Tiny Flying Therapists #3
For a while, neither of us talks. We take off the veils near the shed, then the gloves, then the suits. The late-afternoon air feels cooler against my face after being under the mesh. My hair is stuck to my temples, and my thoughts are stuck everywhere else.
Charlie sets her veil on the workbench. “You don’t have to talk about it.”
“Great.”
“But if you did…”
“Less great.”
She leans back against the shed doorframe, tired but gentle. “I’m just saying, if Miles were anyone else, I’d probably tease you harder. But he’s not anyone else.”
“No,” I say before I can stop myself, “he’s not.”
He is the person who notices when I’m overwhelmed before I know I’m overwhelmed.
The person who turns my mistakes into adventures.
The person who makes room for the ten tabs open in my brain and somehow finds the one playing music.
The person who sends me articles about bees recognizing faces because he knows I’ll love it.
The person I cannot afford to lose.
I turn toward the workbench and begin putting tools away.
Smoker. Hive tool. Bee brush. Gloves. Everything in its place.
Out here, I know where things go. Out here, I can make order and keep it.
I hang the bee brush on its hook, then take it down and rehang it because the bristles are facing the wrong direction.
“You know,” she says carefully, “for someone who thinks she’s a disaster, your bee shed looks like it was organized by Emerson.”
“That’s because bees require systems.”
Charlie steps closer. “Miles likes being included in your systems.”
“Only because he doesn’t have to live with all of it.”
And there’s the thing I hadn’t meant to say. The thing that has been sitting under my ribs all day, buzzing louder every time I check my phone and find no new texts.
Charlie’s voice is quiet. “All of what?”
I step out of the shed and look toward the hives, where the bees are already settling back into their rhythm. “Me,” I say, and I hate that the word comes out small. “All of me.”
“Reese—”
“No, I know.” I shake my head and force a smile, because smiling is easier. Smiling gives people a place to go that is not straight into the softest part of you. “I know people like me. I’m not staring out windows and pretending nobody has ever enjoyed my company. People like me. I like me.”
Charlie stays silent. Which works way too effectively on me.
“But liking me and building a life with me are not the same thing.” Then I keep going, because apparently I have opened the hive now, and there is no putting the cover back on quickly enough.
“Miles is steady. He remembers things. He shows up. He notices what people need before they ask. He can walk into a room and understand all the invisible strings between everyone in it. He’s…
dependable in a way that makes other people feel safe. ”
“He is,” Charlie says.
“And I’m…” I gesture vaguely at myself, as I stand there in sweaty hair and boots. “Me. The girl who lost her phone in the book return bin today. Miles deserves someone he can count on.”
“You mean like someone who can calmly remove a bee from her roommate’s face room while said roommate is preparing a last will and testament?”
I turn back to her. “That’s different.”
“It always is when the evidence goes against your argument.” She pauses a moment, then says, “Maybe Miles likes the chaos.”
“Eventually, the chaos stops being cute. People get tired.”
The backyard seems very still after that, even with the bees moving and my mom’s wind chimes making soft music on the porch.
I pick up the nuc box with the honey frame inside, because there is honey inside.
For a moment, Charlie says nothing. Then she says, “You let bees need things without deciding they are too much work.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Because you know that needing help isn’t the same thing as being a burden.”
I know she’s really talking about me, and I want to believe that. I do. But wanting to believe something and actually believing it are not the same thing, either. “I can’t mess this up.”
“By loving him?”
I start walking back toward my car, and Charlie follows.
“If I date someone and it goes wrong, I lose a boyfriend. That hurts. Obviously. But if Miles and I tried and it went wrong…” I shake my head.
“I lose Miles. I lose my safest person. I lose murder mystery nights and bee articles and someone who thinks my brain is an adventure instead of a liability. I lose the one person who makes me feel like I don’t have to translate myself all the time. ”
Plus, I already know I can’t give him everything he wants. My throat tightens, and I hate that too. “So no,” I say, forcing the words to be steadier. “No way we will ever be more than best friends. Miles is too important to gamble on something I already know I’m not built to keep.”
Charlie doesn’t argue, which is almost worse.
We’re halfway to my car when my phone buzzes.
Miles: I’m awake. I need my best friend.
I stare at the screen until the words blur a little. Best friend.
It’s proof that Miles also knows our friendship is too important to gamble on.