Page 7 of The Sun and the Moon
The steam has mostly dissipated in the bathroom. I have just finished placing a hydrating sheet mask on my face and plaiting my hair into two braids so it can start to dry with some wave. My hair is pin-straight otherwise.
I yank open the door. He’s holding a glass of pinot in his rainbow-manicured left hand. His dark eyes lock on mine. “Sure, you can use the Korean egg cream mask I just got from K-Town and absolutely did not want to use myself.”
“For me.” It’s not a question. I take the glass and scoot past him to walk back down the hall to my room and drop my dirty uniform in the hamper. I’ve put on boxers and a giant Van Halen t-shirt that I got from (stole from the closet of) this bartender I dated (hooked up with consistently for more than a week) last summer.
“Dinner?” he asks, not bothering to follow me down the hallway.
I need to check that voicemail from Dad—let him know I got in safe and sound. I grab my phone from the bed, then walk back down the hall toward Joe and pass through the doorway into the living/dining/kitchen combo. There’s a wall of windows that look out over a small city park surrounded by shops. Culver City, Los Angeles (my locale), is basically a town within a city, and eventhough it’s been bought up by Amazon, it’s still managed to retain some of its original charm.
Though finding a restaurant that has a vibe that isn’t decidedlycorporate in the wildis almost impossible.
“Probably,” I say, giving Joe a delayed reply to his question before taking a hefty gulp of wine and setting the glass on the circular dining table beside my stack of mail.
“I’m in danger of hang-er,” Joe says, spinning his phone around impatiently between his fingers.
“Order whatever. You know I’ll eat.”
“That’s the problem,” he grumbles. “You’re practically a competitive eater, and you don’t believe in leftovers.”
“No one believes in sushi leftovers,” I say as I mindlessly begin fingering through my mail while I open my voicemail to check Dad’s message before calling him back. Sometimes he says something important that he’ll assume I’m already up to speed on.
Joe flops onto the couch just as Dad’s voicemail begins to play.
“Hey there, Birdie. I know you’re in the air now, so not expecting a speedy call back, but I wanted to let you know…”
His voice trails off. There’s worry in the normally clear, chipper tone. He muffles the speaker, and I hear the faint sound of an obscured whispered conversation. My eyes drop to the table, wanting to have something to focus on while I wait for him to start talking again. What I find is nothing but a stack of catalogs. Sephora. West Elm. Sur la Table because one time I bought my friend Kendra a set of measuring cups and a cute apron. I, no surprise, am not a chef.
“Well, I think it’s best, actually, if you hear it from me in person, but that’s out of my hands. Since you should have the invitation by now.”
My fingers come to rest, almost simultaneously as his words hit my ear, on a small navy-blue envelope with my name on it.
“Give me a call as soon as you get this, Birdie.”
I let my phone fall from my ear to drop against the dining room rug. I rip the envelope from the table and flip it over to the seal. There’s a small wax seal with aKpressed into it on the edge of the seam.
I tear open the envelope with trembling hands. There, surrounded by a whimsical Danish floral motif in blue and white, are the details of my dad’sENGAGEMENT PARTY!
To the woman he started dating a couple months ago. A woman he met on an over-fifties dating website (Did you know there are apps for this now, Birdie?). A woman I have never met, because I assumed that this relationship would end like all his other relationships after Mom’s death:
Quickly and without much fanfare.
I scan the details as my vision narrows, the edges going dark with my adrenaline burst.
You are cordially invited to join in a weekend of wine, wonder & winsome celebration of the engagement of
Moira Connelly & Richard Sinclair
on location in Solvang, California,
Danish capital of the US
I have to find out whothe fuckthis Moira is. There’s no way they are in love. There’s no way she didn’t twist Dad’s arm. My cautious father would never jump headlong into an engagementwith a practical stranger and not tell me first—not unless there is something seriously shady going on.
“I ordered you a ten-piece sashimi, some fried tofu, some gyoza—” Joe lists before cutting off. “Whoa, you look like a deranged raccoon stuck in a trash can downtown.”
My eyes trip up to his. Panic surges through me.
“Dad is engaged.”
