Breaking the Rules: The Honeybees, book 1

by Archer, Amy

  “Your roommates won’t mind us eating on the couch?” I asked.

  “I don’t have roommates,” he said, hitting a button on the DVD remote.

  “Oh,” I said in surprise. “I guess I just assumed.” Why had I assumed that Devin had roommates? Was it because most everyone I knew who wasn’t married had to live with roommates to afford San Francisco rents?

  No, I had to admit to myself. It was because Devin’s spontaneity made me assume he was less responsible than he’d need to be to live alone. That was unfair, I realized. Devin may have been spontaneous and free, but he had a steady, well-paying job. He was training for the marathon, which he couldn’t have done if he’d been pure spontaneity, living only for the moment.

  Maybe I wasn’t giving him enough credit.

  “It’s a great place,” I told him.

  “I like it here,” he agreed. “Unfortunately, my lease is up in June and the rent is going way up, so I’m only here for a few more months.”

  We ate in silence as the opening credits of the movie rolled, and I could hardly pay attention, acutely aware of his presence next to me. Taco sat in front of the couch facing us, eagerly waiting for us to drop bites of our meal. When we were both finished eating, the dog curled up and went to sleep instead, giving a sigh of disappointment.

  Devin moved closer to me on the couch. “Is this all right?” he asked, and I nodded, then cast my eyes down at the floor.

  “What about this?” he asked, taking my hand.

  “Yes,” I whispered, and squeezed. His finger traced up and down my skin, and I stared straight ahead at the TV, willing myself to pay attention. I could feel his gaze on me, and I turned then to look at him, his face close to mine. Those eyes. That hair.

  And then his lips were on mine, and the movie was all but forgotten.

  Half an hour later, in states of partial undress, we both seemed to become aware of the world around us again. The movie was still playing, but I had no idea what was going on. Devin straightened up and glanced around. “Want to go to the bedroom?” he asked, his voice low.

  I hesitated. “I’m not sure I’m ready to…” I began, then trailed off.

  “We don’t have to do anything,” he said. “I just want to hold you.”

  I melted all over again. “Let’s put the leftovers away first,” I said, and then, “Wait, where did Paco—I mean Taco—where did the dog go?”

  “Paco?” Devin called out, looking around. Taco was nowhere to be found. He shrugged.

  We took our plates into the kitchen, then stopped short.

  “Bad dog!” Devin cried. Taco was curled up on the kitchen counter, fast asleep. Next to him, the cast-iron frying pan was empty—licked clean.

  I should’ve been angry with the dog, I knew. Normally I would’ve been the one to chastise him and chase him off the countertop. But now, standing there with my plate in my hand next to the boy I liked, who wanted to take me to his bedroom and hold me, I couldn’t stifle the giggle that was rising up from my throat. I turned around, not wanting Devin or Taco to see, but it only grew stronger, and soon my shoulders were shaking with laughter, and then the sound burst out of me. I laughed uncontrollably, and a moment later I heard Devin join in, and I faced him, and the two of us laughed harder and harder, glancing back at the empty pan and at the bewildered dog who was now rubbing against our legs, begging for forgiveness.

  We laughed until we had tears streaming down our faces, until we had to hold onto the counters to keep ourselves up.

  And then we went down the hall to Devin’s bedroom, crawled into his bed, and cuddled for the next hour. He told me about growing up in Denver and how he’d gone on weekend hikes with his dad as a kid. I told him about my perfectionist student, Angelina, and about the reality show my sister had been on.

  Finally, I glanced at the clock next to his bed and realized it was almost eleven o’clock. “I should go,” I said.

  “Wait, I have dessert!” he said.

  “You have dessert?” I echoed, feeling suddenly stressed out. I needed sleep, and I didn’t need the calories. “Why didn’t you mention that, oh, I don’t know, four hours ago?”

  “Forgot.” He shrugged, and gave me that irresistible grin.

  I couldn’t say no to that grin. We sat in the kitchen munching on mini Key lime pies he’d bought while Taco sat at attention, staring at us and waiting for crumbs to drop.

  By the time I left, it was almost midnight, well past my bedtime, but I still had a hard time dragging myself away. Outside the door, I turned around. “I had a great time tonight,” I said.

  “So did I,” he said. “Sophie, I really like you.”

  “I like you too,” I said, so quietly I could hardly even hear myself.

  “I can’t wait to see you again. Not just because of Taco. Because of you.”

  I smiled, then turned to leave, and in a rush turned back. Before I could stop myself, I asked, “Do you want to go to my high school reunion with me? It’s in May, and I’d really like it if you were there.” I almost slapped a hand over my mouth after the words came out. How could I have said that? We were still getting to know each other, still figuring out what this was and what we were to each other.

  Devin looked surprised, and in the split second before he answered I feared I’d made a huge mistake, wished I could rewind time and take the words back. But then he said, “Sure, I’d love to.”

  “Thank you,” I said, my whole body exhaling in relief, and kissed him on the lips before heading out into the dark night with my dog.

  That night, I finally filled out my high school reunion form and mailed it in. Under “guest” I wrote in careful letters, “Devin Winfield.” And then I went to bed, giddy with excitement, and spent several minutes sure I wouldn’t be able to sleep before falling into a deep, restful sleep and not waking up again until my alarm went off in the morning.

  A few days later, I saw Hannah. Hannah was the wildest of my high school friends, and her party photos I’d seen on Facebook made me think she hadn’t changed a lot since I’d known her.

  We met for happy hour at a bar Hannah suggested, and I’d been waiting for twenty minutes when I saw her familiar long, smooth reddish-brown hair bounce in.

  “Sophie!” she cried, and gave me a hug so exuberant that I couldn’t possibly be irritated about her having been late. “Do you want to sit at the bar?” she asked.

  “Okay,” I said, though I never sat at the bar when I went out. We moved to two side-by-side seats that had just vacated in the middle of the long bar, and the bartender showed up to take our order a moment later. I’d hardly even glanced at the menu yet and quickly scanned up and down.

  “Hannah, how are you?” the bartender greeted her, and I looked up in surprise. She hadn’t mentioned that she knew the bartender here.

  “I’m great, how are you?” she said, lifting up off the stool to give him a hug over the bar. She was beautiful, I thought, with fit, strong arms, that long hair and unlined face. Effortless beauty, a kind of worry-free look that I wished I could pull off.

  “What can I get you?”

  “The Moscow Mules are good here,” Hannah advised, pointing to it on the menu.

  “Sure, I’ll have one of those,” I said, and Hannah ordered the same.

  “So how are you?” I asked after he had gone, turning to my old friend. “It’s been so long.”

  “Wow, yes! I’m good,” she said, focusing her warm attention in on me. Hannah had such a magnetic personality that it felt like a treat when she was looking at you. I’d forgotten how much I’d enjoyed spending time with her in high school—but also how much of an exhausting whirlwind she could be, always darting from one person and event to the next. “And how about you? What are you doing these days? Where are you living? Where do you work?”

  I filled her in on my life, mentioning the school and the marathon training while leaving out Devin and Matt for the moment.

  Our drinks arrived. “You’re right, this
is really good,” I said. “Do you come here a lot?”

  “After work sometimes,” she said. “I work near here.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a waitress and sometimes bartender.”

  Aha, I thought. So that was why she knew the bartender here.

  “Have you been here before?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. In fact, I hadn’t even been to this part of town since…I swallowed. Since Matt dumped me. Les Etoiles was right around the corner from here. I pushed the memory out of my mind.

  As we sipped our drinks, Hannah and I caught up, though we stayed on safe topics and small talk. I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell her about Devin, and was content to listen to her talk about the string of men she’d been seeing in the past couple of years, and about the apartment she shared with Olivia.

  When I’d finished my drink and she’d finished two, she said, “So I’d love to go somewhere else if you have the time.” I agreed, and she added, “But do you mind if we stop by my work first? I need to pick up my paycheck.”

  “No problem,” I said, and we paid our tab and headed out.

  It was only when we were outside the restaurant that I realized, with horror, where Hannah was leading me. I stopped short on the sidewalk.

  “Hannah,” I said. “Do you…do you work at Les Etoiles?”

  “Yeah,” she said in surprise. “Have you been?”

  I swallowed hard. “Yes. Once.”

  She studied my face with amusement. “Seems like there’s a story here. Hang on just one sec while I grab my paycheck, and then I want to hear all about it.”

  I waited on the street while she darted inside, got into a quick but animated conversation with a coworker, then disappeared deeper into the restaurant.

  Of course Hannah worked at Les Etoiles. Of course. I should’ve guessed. She had the perfect, beautifully sculpted look of the waitresses I’d noticed there the night Matt had dumped me, long and lean but strong, like she’d been carrying around heavy trays for the past several years—and probably doing yoga in her off time. Her makeup looked expertly applied; her hair looked like something out of a Pantene commercial. Her put-together outfit made me feel frumpy and old-fashioned in comparison, though I was only wearing jeans and a cable-knit gray sweater.

  When Hannah reappeared a moment later, I followed her down the street to another bar she knew, and this time I suggested a small table in the back. I ordered a craft cocktail with walnut-infused bourbon and fig jam—another Hannah recommendation—which was delicious, as she’d promised.

  Once we’d settled in and taken a few sips, she turned to me. “So? What’s the story?”

  I shifted uncomfortably, then decided just to come out with it. “I got dumped at Les Etoiles.”

  She gasped.

  “By my boyfriend of six years.”

  “No!”

  “On the night I thought he was going to propose.”

  “What?! Oh, you poor thing! That’s terrible!”

  I nodded, then leaned in and told her all about going to the restaurant, seeing Matt, expecting the ring the whole time we ordered and ate, then how he’d dropped his bomb. Hannah listened with rapt attention, and I decided that maybe she was a better person to talk to about all this than I’d expected. The alcohol didn’t hurt either.

  “Fuck him!” she announced. “You can’t let someone treat you like that.”

  “Yeah, well, he wanted to get back together and I told him no.”

  “Good for you!” she said. “So tell me about all the horrible things you don’t miss about him.”

  I laughed and took another sip of my drink. “Well, he played video games every free moment.” She made a face. “And he wasn’t very social. I lost touch with a lot of friends because he never wanted to go out and see anyone.”

  Hannah made a horrified face, as though this were the worst offense of all. “You’re so much better off without him.” All her statements were forceful and decided. But she was right.

  “I am,” I said. “You know, I don’t miss him. Even at first I didn’t really miss him. I just missed what he represented, you know? I missed the stability of being in a serious relationship, of having dinner with someone every night, of not dating and risking getting hurt.” Hannah’s eyes flicked around the room, and I wondered if I was boring her. “When I was with him, I felt like my life was on track, and when we broke up, it was like going back to square one.”

  “But aren’t you having so much fun now that you get to date around again?” She focused back in on me and raised an eyebrow conspiratorially.

  “Well…” I blushed.

  “I knew it!” she exclaimed. “Spill.”

  I told her about Devin, and Hannah squealed with excitement when I got to the part about kissing on the beach. I enjoyed the high school gossip vibe Hannah brought to the conversation. It had been a long time since I’d talked to anyone like this, and it was fun. It was fun to catch back up with my old friends.

  “Oh, he sounds wonderful!” she gushed.

  “He’s pretty great,” I admitted, thinking about how kind he’d been about respecting my limits when I just wanted to cuddle, how well our sauce collaboration had turned out, how he’d noticed on the beach when I was cold and offered me his hoodie. “But it’s scary, you know? I’m trying to put everything into getting my life back on track and preparing for this marathon, and I worry that Devin is distracting me from…”

  Hannah waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, whatever. Just go for it! He sounds so great!”

  “I am,” I said, feeling Hannah’s certainty bolster my own. “I’m going for it.”

  “How about one more drink?” she suggested.

  “I can’t,” I said. “I have training in the morning. But go ahead.”

  “Nah.” She sat back, disappointed. “It’s no fun drinking alone.”

  Hannah filled me in on some of the guys she’d been dating—or more precisely, hooking up with—and when we parted ways I felt uplifted and excited. Hannah liked Devin—at least the sound of him. Her breezy attitude and focus on the fun side of life was a good reminder: I didn’t have to see this period in my life as difficult and scary. Maybe I could just let go and have fun with Devin. I could use a little more Hannah in my own thinking, I decided.

  And for a few weeks, I did a pretty good job of letting life happen. I loved seeing Devin twice a week at training, and loved even more that we were getting together two or three more times to spend time one-on-one…well, one-on-two, really, because Taco was almost always there.

  We were still trading off care of Taco, him alternating going home with Devin or me every time the two of us got together, and I missed the naughty little dog more and more each time he was away from my house. I loved living alone for the first time in years, but it was a lot less lonely when Taco was around—even if he did persist in getting into everything he wasn’t supposed to touch, chewing on things that needed to stay pristine, and eating anything he could get his paws on.

  And as I got to know Devin better each time we spent time together, I fell for him harder and harder. I could no longer deny it: I couldn’t resist him, even though falling for someone was a terrifying emotional roller coaster.

  In March, Devin went home to spent a week with his family in Denver, and I missed him like crazy. Taco lived with me while he was gone, and the dog and I fell into a comfortable routine of running together in the mornings and playing when I got home from work.

  But I could tell Taco missed Devin too. Every time he heard a noise outside, his ears perked up like he thought Devin was about to knock on the door. Maybe I was reading too much into it, but as I got more and more attuned to Taco, I felt like I could understand what he was thinking in a way I’d never encountered before with a pet.

  I passed the time waiting for Devin’s return by spending time with my own family and particularly with my older sister, January, and her fiancé, Ben, but the week dragged without Devin. We texted every
day, but nothing was the same without him—the marathon training sessions were boring and monotonous without his jovial presence, and everyday runs were boring. I fell back into my old, boring habits when I cooked, and wished he were there to spice things up.

  Devin had left his car with me, and I’d eagerly offered to pick him up from the airport when he got back. As the day got closer, I got increasingly giddy at the prospect of seeing Devin again.

  Thank god for the vibrator Caroline had encouraged me to buy. Although Devin wasn’t gone for long, objectively speaking, some days it felt like the vibrator was the only thing keeping me sane in his absence.

  On Friday, the day of his arrival, I was almost overwhelmed with excitement. His flight got in at seven, so I had a few hours after work to get home, shower, and change clothes before going to get him. I was so eager that I was all ready to go half an hour early. Rather than circling the arrivals gate at the airport, I decided to soothe my nerves by lying back on my bed and using the vibrator one last time before seeing Devin again.

  When I was done, though, I checked the clock and realized the time had flown—I was now almost running late! I jumped out of bed, Taco rushing to see what the hurry was and join in the fun. I washed the toy quickly and shoved it in a drawer, then grabbed my purse and gave Taco a quick pat on the head.

  “I’ll be back soon,” I told him. “And when I get back, I’ll have Devin with me!” He seemed to get more excited at the name, though maybe it was just a reflection of my own excitement.

  Half an hour later, pulling up outside San Francisco International Airport, my stomach turned a flip-flop. Just a couple of minutes later, I got a text from Devin: “Just got my bags. Heading outside!” And when I looked up, there he was, coming through the doors. Devin. My boyfriend.

  It was still strange to me to use that word for Devin. But I liked it.

  I jumped out of the car to greet him. He dropped his two suitcases and wrapped me up in a huge bear hug. “I missed you so much, Sophie,” he said, and I sunk into his soft coat and firm chest beneath it.