Page 71 of The Sun and the Moon
We’re all gathered inside the tent now, with Hawthorne at the front, readying his tree-trunk body to take the platform for a throw. Moira and Dad found us in line, each of them holding a cherry Danish. “Eat dessert first, feel regret never,” Dad said, taking a huge bite. To which I grumbled that he should have had the decency to get his daughter one since he was going to show up here taunting her with it anyway.
I’m trying to see their relationship through a different lens now.
But honestly, they aren’t the couple taking up the most space in my mind.
I keep trekking back over the clandestine make-out session we shared in our hotel room earlier. And even though Chicken is making himself comfortable in the room, so we aren’t totally alone in there, his awareness isn’t enough to deter us tonight.
A sleeping old-man dog who’s hard of hearing isn’t a roadblock.
“Wait, Hawth, you should get some advice from Cade,” Lolaexclaims right before Hawthorne steps up to the platform. My eyes instinctively shift to Cadence, trying to catch a reaction, but I’m distracted by Moira in my periphery. There’s a glint in her eye, a sly smile spreading her lips. The legend of Cadence throwing the axe is one Moira takes pride in, that’s clear, but the look in her eye rubs me the wrong way.
The axe-throwing moment doesn’t matter for the reason Moira seems to think it does. It wasn’t a win because of the momentary glint of glory.
To Cadence, it was a moment when she realized her autonomy was within reach—emotionally at least—and that’s huge. It just sucks that it seems like she never got to feel her mother’s pride for the life she built for herself, by herself, when she left LA.
It hits me, sudden and swift: I’ve never heard Moira ask Cadence about her life.
Cadence deserves to be asked. To have a spotlight just because of whosheis.
“I literally threw an axe one time.” Cadence is sheepish in the face of attention. “I’m not an expert.”
“Perfectly,” Moira pipes up. “You threw it perfectly.”
“But that’s nothing, right?” I say, the words rising in my throat before I approve their release. “You’re a badass park ranger. Your outdoor skills have probably majorly exceeded that by now.”
Cadence’s eyebrow quirks, a pointed look that’s a mix of confusion, amusement, and gratitude. I lift my shoulder in a barely perceptible shrug.
“Throwing an axe isn’t an outdoor skill,” Cadence says with a grin. “But I can start a mean fire with nothing but sticks.”
“See?” I look back to the group, all of who are giving me bewildered stares. “Badass.”
Hawthorne is the only one not paying attention; he’s lost interest in the conversation and picked up the axe. I’m suddenly weirdly aware of the way Moira’s eyes trek from me to her daughter and back, but thankfully her attention is forced away when Lola plunges back from the platform and into her.
Something like anguish flits through Lola’s eyes as she looks up at Hawthorne. Moira grips her with a strong, supportive hand. The dichotomy of this woman is really something to behold.
Hawthorne runs his hand down the length of the handle, fits his palm loosely around it, and raises it over his head. I remember from Cadence’s explanation that one of the factors of the axe’s aerodynamics has to do with shifting the weight from left to right and releasing the handle at the proper moment.
Hawthorne exerts brute force on the throw, launching the axe across the hay-covered arena and burying itnotin the wooden bull’s-eye at the far end but in the giant stack of hay bales that make up the backdrop.
“Fuck!” the pacifist exclaims, spinning around with a grunt. Men really do turn into beasts when competition and weapons are at hand. His eyes trail to Dad, who stands there as stoic as a philosopher. Rick gave him one ticket. He isn’t a fan of this new situationship for Lola. There is absolutely no way he’ll grant him another try.
Hawthorne stalks off the platform and past Lola in a brooding silence. Her cheeks flush to match her red hair. Cadence reaches out, a soft hand on her forearm. A gesture of friendship. Lola looks at her with big eyes, clearly embarrassed and trying not to show it. Cadence turns to the platform, lifting her red ticket between her two fingers.
If I wasn’t already falling head over heels, I definitely am now.
She whips her jacket off, pushing the sleeves of her t-shirt up to reveal her chiseled biceps. She cracks the knuckles on her left hand, then her right, and grips the axe. Her fingers caress the wooden handle, thumbs running up and down the slim spine. My mouth goes dry, all the moisture in my body flooding between my legs at the sight. She grips the end lightly, not choking it out or white-knuckling. She plants her boots to the spot; her long hair drifts around her shoulders and looks like a waterfall of curls down her back.
She lifts the axe up, drawing it gently back so that the blade is momentarily parallel with her shoulder. Her trim hips, long legs, and sturdy, well-defined arms form a perfect languid line. Even though there are other platforms in the tent where other people prep their own throws, it feels as if the attention of the whole place has turned to Cadence. I hold my breath. Lola reaches for my hand, twisting our palms together in anticipation.
Cadence releases the axe with a swoosh.
The blade buries itself in the wood.Thwack.Dead center, right on the bull’s-eye.
Lola and I jump up, cheering her. “Holy shit, that was hot,” Lola exclaims.
I couldn’t agree more.
Cadence spins, looking down from the platform, eyes sharp like blades. They find me, holding my gaze. Heat swells between my legs as I flush at the intensity of her eye contact.
