Page 81 of The Sun and the Moon
I can admit that I am rusty in the saddle, and Dad, in his infinite enthusiasm, has definitely overhyped my abilities. Three summers at horse-riding camp in Burbank in my preteens wasn’t enough to stick well into my late twenties. The horse I’m on, Rosie, a red-and-white Appaloosa, is recommended for intermediate riders, and less than five minutes in the saddle tells me why. With the slightest pressure from my calves at her side, she speeds up.
“Whoa, girl,” I say in a low but gentle tone, lifting the reins so her snout dips and she slows again.
Dad canters up beside me. “You okay there, Birdie?”
“I’m doing better than Pam,” I reply as we both turn our attention to the side where Pam’s horse has taken her off the trail and in the direction of the nearest vineyard. There’s a wooden fence separating this trail and the meadow surrounding it from the vineyards, but something tells me Pam should be nervous.
When I look back at Dad, he’s making anoh shitface. I laugh, momentarily tightening my calves against Rosie’s sides. Again shecanters forward, her pace clipping along with extra speed. I get her stilled again, and Dad is able to catch up to me; we settle into a loose walk up the dirt trail that winds away from the vineyard and into the cluster of trees at the base of the hills.
When we got here, I did a quick survey of the routes they offer for their rides. The beginner trail (the one Pam clearly should be on) goes away from the vineyard to a small pond right inside the tree line where you can have a picnic. The trail I suggested was a step up from that, taking you straight into the forest where you can meander around the perimeter of the vineyards until you come out into a clearing where they have archery and other activities that are an upsell. Dad and I just opted for the wine bottle and cheese plate, but I am thinking of suggesting Cadence and I come back sometime for a little moonlit archery. I bet she could handle a bow just as well as an axe.
As soon as I have the thought, I know I should squash it. I can’t let myself daydream about a future with Cadence—even just a future date night. Her life is across the country. Mine is here. We just met a few days ago; how could we know if this is something we want to make a go of yet?
Except I feel deep in my bones that I do want to. That I would have the best time of my life if I did.
Soulmates.It feels less strange to imagine actually using the word to describe her than it did when she first told me about Moira’s prediction. Then, I wanted to laugh it off. Now, I want to embrace it.
“Birdie?” I can’t remember the last time he called me Sydney. I don’t know if it’s because I was named for the place he met and fell in love with my mother or if it’s just because he’s jaunty that way.
“Dad,” I reply. He looks like he’s gearing up for something big.
“Scale of one to ten, how skeptical were you when I told you about Moira?” I’m surprised by the question. Dad isn’t usually this direct about stuff. Not a fan of confrontation. I peer at him from behind my shades, like I can investigate his aura or some shit. “They’re sunglasses, sweetie, not Annabeth’s Yankees cap.”
I’m taken aback by the reference. Mom and I read the first couple Percy Jackson books before she got sick, but that was our thing—just the two of us. Dad didn’t read them. He shouldn’t know that Annabeth’s cap makes her invisible.
“I listened to the audiobooks while I was doing flight reports.” He smiles. His aviators catch the light. For a second he looks like the picture-perfect pilot, and the sight sends a ping of pain ricocheting around my chest. “And you didn’t answer my question.”
“Fine,” I say. He chuckles. “Scale of one to ten, I was off the charts. Thirteen.”
“Oof, unlucky.” He cringes. That was one of Dad’s flight superstitions. No flight numbers with thirteens, not ever.
“That’s how it felt to me,” I reply.
“Felt? Past tense?” he asks.
“Maybe I’m down to a seven, now,” I say, waving off his gleeful expression with the back of my hand. “But only because I like her daughter.” Dad can read whatever he likes into that. Which he will. I can tell by the way his grin grows.
“So Moira’s wholeonly one roomdebacle is working out?” he asks.
“She planned it—I knew it!” I exclaim, the sudden rise in the volume of my voice startling Rosie into a canter. When I get her slowed down again, and when Dad catches up, I add, “I didn’tknowit, but we were suspicious.”
“We?” I can see his eyebrows rise and lower swiftly a few times behind his aviators.
“That’s mastermind shit.”
“That’s Moira,” he says with so much love. I bet his eyes have stars in them.
“And you’re okay with her just doing stuff like that? Aren’t you worried she’ll do that kind of thing to you?”
He shrugs, smiles, looks away from me and back out to the trail ahead.
“It makes me feel taken care of to think she’s watching out, making plans, moving, seeing forward, when all I’m used to seeing is right now.” His voice gets serious, and my heart rate speeds up. “I know I dropped the ball after your mom passed.”
“You did fine, Dad—”
“No, Sydney, let me.” The use of my name silences my argument. “For years, living felt like walking through a fog, and there was very little that helped me see clearly. I know I leaned on you, and I know you felt pressured to go into piloting when I retired early.” We both know he had to quit. No retirement, just the end of a job he loved.
“You didn’t pressure me. I always wanted to be a pilot.”
