Page 3 of The Sun and the Moon
I hate myself for the thought, but then I also can’t push it away. Don’t want to.
Moira is a psychic. A seer in this almost supernatural way. Like in a Disney movie, or some picture book full of princesses, fairies, magic beans, and make-believe. It wasn’t until I got older that I started to notice the gaps in her fairy tale. But there are parts of that story that even now—after all the disillusionment has settled—I cling to. Like a rabbit’s foot for good luck or something. I want to be special, even if I don’t want to be like her.
A streak of white screams through the blue.
“There you are.” My lips twist into a smile.
I move my finger into position, the cool metal beneath my skin sending a jolt through my hand. The owl’s wings are broad, swooping gracefully, and its talons open to hook the arm of a spruce perched right at the edge of the ridge. The bright white swath of its feathers is barred with brown through the wings and tail.
Not it, I think.She.
As she settles in, she swivels her head, turning her piercing yellow eyes in my direction. I am not foolish enough to think she’s posing for me, but I snap the photo as if she were. She opens the hook of her dark gray beak to release a high, clear cry into the sky.
My heart leaps at the sound, an almost uncontrollable urge to reply. That is what freedom sounds like. I know because I’ve felt it time and again in the years since I walked away from Kismet. From my mother and her many premonitions.
I’m living a life I made for myself.
All by myself.
Chapter Two
Sydney
Birdie.
A nickname from my dad. A pilot’s call sign. For me it’s become something more like armor. Along with my name badge bearing those sharp stenciled letters,Sinclair, and my pilot’s wings of deep gold, I wear a delicate cobalt bird pin on my lapel at all times. As much a part of the uniform as my pilot’s cap and oxfords.
Call it what you want. Good luck, superstition, ritual. Maybe it’s my own version of a rabbit’s foot or a four-leaf clover, maybe it’s paranoia and my desire to feel grounded even in the air, but regardless, whenever I catch sight of the bird, I’m reminded that hard things are nothing new. I can do hard things. I can thrive under pressure, push through on fumes if I have to.
Birdiereminds me I already have.
My exhausted eyes meet their reflection in the first-class bathroom mirror and then drift down to my lapel. I adjust the bird pin with fingers still damp from washing my hands. We’re about to start our descent toward LAX. This is my last flight on a ten-dayschedule, the longest run I’ve had in a while, and just barely under the FAA guidelines for pilots’ hours on duty and in the sky.
I meet my eyes again in the mirror. Sky blue.That’s what my dad always says, anyway. Which I think is kind of silly. As a pilot—or former pilot now—he knows better than anyone that the sky isn’t actually blue at all. It’s not painted on the dome of Earth by a benevolent, creative God. We simply perceive it as blue because the light from the sun is white, which contains every color of the rainbow. As that light penetrates Earth’s atmosphere it’s scattered, and the smaller, shorter blue waves dominate our vision.
The sky is more than blue. Still, my eyes sure do match it.
Except, right now, my eyes are bloodshot and underscored with dark circles. Dry patches dot my skin. My blond hair is braided tight, low, and slicked back to hide the fact that I haven’t washed it in a couple of days and really need to. I’m not one of those women who can go a week without washing and not look like a sewer rat. Last night’s outing in the Village might not have been my worst idea ever on a layover, but my decision to booty-call my ex who lives in a walk-up in Williamsburg sure was. My choice to take that booty call to the next level is why I don’t need to be in charge of my own love life.
I just fuck it up.
I keep telling myself that he won’t be hurt when he wakes up—my eyes move to my watch to confirm that it’s late afternoon in New York—wokeup to find me missing. We were never that serious, even if he was the first guy I slept with in college. And the only guy I ever gave a blow job to.
Cunnilingus is just way more appetizing to me—
I pinch my eyes closed and tap my cheeks with the tips of my fingers.
I can do hard things. I did Gabe last night.
I snort. Even exhausted, I find myself funny. My eyes drift back open, landing on my reflection. I issue myself aget your shit togetherglare as I twist the handle to emerge into the walkway, almost straight into a young mom and her son. Giant brown eyes full of worry stare up at me from behind the fluffy head of a stuffed toy parrot. I scrunch my nose and offer him a tiny salute. His eyes crinkle. Nerves.
My left hand instinctively goes to my pocket, where I keep a few silver-and-gold pilot’s wings at all times for moments like these.
“He’s scared of the landing,” the mom says. I look to her. Same dark eyes, same worry. “He thinks we won’t be able to stop.” My skin prickles at her words.
She shrugs, brushing her son’s hair off his forehead. Her worry is clear, and almost admirable, but talking about crashing while on an airplane is bad luck. Especially this close to the cockpit. It’s a universally accepted superstition among pilots—like taking a photo of the plane right before a flight or pointing to the sky. Bad luck, bad weather, all to be avoided. I squat down so that I’m on eye level with the little boy.
“Hi there.” I scrunch my face, crinkling my eyes and nose. I know this to be a universally disarming expression. “I’m the pilot of this plane. My name’s Sydney.”
