourself, but maybe that’s not the whole story.”

I try to tug out of her grip, to get defensive, but her hand courses down the length of my arm, where she clutches my hand for the briefest moment.

Our eyes lock.

“What if you had just as much power over her all along?” She steps off, letting her words seep through my pores. Knowing they’re having their intended effect, rattling the cage I’ve locked myself inside of for so long.

Power and love, two things I’ve always felt my mother held in spades against me.

But if she didn’t, if she wanted my love, my acknowledgment, my approval, that might change how I framed our shared history of heartache.

It might make it possible to let go of the fight-or-flight that has reigned supreme in my life.

It might be enough to convince this lone-wolf girl to find a pack, or at least a mate she can walk beside.