Page 47 of The Sun and the Moon
“Like, even mating itself can take a dark turn.” She makes ayikesface and I match it. “But there was no way to know what had happened, and that nest was going to sit outside my window forever as a reminder, because I didn’t want to move it. Like, what if she came back?”
“This is devastating,” she says, and she really sounds like she means it. But then, her brow quirks up. “But in the photo…”
My smile spreads, pleased at how invested she’s getting. “The next spring, a hummingbird showed up at the same spot. She was a little plumper, bigger, older-looking than the other one.” Understanding breaks like dawn over her face, and her mouth falls open in awe. “And she used that old nest material, which was still there, though a little weathered, to build a new one.”
“You think it was the same bird?” she asks, her voice round with awe.
“I read that sometimes adolescent females will practice building nests before they are ready to actually use them. When I was in college, I did some volunteering at the Cabrillo National Monument in San Diego, and the rangers there had observed the habit in real time.”
“She was doing that,” she says, her voice happy. Chicken barks at the change in her tone of voice. She bends, ruffling his ears. “So why was she in your hand in the photo?”
“I hung a feeder outside my window so she didn’t have to go far for fuel. I spent a lot of time in the tree, or near the tree, and one day she just came up, thatzzzzof her buzz drawing me out ofthe book I was reading, and I just knew. She wanted to sit with me.” A lump forms in my throat as I try to recount this part of the story. “I was alone a lot. I think she might have known I was lonely.”
Her expression falls. My eyes drop from the sadness in her face to see her hand twitch, almost lift toward me, like she wants to reach for mine.
I have the urge to close the gap.
The sound of pee softly pelting grass below yanks both of our attention to Chicken, who has finally, with incredible comedic timing, decided to do his business.
“Good job, sir!” Sydney congratulates him, doing a little cheer. His stoicism is iconic. She snorts, then her eyes trail back up to mine and her smile contracts a little. I force a smile, trying to brighten my expression to something less Eeyore. “Cadence.” She says my name, lets it sit in the air like a smoke cloud between us. “I would have liked to climb that tree with you. Just FYI.”
She whirls, walking back toward the car a little too fast for the ancient Chihuahua on her leash. I stand in a daze, hoping the high in my head will clear before I make it back behind the wheel.
Chapter Twenty
Sydney
We’re about to turn onto the main drag of Solvang and are greeted by a craggy stone pillar holding a blue-and-white sign that saysWelcome to Solvangin ornate Danish letters (what else would I call that blocky script?), and right below, it indicates that the village center is a half mile ahead. Cadence hasn’t brought up the reading with Moira again. Neither have I. After her story about the hummingbird picture, we ended up spending the rest of the drive talking about anything but her mother. Or my father.
Since we met, their relationship has loomed like a storm cloud over us, big and ominous, ready to burst and ruin our plans. Our plans being to ruin theirs—but whatever. It was nice to talk about ourselves, to share bits of who we are in this moment and how we got here. I learned that her supervisor wants her to start leading tours, which is a promotion of sorts, but she’s torn since her favorite part about working for the parks is being with nature. Not humans. Which I get, but I think she should go for it, and I blurted as much.
“You do?” she asked me, a quizzical expression on her face.
“Sounds like the tours are an important part of furthering visitors’ understanding of the park, which seems like a vital way to help bring in donations and support conservation.” I don’t know why I felt so confident in offering her advice—she doesn’t exactly seem like the type to revel in listening to the opinions of others.
Her smile let me know she didn’t mind hearing mine, which sent a butterfly wing fluttering through my tummy.
I learned she likes lobster rolls but doesn’t like lobster by itself (shells freak me out), and she doesn’t eat beef or pork; she was a vegetarian for years and sometimes still toys with going back. She lives alone, and she’s single.
That last part I may have found a bit too interesting.
This kind of one-on-one is something I usually reserve for therapy, or Joe when we’re both feeling existential or lonely. It’s not usually the kind of conversation I have with people I’m attracted to. And despite my best efforts, I can admit that I am definitely, not maybe, attracted to Ranger Girl.
From the passenger seat, I’ve had a prime viewing spot to take in her unusual beauty. Her cheeks are smattered with dark freckles, a sharp contrast to her fair skin. Her long, curly black hair seems to have a life of its own with the way it twists and moves and drifts and tangles. In profile, her long, dark lashes whisper against the skin on her cheek when she blinks. Her chin is her most delicate feature, dainty but defined. The perfect shape to clutch in hand and tug close—
I blink away at that.
Attraction is one thing. Acting on it is another.
At least I have the road ahead to focus on. We’re now entering the village, heading toward the center. Many of the buildings thatline either side of the main road toward the town center were built in the Danish Provincial style, with thatched roofs and charming facades featuring board-and-batten siding in a variety of colors to match the buildings. There’s a mixture of brick and other more modern buildings sprinkled in, but all of them have worked to streamline the aesthetic. Through a courtyard that leads to another section of shops, I can see one of the village’s famous windmills.
It’s a slow crawl through the village center.
Cadence pushes out a puff of air through her nostrils in annoyance.
“What?” I ask. “I don’t love that sound.”
“I just can’t believe she planned her engagement weekend on Danish Festival weekend. The village is going to be unhinged and booked to the brim,” she says with a growl. Idolike that sound. Jesus, I’m a mess.
