Page 43 of The Sun and the Moon
Whatever mess they’re in, all signs point to Moira as the reason why.
Chapter Eighteen
Sydney
It’s the morning we’re supposed to leave for Solvang for the start of Dad and Moira’s engagement celebration, and I really could have used a decent night of sleep. Two nights in a row lying awake for hours with my mind racing is hard enough to handle when I am coming into it well-rested, but after being in the air for the last ten days, I’m haggard on a whole different level.
When Moira finished with my reading, I was so shaken up that I didn’t wait around after. I did text Ranger Girl to see where she’d gone, only to discover she had taken a ride on the Universal Studio’s backlot tour with my dad and learned someinteresting infoshe’d have to tell me about in person.
I decided to head back to Culver City, got stuck in rush hour traffic, then ate dinner in my room watching reruns ofHouse Hunters Internationalto cope.
Joe was home, a new guy on the couch beside him for the Netflix part of their Netflix-and-chill session. I didn’t want to third wheel any part of that and also really didn’t want Joe toimmediately read the conflict on my face and make me explain what was up.
Because something was definitely up, and it was largely to do with my personal tarot reading delivered by my dad’s fiancée. Madame Moira really knows how to take a girl with a few superstitions and a whole lot of emotional baggage and turn her into a bumbling, questioning, soulmate-imagining idiot.
I got less than two hours of sleep, am running on caffeine and carbs, and am pulling up to Kismet half an hour late.
I tug out my phone and glance at the itinerary Dad and Moira sent over in a mass-bcc’d email to all the guests attending the engagement weekend. They reserved a block of rooms through a special rate Moira secured with her connections at the hotel, removing a roadblock for most of the guests considering the last-minute nature of the invite. Guests are able to check in and pay the remaining balance on the room, but with the discount, it’s a steal.
I flick my tired eyes over the itinerary.
Friday
Arrive at the Hygge 2–4 p.m.(strongly suggested)
Wine Tasting at Whimsy Winery 4:30 p.m.
Opening Ceremony of the Danish Days Festival 7:30 p.m.
Axe Throwing and Brats Directly Following
Saturday
Danish Days Festival
(see website for detailed list of activities)
Cheese and Wine at the Hygge 2 p.m.
Sunday
Engagement Brunch
Food, Wine, and Dancing at Whimsy Winery
A whole weekend of “fun,” and me without an ounce of energy to enjoy it.
Or thwart it.
I secretly hoped they would leave without me, and then I could drive down alone and clear my head.
Dad is still loading the trunk of his Subaru Forester, which means, unfortunately, my plan is foiled. The back is wide-open, so I can see they’ve piled in oodles of luggage—more than two people could possibly need—and by the looks of it, there is still more on the sidewalk waiting to go inside. I climb out, my almost-empty Starbucks in hand. I slide my sunglasses into the neckline of my sweatshirt as I approach Moira and Dad.
“You know we’re only staying for the weekend, right?” I say, causing them both to turn in my direction. Dad’s face immediately breaks into his larger-than-life smile, and he tugs me in for a hug. Moira doesn’t move from her spot on the walkway, but she offers me an air-kiss. I force myself to stay calm and neutral.
I tell myself to stop thinking about the reading right the fuck now.
“This isn’t all ours,” Dad says as he reaches for another floral-patterned duffel. “We’re taking Lola’s bags since she’s riding up with herfriend”—Dad saysfriendlike it means anything but the definition of friend—“Hawthorne, on his motorcycle.”
