Page 10 of The Sun and the Moon
“Don’t you want him to be happy?” he asks, giving me a bewildered wave of his hands.
“Jesus, of course I do. That’s not what this is about.” He lifts his brows in disbelief and then flattens them almost as fast. “He just met this woman—online—and, what, a month later they’re engaged?”
Now his brows turn into caterpillars of skepticism. “Trythreemonths. You’ve been on the road a lot lately, so I get that your concept of time might be different than ours, but it’s been three months.”
“No way,” I protest. He just nods. But I decide to double down. “Whatever, that’s still fast.”
“He’s old, Syd. Time is running, there’s a ticking clock, he’s got needs. Who knows how long it’s been since he’s been intima—”
“Oh God, pleasedo nottalk about my dad’s intimacy needs.”
“Daddies have sex, too, darlin’.”
“Ughhh.” I shiver. “Don’t saydaddy.” I almost throw up in my mouth.
“Daddy is a stone-cold silver fox.” He’s doing this on purpose now.
I mime vomiting, but it works to momentarily pop the crazy bubble. I deflate onto the couch beside Joe, who tugs me against him, his hand gently rubbing my shoulder. He smells like his spicy bodywash mixed with the sharp scent of ginger and wasabi on his breath.
“He’s more salt-and-pepper,” I reply, “but I get your meaning, weirdo.”
“Call him. Hear him out. That’s the mature thing to do, andyou know it.” I roll my eyes. So mature. But I know he’s right. The least I can do is let him tell me, in his own words, how this whole thing came about. I’m good at reading people, and especially good at reading Dad. I’ve had to.Us against the worldwas more than just a saying. Dad didn’t have siblings, and his parents passed before I was born, so it really was just us after Mom died.
I lean up and unlock my phone.I can do hard things.
My finger taps his name, and Joe shoves at my ass, brows furrowed, remote pointed at the TV screen. “Other roooooom,” he commands.
I shoot up, padding across the floor and down the hall as the call connects. I flop onto my bed and curl my legs up beneath me. One ring. Two rings.
“Hello there, Birdie,” he answers. His voice is bright. A deep but friendly sound.
“Hey, Dad,” I reply.
“I was beginning to worry,” he says. I hear the trepidation in his voice. Now I feel guilty that I left him hanging while I had a (maybe slightly immature) freak-out.
“I needed a minute to process the engagement invitation in my mailbox,” I say, and it takes all my focus and self-control to leave it at that. I just hope my voice is steady.
Unreadable.
“I can understand that,” he replies. “And now that you have had a moment?”
This is the question I do not want to answer, at least not honestly.
Pull it together, Sydney.
My mind races. What can I say that will get him talking but won’t invite much input from me? I do want to ascertain—at thebare minimum—the events, as many of the particulars of the story as possible, and try to get a read on his mood about the whole thing.
“I would love to hear the story of how this all came about,” I say, raising my own voice to an octave that feels unnaturally high. I have never used the phrasecame aboutin my life. Goddamn.
He laughs a big belly laugh. “Of course you would! It’s a great one. On our first date, Moira said she knew the moment she saw my picture I would sweep her off her feet—a hefty order to live up to considering it has been a hell of a long time since I swept anyone off their feet.” He chuckles again, and I swear to Christ it sounds like a girlish giggle. Is he high?
My mind doesn’t know which part to latch on to first. The concern that my father has been drugged—probably shrooms—or that the woman, Moira, said they were destined. Who tells a person something like that? Especially on a first date when everyone—universally!—is supposed to be on their best behavior.
“But it wasn’t hard to fall for her, to be her knight in shining armor,” he continues.
Her knight in shining armor. The outdated nature of that phrase aside, shouldn’t a single woman of her age be comfortable in her independence? I would hope that if I’m still alone at that age, I’m not seeking someone to save me from it.
I give a noncommittal “Uh-huh, that’s so great” as I slide off my bed and over to my briefcase, unzipping it to reveal my laptop tucked inside. I yank it out and open it. Fuck, it’s dead. As I fish around in my bag for the charger, Dad continues.
