Burning Moon Read online

  He’d kissed me good-bye.

  He’d told me he loved me.

  He’d said he couldn’t wait to see me walking down the aisle.

  So what the hell had happened?

  Maybe he was having an affair? But how? We practically lived together. Maybe it was something more benign; perhaps he was just scared? Or maybe he was worried about marrying a woman he’d barely taken out for a test-drive. We’d had sex only a few times. I wasn’t exactly the most sexual person around. Twenty-four and basically an almost-virgin! It all seemed so stupid and pathetic now in the face of so many maybes.

  I dismembered another Jelly Baby, legs first this time, and that’s when I noticed my engagement ring. The perfect princess-cut two-carat diamond made my stomach churn, and I ripped it off my finger, leaving a red mark behind. We all stared at it for a moment in absolute silence, and then Val spoke.

  “Pawn it. Sell it and buy yourself something awesome. Like a Porsche sports car.” Michael was pretty flashy with money, and my ring was no exception.

  “No!” Stormy jumped in excitedly. “Let’s burn it in a sacrificial fire. We’ll dance and chant the bad vibes away.”

  “Yes!” Annie cried. “In fact, let’s burn everything of his, starting with those revolting corduroy pants he always insisted on wearing!”

  “I could give him a root canal without anesthetic if you’d like?” Jane piped up. She was studying to be a dentist.

  I inspected my ring. It was so beautiful. And I hated it.

  It reminded me of him and the empty promises he’d made. In fact, everything reminded me of him. His presence was rudely painted across everything I owned. The couch I was lying on, the TV that he’d hung on the wall, the carpet he used to trip on, and the happy photos of our beach vacation on the coffee table.

  Oh my God, the honeymoon!

  We were meant to be leaving for Thailand this afternoon! We had very expensive, paid-for-in-full reservations for the honeymoon suite at the White Sands Hotel and Spa. I cringed at the thought.

  “I can’t take this anymore. I have to phone him.” I pulled my phone out and started dialing the number that felt ingrained in my DNA. But before I could finish, Annie snatched it away.

  “Wait. Just think about this for a second. What are you going to say to him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Won’t talking to him just make it worse?” Jane offered. “And what if he doesn’t answer? No one’s been able to get ahold of him.”

  “Or…” Val spoke. Her tone was sensitive. “What if he tells you something you’re not strong enough to hear right now?”

  “Like what?” I felt my stomach tighten into sickening knots. “Do you think there’s someone else?”

  Annie hugged me. “I don’t know, sweetie. But I do know it’s a bad idea to phone him now. Give yourself a little time to calm down.”

  I glanced around at my friends and something dawned on me. “I love you guys, but you are the worst people in the world to be giving relationship advice.” A look of mutual acknowledgment swept over their faces.

  “Stormy,” I started, “you date guys for three weeks tops before you break up with them and the last guy was a fire breather.”

  “Juggler. Fire juggler,” she corrected.

  “I rest my case. Val, you’ve been secretly in love with your neighbor for years and haven’t told him.”

  Val nodded. “I can’t deny it.”

  “Jane, the last guy you dated spoke Klingon to you…in bed.”

  The others burst out laughing. This had been the subject of much amusement lately.

  “I wouldn’t laugh, Annie.” I waggled a finger at her. “Remember Xavier ?”

  Annie lowered her eyes self-consciously.

  “The ‘avant-garde’ fashion designer who is definitely gay and really named Jeff.”

  “Fair enough,” Annie conceded.

  I sighed loudly. Despite their sketchy track record with relationships, her friends were right. Calling Michael was a bad idea. “Fine. I won’t call him, but I need a drink.”

  “Negative. Contraindicated with those pills you’re taking, as they are both central nervous system depressants,” Jane spoke.

  I looked at her blankly.

  “I think what she means is it will probably make you go as mad as a capper,” Stormy, the serial idiom-mixer, clarified in her own special way.

  “Fine. Then bring me another chocolate!”

  * * *

  There are moments in a person’s life that change everything. Shake things up. Steer you in a different direction and push you onto another course, toward different people, places, and things. These moments don’t come around often, but when they do, they rip through the very fabric of your world.

  I knew that this was one of those moments. I knew this because I’d had one of them before when I was twelve.

  Ever since that age, I’d known exactly what I wanted from life. I had planned it down to a T, to the second, to the minutest detail imaginable. The reason for this, I guess, was that I’d been shown a very good example of how not to live—thanks to my dramatic mother. She was a theater actress of some fame and status, which was something she liked to remind everyone of…constantly. After she divorced my dad when I was six, I endured what could only be described as hell. We moved around frequently, from one play to the next, one rehearsal to the next, one man to the next. The musician, the actor, the director, the yoga teacher, the voice coach, and even some magician who turned out to be a criminal. When they locked him up, he vowed to escape, as “no handcuff could hold him.” To my knowledge he’s still there.

  My mother had terrible taste in men. She was drawn to bad men like a hippie was drawn to tie-dyed T-shirts and world peace. She also had some rather terrible hobbies: drunken, scantily clad parties laced with cocaine were a regular occurrence. On many occasions, while on my way to school, I’d have to navigate my way through a sea of unconscious bodies lying limp and littered across our living floor. My dad finally won the custody battle when I was twelve, and that’s when everything changed for the better.

  I moved into an ordered world of perfect symmetry and seamlessly structured routine. A beautiful, neat home with a stepmom who drove me to school and cheered me on at hockey practice and two older brothers who adored me. We took holidays twice a year to the same place, our beach cottage on the beautiful Natal Coast of South Africa, and ate the same meals on the same days of the week. My new life was predictable and I loved it. My “new” family took me under their wing as if I were a damaged little bird, which at the time I was.

  I loved my new life so much that I vowed mine would be exactly the same. Everything would have its place and everything would fall in line with my plan.

  Michael had been part of that plan:

  Graduate top of my class, go to college, earn my degree, work at my dad’s auditing firm. Married by twenty-five (at the latest). First child by twenty-six. Two boys and two girls. Live in a double-story house in a leafy suburb not too far away from my family. Vacations at the cottage. Roast chicken on Sundays.

  But in less than twenty-four hours, my entire plan had gone up in a puff of stinking smoke. I wasn’t just not getting married; I was losing everything that I’d meticulously planned for since the age of twelve. And then another thought hit me. A memory that made my body ache.

  “Won’t it be romantic if we conceived our baby on our honeymoon?” Michael had said one night.

  I rubbed my throat. The lump that was forming made it hard to swallow.

  I started to cry again. I grabbed the remote and randomly pressed buttons until I got to the nature channel…

  Swirling, turquoise waters. White sands made luminescent by a low-hanging tropical sun. Massive palms, swaying seductively in the cool sea breeze and gentle waves lapping on the shore. It all looked so peaceful. So beautiful and, most importantly, so remote.

  So, so far away from the farce that had just become my life.

  And
then a thought hit me. It was so decisive, and it slammed into me with such force that I almost fell off the couch in shock. It was also, by far, the craziest thought I’d ever had in all my twenty-four years on this planet. A part of me couldn’t believe it was even mine.

  I was going to go on my honeymoon! Alone.

  I leapt off the couch, suddenly imbued with purpose. I ran into my bedroom and rummaged through the drawers for my passport and ticket. Crap! The flight was leaving in a few hours and I hadn’t packed yet. My brain went into hyperdrive trying to upload the list of things I needed to take with me as I tore around my apartment tossing whatever I could find into a bag. I grabbed Buttons and dropped her off with my neighbor, a lonely old woman with a purple rinse who loved nothing more than painting my cat’s claws and knitting her little jerseys.

  I thought about my friends and family. I knew they’d be worried and wouldn’t want me to go. So I decided it would be better to send them a text from the plane, when it would be too late to talk me out of it. I typed the message so it would be ready to send.

  Guys, I’m going on my honeymoon by myself. Don’t worry about me. I’m going to be fine. Love you all and thanks for the support. XoXo

  An hour and fifteen minutes later I was sprinting through O. R. Tambo International Airport. People gaped and stared at me like I was a woman possessed, but I pressed on. The gates were about to close and I was officially the last person to board. I could even hear them calling my name over the booming intercom. I finally boarded the plane in such a flustered state that it took me a minute or two to notice the stares being thrown my direction. Clearly the other passengers weren’t pleased I’d kept them waiting. But quite frankly, I didn’t care.

  Heart pounding like a racehorse and out of breath, I collapsed into my chair, pressed send, fastened my seat belt, sat back, and tried to relax.

  But I couldn’t.

  I felt unnerved. I had an eerie feeling that I was being watched. And I was. I turned to investigate and was met by a pair of dark, piercing eyes. The eyes belonged to a guy sitting two rows away. Pitch-black hair framed angular, unusual features, which came together in the most dangerous face I’d ever seen. He was dressed in black. Black sneakers, black pants, and an old, faded black shirt that gave off a distinctly I don’t give a flying fuck attitude. I could see the hard geometric lines of a tattoo peeping out of his sleeve. He was clearly a drug addict, or a drummer in a goth band, and he was definitely depressed and into vampire movies! His face was cold and serious, but then…

  Then…

  The corners of his mouth curved into the slightest crooked smile as he glanced from my feet to my face and back again. I felt the lick of his eyes on my skin as he gave me the once-, twice-over. And although I was fully clothed, I’d never felt more naked in my entire life. I turned away as quickly as possible, but even with my back to him, I could still feel his probing, dark eyes.

  And then indignation rose up inside me. Who the hell did he think he was, looking at me like that? I decided the best way to deal with this situation was to turn around and face him with all the defiance I could muster. So I swung around with bravado, my accusing eyes met his, and I surprised myself when a word came tumbling out.

  “What?” I glared at him.

  His smile grew bigger, and a twinkle illuminated his black eyes as he looked down at my feet. My eyes followed his and that’s when I came face-to-face with two pairs of goggly eyes. They were attached to two pink, fluffy bunnies, with cute pink noses and big floppy ears.

  I’m wearing my slippers!

  I could feel my face going red-hot with embarrassment. My eyes looked from my slippers to my pants and then up to my top. And I realized that I wasn’t just wearing my slippers…

  I’m wearing my pajamas!

  Chapter Two

  Have you ever tried to relax when you’re so embarrassed that all you want to do is climb under a bush or, in my case, into the overhead storage compartment and into someone’s hand luggage? Have you ever tried to relax when you know there are dozens of curious eyes watching you? Dozens of lips curled into smirks, brows raised in query. The sound of whispers all around.

  “Oh my God, Tony, look at what that poor girl’s wearing.”

  “She must be mad.”

  “She’s probably sick.”

  “Shame, maybe she’s depressed or schizophrenic or something sad like that.”

  Yep, at this stage telling me to “sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight,” like the overly enthusiastic stewardess was doing, was just not going work. It was like telling a patient at the gynecologist’s office, with her legs up in stirrups, “Relax…you won’t feel a thing.”

  At least I was able to dispose of the slippers under the seat. Unfortunately, what I wasn’t able to dispose of were my bright-pink, practically luminous pajamas with the picture of the smiling fork and spoon holding hands plastered across the front, with the slogan that read SPOONING LEADS TO FORKING.

  Annie had given them to me at my bachelorette party. And, oh, how we’d laughed! Ha-ha-ha-ha…

  I certainly wasn’t laughing now. Even if everyone else was.

  But it was the inevitable toilet run that I was dreading the most. I’d been holding it in for as long as humanly possible, but with each passing moment, and each pass of the drinks cart, it was becoming harder. I’d even rejected the free alcohol that had been offered to me in an attempt to keep it at bay. But finally, seven hours into the flight, I realized that my camel-like bladder was failing. And I knew it was time to make the walk of shame.

  I glanced in the direction of the restroom; my seat couldn’t be farther away from it if I’d been sitting on the wing of another airplane. There were at least thirty rows of people between me and my destination. I took a deep breath, trying to psych myself up—it wouldn’t be that bad. I’d already suffered the worst humiliation in the world; this would be a piece of cake in comparison. So what if a hundred people were about to see me in my pj’s. It wouldn’t be that bad, surely?

  I got up, my legs shaking and my mouth dry. I started shuffling down the aisle and decided I would smile at people as I went. Perhaps if I looked friendly, they wouldn’t notice the blindingly pink pajamas. But I think the smiling only made it worse.

  I carried on walking; a mother put her hand over her son’s eyes when she saw him starting to figure out what my pajamas meant. Another mother pulled her child close…She looked frightened. At one point a man gave me a little meow and another one winked. A few seats up a group of giggly teenage girls turned their selfie stick on me and took a photo. Wasn’t that a bit excessive? I threw my head back and tried to look dignified, but inside I was dying.

  I was so happy and overcome with relief when I finally reached the toilet that I flung open the door and practically hurled myself inside…

  Whack! Thump!

  I bumped into something. Very hard. When I finally oriented myself, I came face-to-face with Goth Guy—that’s what I’d named him as I’d mentally cursed him for several minutes after our initial contact—and he was rubbing his head.

  “What happened?” I asked. I could see he was clearly in pain.

  “I just got beaten up by a girl, that’s what happened.”

  I gasped. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s my fault. I was just washing my hands so didn’t bother locking the door.” He was still rubbing his head and when he took his hand away, I could see a small red mark.

  “Oh my God! You’re hurt.” I was so embarrassed.

  “It’s okay. I’ll get you back when you least expect it,” he said, and shot me a wicked smile.

  I felt a shiver shoot up my spine. What was he saying? That when I was sleeping, he was going to creep up behind me and whack me over the head? I eyed him up and down. If this comment had come from anyone else, I would’ve been able to dismiss it as a joke. But coming from him, I wasn’t sure.

  He must have sensed my concern, becau
se suddenly he extended his hand.

  “Hi there.” He had a normal South African accent like mine, which surprised me. I was expecting something darker, and more vampirical-sounding.

  “We haven’t officially met yet. I’m Damian.”

  Aha! Now that was more like it. Wasn’t there a horror movie where Satan’s child was named Damian? This I could work with. I’d expected a Lucifer or a Xavier or Beelzebub or something equally evil-sounding.

  “I’m Lilly,” I said dismissively. The last thing I wanted was to encourage interaction with him. Especially when I noticed a leather cuff on his wrist and a tattoo on his forearm that read Depeche Mode. My suspicions about him were definitely confirmed.

  He smiled that crooked smile at me again. “Well it was nice to kind of meet you, Lilly.” And then he walked away. I stared after him, reflecting on the two interactions we’d had.

  Bizarre!

  Truly bizarre.

  He was the weirdest person I’d ever met.

  My bladder gurgled at me, if that’s even possible, and I jumped inside. I’d never been happier to see a toilet in my life and the relief was instant. But when I got up and caught my reflection in the mirror, I came face-to-face with what could only be described as a monster.

  I stared.

  Tilted my head up. Tilted it down.

  I turned profile—hoping that the apparition had a better side.

  It didn’t.

  Black mascara lines crisscrossed my face like a zebra’s stripes, the smeared red lipstick made me look like I had some kind of contagious rash, and my hair was so large and bushy that a flock of seagulls could’ve easily moved into it. At the back of my head I could see one poor pearl clip desperately clinging on for life.

  I grabbed some toilet paper and tried to wipe the mess off my face. It didn’t budge and I cursed the fact that I’d chosen to wear that ColorStay lipstick that promised seventy-two hours of kissable color. At least the stuff worked, not like some of the other products I’ve been conned into buying.

  “Apply daily for lashes that appear two hundred times thicker, stronger, and longer…”