Page 4 of The Sun and the Moon

Sydney

By the time I exit the airport, it’s late afternoon.

My shoulders and neck ache from the tension of that landing, which—no surprise—was a bit bumpy and not at all routine.

Henry made sure to thank me for the wings again as he exited the plane unscathed.

I made sure to clean my birdie pin with the cloth I carry in my sunglass case to wipe off the bad vibes.

Born and raised in LA, I’m bound to be a little dubiously pseudo-spiritual.

It’s basically a rite of passage.

I don’t check my phone until I climb into the car.

I have a voicemail from Dad, then a text that reads, Call me.

Love, Dad . He signs his texts messages like a man much older than he is.

At fifty-nine, Rick Sinclair is a salt-and-pepper-headed Phil Dunphy type.

A young-at-heart magician in training, with bright eyes and a big sense of humor.

He’s been tragically lost without his Claire since my mom passed when I was thirteen.

Cancer, that cunt, claimed her way too soon.

It’s us against the world, Birdie . Our mantra. Our edict. The creed of the Sinclair Trio, now whittled down to a duo.

There are also multiple texts from Gabe indicating that he did, in fact, get upset that I bailed on him before dawn, stole the last iced coffee from his fridge, and left the light on in the bathroom and pee in the toilet.

In my defense, the pee was from three a.m., right after we fucked.

I just forgot to flush. I drop my phone into my purse and crank the engine.

I need a hot shower and a warm meal before I call Dad back or apologize to Gabe.

But let’s be real, I’m probably not apologizing to Gabe.

Ghosting feels like the move here.

I pull out of the airport and onto the 105, passing the Los Angeles Times building on my right.

There’s something almost whimsical about a deco newspaper building greeting travelers to the City of Angels.

Like it’s trying to say something poignant about how our city supports dying industries to their last gasp.

I find the building charming, but I also have to drag it every time I return home.

Home . It’s funny, I spend so much of my time in the air that sometimes home feels more like a concept than a place.

I don’t know if I would have stayed in LA if Dad weren’t still here—he’s got his golf buddies at the club and his job as a tour guide at Universal Studios.

He’s caregiver to our family dog, a little Chihuahua mix named Chicken, and he loves his one-bedroom apartment that’s rent-controlled.

There’s no way he’d ever leave LA, which means there’s no way I will.

And fortunately, after four years working out of LAX for Dreamline Air, I don’t really need to. It’s prime real estate for a pilot.

What more could I ask for?

The thought gives me a familiar sinking feeling in my gut that will turn to gnawing if I don’t dispel it fast enough.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy (she says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes).

On paper there is nothing wrong with my life.

I have plenty of casual relationships of the sexual and the platonic variety.

I have a father who loves me and has always supported my goals.

I have a roommate/best friend who waters my plants and calls me on my shit.

I pull off the freeway, and the sinking feeling turns hollow, ready to eat me out and not in the fun way.

After Mom died, I watched Dad grapple with his grief, struggling to keep his eyes on the horizon and not the earth below.

It changed my reckless, carefree teen years into something a hell of a lot more rigid.

And when Dad finally did go back to work after his bereavement leave, he struggled to manage the time away in the air.

Losing Mom changed his love of flying, turning it into something risky, and the fear of another tragedy couldn’t be assuaged by all the pilots’ superstitions and lucky charms in the world.

He quit way before his pension was set to kick in so he could stay home and single parent.

He never said it, but it was hard for me not to feel responsible.

Hard not to feel the weight of expectation that I follow in his footsteps.

That I carry on doing what he loved, since he wasn’t able to.

Because of me.

I pull into my parking spot and cut my engine. I want to fall asleep right here, nestled in the cool leather seat of my Audi. But what I maybe want more than that is a scalding-hot shower, a face mask, and an overpour of pinot.

?There’s a tap on the bathroom door. Joe Lee, my roommate, a bisexual Korean American guy I met in college when he saved me from a laundromat one night.

We then bonded because I was the only other out queer on our dorm floor, and we needed the solidarity.

He moved to LA to pursue his dream of one day putting Botox in the rich and famous.

He works as an aesthetician in a chic West Hollywood spa, but he still has his eye on Beverly Hills.

“Sydneyyy,” he singsongs. “You’ve got heaps of mail on the table in there, and also I wanted to order sushi for dinner, but I didn’t know if you had plans with your dad.”

The steam has mostly dissipated in the bathroom. I have just finished placing a hydrating sheet mask on my face and plaiting my hair into two braids so it can start to dry with some wave. My hair is pin-straight otherwise.

I yank open the door. He’s holding a glass of pinot in his rainbow-manicured left hand. His dark eyes lock on mine. “Sure, you can use the Korean egg cream mask I just got from K-Town and absolutely did not want to use myself.”

“For me.” It’s not a question. I take the glass and scoot past him to walk back down the hall to my room and drop my dirty uniform in the hamper.

I’ve put on boxers and a giant Van Halen t-shirt that I got from (stole from the closet of) this bartender I dated (hooked up with consistently for more than a week) last summer.

“Dinner?” he asks, not bothering to follow me down the hallway.

I need to check that voicemail from Dad—let him know I got in safe and sound.

I grab my phone from the bed, then walk back down the hall toward Joe and pass through the doorway into the living/dining/kitchen combo.

There’s a wall of windows that look out over a small city park surrounded by shops.

Culver City, Los Angeles (my locale), is basically a town within a city, and even though it’s been bought up by Amazon, it’s still managed to retain some of its original charm.

Though finding a restaurant that has a vibe that isn’t decidedly corporate in the wild is almost impossible.

“Probably,” I say, giving Joe a delayed reply to his question before taking a hefty gulp of wine and setting the glass on the circular dining table beside my stack of mail.

“I’m in danger of hang-er,” Joe says, spinning his phone around impatiently between his fingers.

“Order whatever. You know I’ll eat.”

“That’s the problem,” he grumbles. “You’re practically a competitive eater, and you don’t believe in leftovers.”

“No one believes in sushi leftovers,” I say as I mindlessly begin fingering through my mail while I open my voicemail to check Dad’s message before calling him back. Sometimes he says something important that he’ll assume I’m already up to speed on.

Joe flops onto the couch just as Dad’s voicemail begins to play.

“Hey there, Birdie. I know you’re in the air now, so not expecting a speedy call back, but I wanted to let you know…”

His voice trails off. There’s worry in the normally clear, chipper tone.

He muffles the speaker, and I hear the faint sound of an obscured whispered conversation.

My eyes drop to the table, wanting to have something to focus on while I wait for him to start talking again.

What I find is nothing but a stack of catalogs.

Sephora. West Elm. Sur la Table because one time I bought my friend Kendra a set of measuring cups and a cute apron. I, no surprise, am not a chef.

“Well, I think it’s best, actually, if you hear it from me in person, but that’s out of my hands. Since you should have the invitation by now.”

My fingers come to rest, almost simultaneously as his words hit my ear, on a small navy-blue envelope with my name on it.

“Give me a call as soon as you get this, Birdie.”

I let my phone fall from my ear to drop against the dining room rug. I rip the envelope from the table and flip it over to the seal. There’s a small wax seal with a K pressed into it on the edge of the seam.

I tear open the envelope with trembling hands. There, surrounded by a whimsical Danish floral motif in blue and white, are the details of my dad’s ENGAGEMENT PARTY!

To the woman he started dating a couple months ago. A woman he met on an over-fifties dating website ( Did you know there are apps for this now, Birdie? ). A woman I have never met, because I assumed that this relationship would end like all his other relationships after Mom’s death:

Quickly and without much fanfare.

I scan the details as my vision narrows, the edges going dark with my adrenaline burst.

You are cordially invited to join in a weekend of wine, wonder & winsome celebration of the engagement of

Moira Connelly & Richard Sinclair

on location in Solvang, California, Danish capital of the US

I have to find out who the fuck this Moira is. There’s no way they are in love. There’s no way she didn’t twist Dad’s arm. My cautious father would never jump headlong into an engagement with a practical stranger and not tell me first—not unless there is something seriously shady going on.

“I ordered you a ten-piece sashimi, some fried tofu, some gyoza—” Joe lists before cutting off. “Whoa, you look like a deranged raccoon stuck in a trash can downtown.”

My eyes trip up to his. Panic surges through me.

“Dad is engaged.”

The words drop like a lead weight against the table between us.