Page 65 of The Sun and the Moon
Who haschanged.
“Cadence,” Sydney says, stepping into the courtyard behind me. When I don’t immediately turn, she walks around.
The flames dance in the center of the firepit, their orange glow a stark contrast to the slate-gray stones surrounding them. Their light plays around all over the curves of her body. We’re the only ones out here. I assume that’s because everybody else is probably getting ready for the festival kickoff or already making their way over to the center of town for a good seat to view the opening ceremony.
“Cadence,” she says again, looking up at me standing awkwardly over her like a wraith. “Do you want to sit down?” I flick my eyes to hers. The cool blue, the soft, swooping lashes, and the wide-open way she’s looking at me immediately take the edge off my anxious spiral.
“Yes, okay,” I stammer, dropping down into the seat and setting my cup on the table. After a second, she moves around to sit beside me. Her weight on the cushion makes me roll toward her, almost into her. My hand drops to the couch to steady myself, but at this proximity, it’s impossible to keep my fingers from grazing her thigh. The tips slip beneath the swell of her muscle. The weight is delicious, and it’s hard not to imagine what it would be like to turn my palm up, reach my other hand around to get a good grip. Her eyelids flutter, the soft lashes lifting. She wears mascara and some eyeliner in a deep burnt gold that brings out the darkest shade of navy in her irises.
“You smell incredible,” I choke out. It’s the wrong thing to say. I don’t know why I say it. I am really freaking out.
“I think we should stop the scheme,” she blurts. It’s not what I’m expecting her to say, so I pop back. Far enough that I can see her more fully. Her body language is tense. Her jaw tight, her back taut.
“You do?” I ask, but I’m not that surprised somehow. “What about the pinky promise? What about the bank docs and the weird text with Greg?”
Sydney’s expression droops. “Can’t part of the pinky promise be that we decide together what to do?” She’s a little breathless. “I don’t think she’s conning him.”
“That’s because she’s a pro,” I reply, but I can’t quite commit to it.
“You don’t sound so sure yourself,” Sydney counters, and her voice has an edge of defiance in it. “She sounded really upset back there. And my dad seems to be in on that part at least. What if there’s not more to it?”
“Fuck,” I breathe. Antsy, I take a drink, feeling the twinge of acid on my tongue and wondering if it’s the lemon or the realization that all things really can change.
Even Moira Connelly.
“What did you learn from Lola?” Sydney presses.
“She thinks Kismet could be struggling financially, but she doesn’t know that for sure,” I say, and it feels like a concession.
“So the loan docs or whatever, those could be something related to Kismet? Which doesn’t mean she’s swindling my dad or something. People take out loans all the time.”
She’s right. I know she’s right. And more than that, there’s the other part of what Lola said. The part where she asserted that Moira is happy. She’s changed since meeting Rick.
Something that lines up—at least in theory—with what we just saw between them.
“What about the shady text with your dad and Greg?” I press her.
I’m not ready to let go of the idea that Moira is conning Rick. That Moira isn’t following her truth like always, and, like always, at the expense of those closest to her. That Moira could meet someone and fall in love and get to live happily ever after. Not after all she put me through growing up. Not with how she’s fucked my brain over about relationships—all kinds of relationships, not just romantic ones.
People were pieces on a life-size chessboard. This can’t be different.
She’s not really seeing me now.
“Pam said there was something between Dad and Greg, but that was going on before they met Moira. I don’t think it has anything to do with her, Cadence.” Her eyes search me.
“Aren’t you curious what that is?” I ask.
“Sure, but I can talk to Dad about that anytime.”
It’s not the first time in my life that I’m struck hard with the reality that I don’t know what it’s like to actuallytrustyour parent. Like Sydney trusts Rick. I am caught in the thought, just like she’s caught by the light of the setting sun. This courtyard is shielded, so all the cool stone makes the light almost lavender behind her. Her face is lit with the orange of the fire.
Her nostrils flare. “I think they’re really in love. Dad seems to be, anyway. Pam has known him since before my mom passed away.” Her voice is aflame. “She hasn’t seen him this content in a long time.”
Mention of Sydney’s mother takes the wind out of the sails of any argument I’m readying. This topic feels like the kind she doesn’t readily talk much about, especially not with someone she barely knows.
“Why do you hate her so much?” Sydney asks in a tender sort of way.
A fist around my heart.Tight, tight, tighter.
