Burning Moon (2 page)

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.

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!

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, because 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…”

Why exactly? So you can go bungee jumping on them.

I sighed. This world was so full of empty promises.

Two hours and
only
one glass of wine later, I started feeling woozy.

Very, very woozy. I looked around and the aisle was undulating. The plane was tilting and the chair I was sitting on had turned to jelly. Very disturbing. Suddenly I heard a
pssst
.

“Hey, pssst! Pssst!”

The noise was coming from the direction of the floor, so I glanced down and that's when the two pairs of goggly eyes winked at me.
Really, truly, my slippers winked at me!
One even turned to the other and said something.

“She doesn't look very well, does she?”

“
No, no
,” the other bunny said in a British accent. “
Pale. Very pale.
”

I looked around to see if anyone else had heard them, but everyone's faces had started melting. I began to panic—my heart started pounding and my palms became very sweaty. What was happening to me? And then I remembered…my brother's little white pills! I'd taken one earlier.
Crap!
Jane had warned me not to drink alcohol.

I was struck by a sudden wave of intense nausea. My head started spinning, my arms felt like they were floating, and the bunnies began laughing. The waves of nausea were becoming more and more intense, and I didn't think I could fight it any longer. I turned to look at the restroom; it was so, so far away.

I had just suffered through the worst twenty-four hours of my entire life, and now it was going to get worse? The injustice of it stung me as I angrily grabbed the sick bag.

Please, please, please, please, please no…

If this had been a movie, this is when the director would have cut away to show the reactions on the other passengers' faces.

The woman next to me recoiled.

The man in the row behind me gagged.

The kid to my left started laughing and pointing.

The elderly couple to my right clutched each other and whispered something.

I looked down at my slippers; they weren't moving anymore and I realized I felt instantly better—physically, that is. Emotionally, I was a total wreck and beyond embarrassment. I started to wonder if I'd been cast in some kind of elaborate reality show where everyone was in on it, except me. A show where the producers were plotting against me, making sure I was having the worst time of my life. Or was it that bitch Karma again?

I felt so alone and put my head in my hands, wishing that the plane would just crash. Or at least that the roof would rip off and I'd be sucked out. Of course, I didn't want to end up like those people in the Andes who were forced to eat one another just to survive, but still I wanted out.

And I wanted Michael.

I wanted him so badly it hurt. I wanted to be going on my honeymoon right now, to be married, to be happy and holding hands and—

“Lilly, are you okay?” Goth Guy had gotten out of his seat and was crouching in the aisle next to me. He looked genuinely concerned.

Why did he care? And then in a move that completely surprised me, he placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“I feel a bit better now,” I offered timidly.

“Can I get you a Coke? It's good for nausea…” But before I'd even replied, Goth Guy was already up and getting one. I was taken aback by the unexpected act of kindness from the strange stranger. Surely he was the least likely person on this plane to care? If you'd asked me a few minutes ago, I would have said that he was probably most likely to steal your handbag and dance naked around a fire in the woods.

He returned with the Coke and cracked it open. I sipped the cool liquid, and he was right, I did feel better.

“Thanks.” He was quite close to me now, and I used the opportunity to inspect him further. Although he wasn't my type,
at all
, there was something attractive about him in a dirty-rock-star-Pirates-of-the-Caribbean type of way. I noticed another tattoo on the underside of his noncuffed wrist; it was a small pink heart, and it looked so out of place next to the strong geometric lines of the others. It was almost cute. Something he was definitely
not
.

“What's that?” I was intrigued by it.

Goth Guy glanced down. “It's for my little sister. She died.”

And with that, he was gone.

Clearly I'd offended him, and I felt terrible. I'd offended the only person on the entire plane who had been nice to me.

I watched him sit down, and I was hoping he'd turn around so I could try to communicate a silent apology. But he didn't. Instead he put on his headphones and closed his eyes.