Page 19 of The Sun and the Moon
“If you say so.” I’m trying to figure out where to start—howto start—and taking a drink of my green tea feels like the way to stall. There’s a need for transparency here that I am not used to giving in to so easily. “Moira, she’s the reason I grabbed you. She’s the reason I do a lot of the things that I do—questionable or not.”
“Your core wound.” She flips her hair. The silky strands cascade into a deep side part, and she tucks a thick section behind her ear.
“I don’t know what that means.”
“I took a screenwriting class in college,” she says, leaning forward to set her cup back down on the saucer. The golden light streaming in through the window makes her eyes look almost navy. “It’s a term that is supposed to refer to the past pain that drives a character’s choices and actions.”
I’m almost taken aback by how accurate it is.
“Oh,” I say, fiddling with the edge of my cup. “I guess, yes. Moira isn’t the pain, necessarily—but a lot of my choices stem from trying to prove her wrong.” It’s strange to admit it out loud, especially to a virtual stranger.
But maybe even more to myself.
“Like in the case of today’schoiceto grab me by the waist and shove me against the fridge with your tits?” she asks. Her tone is playful, even if she’s still trying to dig up the motive for my screwy behavior.
“I reacted first and thought later,” I reply, brushing over the wordtitsas if it weren’t uncomfortably evocative, “which is unusual for me.” I pause again, trying to summon the courage to carry on down this path. “You’ll think it’s ridiculous.”
“Try me,” she says. “I might surprise you.” She lets her eyes settle on mine, her gaze softer than before.
She’ll be the first person I’ve ever told this story to.
I have to ignore my mother’s voice in my head trying to tell me this part is significant.Soulmates can’t hide the truth from each other. If I believed there was such a thing as a soulmate—fate, destiny, any of it—this would really be a problem.
“Moira is a psychic reader,” I start, and Sydney shifts, elbows on the table, eyes pinned on me. She’s settling in like I’m about totell her a fairy tale. Grimm as it is, I wouldn’t call it that. “She built this lore for herself among the people in her life: her clients, readers of her self-help books. She could give you closure to your grief, answers to queries you couldn’t otherwise find. But if you were seeking love—looking for that thread that was tied to the soul of the person who would complete you—Moira could find it. She could see it, or at least the path to it.”
Sydney tucks her hand around the nape of her neck, leaning into it for support as she listens. Her gaze is unwavering. “Soulmates. She makes money predicting soulmates.” Her phrasing is achoice. My lips kick up into a tentative smile.
“I never asked her about mine, but if there’s one thing I can guarantee about Moira—at least where I’m concerned—that was never going to matter.”
WhatIwanted wasn’t the point.
Her face twitches. Where I’m going with this is starting to dawn on her.
“I haven’t been back to LA in four years, and before that it was sporadic.” I pause, breathe, focus. “When I did visit, I tried to steer clear of Kismet.”
“Wait,” she interjects, straightening. Her hands cup the coffee mug. “You didn’t visit your home because of something she predicted about it?” She blinks. Understanding sharpens her features. “A soulmate thing.” Her nostrils flare.
Her hands drop from the coffee mug. One finger turns inward, pointing to her chest.
“I don’t believe in soulmates,” I say swiftly.
“But she does.” It’s not a question.
I lean back, nodding, answering anyway. “When I was sixteenshe predicted I would meet my soulmate at Kismet all because of her.”
The heaviness of this information sits between us for a second, charged, almost electric with the way it changes the energy.
“Why would you risk coming back here, then?” she asks. “Going there at all.”
“The engagement invite.” I take another sip of tea, letting the soothing aromatics fill my nostrils. “She sent the invite to my old address, which just happens to be on-site at Acadia National Park, where I work. My supervisor gave it to me.” I leave out the part about how she encouraged me to consider facing my issues with it—with my mother—in order to become a better, more well-rounded employee.
“You work at a national park?” I can’t decide if she sounds surprised or impressed.
“I’m a park ranger,” I say, unable to suppress the sense of pride in my voice.
“Ah, so that’s what thisjust came in from the trailsvibe is about.”
“In what way do I give off that vibe?” I grip the edges of my denim jacket and tug it around me as an example of my neutral, not-trail-like style.
