Page 6 of The Sun and the Moon
“I feel there’s abutin there,” I say, trying to smile. Nika’s is genuine, definitely more so than mine.
“But if this is part of the reason why you shut people out, which is not sustainable long-term and leaves very little room for growth”—she doesn’t mean my personal growth, not exclusively,anyway; this is a job that requires teamwork, and I am the opposite of a joiner—“maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
“Opening it isn’t going to fix anything,” I say.
“No, but it might start you on the road to fixing something,” she replies. “If that’s what you want.”
I look back down at the envelope. Too heavy. Imbued with too much meaning.
“Thank you, Nika,” I reply, uncrossing my ankles. “Is this all you wanted to discuss?” She observes me for a moment in that kind but stern way of hers before nodding, releasing me to leave the way I came in.
Letter from my mother clutched firmly in hand.
Chapter Four
Sydney
By the time I exit the airport, it’s late afternoon. My shoulders and neck ache from the tension of that landing, which—no surprise—was a bit bumpy and not at all routine. Henry made sure to thank me for the wings again as he exited the plane unscathed. I made sure to clean my birdie pin with the cloth I carry in my sunglass case to wipe off the bad vibes. Born and raised in LA, I’m bound to be a little dubiously pseudo-spiritual.
It’s basically a rite of passage.
I don’t check my phone until I climb into the car. I have a voicemail from Dad, then a text that reads,Call me. Love, Dad. He signs his texts messages like a man much older than he is. At fifty-nine, Rick Sinclair is a salt-and-pepper-headed Phil Dunphy type. A young-at-heart magician in training, with bright eyes and a big sense of humor. He’s been tragically lost without his Claire since my mom passed when I was thirteen.
Cancer, that cunt, claimed her way too soon.
It’s us against the world, Birdie. Our mantra. Our edict. The creed of the Sinclair Trio, now whittled down to a duo.
There are also multiple texts from Gabe indicating that he did, in fact, get upset that I bailed on him before dawn, stole the last iced coffee from his fridge, and left the light on in the bathroom and pee in the toilet. In my defense, the pee was from three a.m., right after we fucked. I just forgot to flush. I drop my phone into my purse and crank the engine. I need a hot shower and a warm meal before I call Dad back or apologize to Gabe.
But let’s be real, I’m probably not apologizing to Gabe.
Ghosting feels like the move here.
I pull out of the airport and onto the 105, passing theLos Angeles Timesbuilding on my right. There’s something almost whimsical about a deco newspaper building greeting travelers to the City of Angels. Like it’s trying to say something poignant about how our city supports dying industries to their last gasp. I find the building charming, but I also have to drag it every time I return home.
Home. It’s funny, I spend so much of my time in the air that sometimes home feels more like a concept than a place. I don’t know if I would have stayed in LA if Dad weren’t still here—he’s got his golf buddies at the club and his job as a tour guide at Universal Studios. He’s caregiver to our family dog, a little Chihuahua mix named Chicken, and he loves his one-bedroom apartment that’s rent-controlled. There’s no way he’d ever leave LA, which means there’s no way I will.
And fortunately, after four years working out of LAX for Dreamline Air, I don’t really need to. It’s prime real estate for a pilot.
What more could I ask for?
The thought gives me a familiar sinking feeling in my gut that will turn to gnawing if I don’t dispel it fast enough. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy (she says with a smile that doesn’t reach hereyes). On paper there is nothing wrong with my life. I have plenty of casual relationships of the sexual and the platonic variety. I have a father who loves me and has always supported my goals. I have a roommate/best friend who waters my plants and calls me on my shit.
I pull off the freeway, and the sinking feeling turns hollow, ready to eat me out and not in the fun way.
After Mom died, I watched Dad grapple with his grief, struggling to keep his eyes on the horizon and not the earth below. It changed my reckless, carefree teen years into something a hell of a lot more rigid. And when Dad finally did go back to work after his bereavement leave, he struggled to manage the time away in the air. Losing Mom changed his love of flying, turning it into something risky, and the fear of another tragedy couldn’t be assuaged by all the pilots’ superstitions and lucky charms in the world. He quit way before his pension was set to kick in so he could stay home and single parent. He never said it, but it was hard for me not to feel responsible.
Hard not to feel the weight of expectation that I follow in his footsteps.
That I carry on doing what he loved, since he wasn’t able to.
Because of me.
I pull into my parking spot and cut my engine. I want to fall asleep right here, nestled in the cool leather seat of my Audi. But what I maybe want more than that is a scalding-hot shower, a face mask, and an overpour of pinot.
?There’s a tap on the bathroom door. Joe Lee, my roommate, a bisexual Korean American guy I met in college when he saved mefrom a laundromat one night. We then bonded because I was the only other out queer on our dorm floor, and we needed the solidarity. He moved to LA to pursue his dream of one day putting Botox in the rich and famous. He works as an aesthetician in a chic West Hollywood spa, but he still has his eye on Beverly Hills.
“Sydneyyy,” he singsongs. “You’ve got heaps of mail on the table in there, and also I wanted to order sushi for dinner, but I didn’t know if you had plans with your dad.”
