Page 22 of The Sun and the Moon
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 istotallythe 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 azip. 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. Theclick-clackof 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-dutyGen Xer on the cusp of boomerairline 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, almostillogically 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 toCadence 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.
