4. Honey Has Thoughts
HONEY HAS THOUGHTS
I woke up the next day like I had died and been resurrected against my will.
My head was pounding. My mouth tasted like cheap tequila and regret.
I shot up in bed so fast I almost blacked out. Because I remembered.
The club.
The bathroom.
The faces.
All three of them.
The puking.
My heart started racing, like my body had decided we were still in the club and needed to survive. I looked around my room, disoriented, breathing too fast.
“What in the Mamma Mia…” I whispered.
I turned to my side—
—and someone was there… sleeping next to me.
I froze.
My brain, in its fragile, post-alcohol state, made the worst possible assumption.
Which ex is this?
I grabbed the person by the shoulder and flipped them over.
“WHAT?”
Mel’s voice came out like a threat.
She squinted at me, hair a mess, face scrunched in pure irritation of someone who had just been woken up at gunpoint.
“What’s wrong with you?” she snapped, shoving my arm away.
I blinked at her.
Once. Twice. Completely confused.
Then everything rushed back all at once.
It was a sleepover. Of course.
“Oh,” I said, slightly sobering.
Mel groaned and rolled over. “If you wake me up again, I will actually end you.”
I sat there for a second in silence. Then, I heard voices and the unmistakable smell of herbs.
I got out of bed and rushed down the stairs.
When I reached the bottom, I stopped like I had just entered a different dimension.
Andi and Andre were in the kitchen cooking, like this was their apartment.
Andre was at the stove, flipping something in a pan, while Andi was leaning against the counter, sipping what looked like iced coffee, watching her like a bored housewife.
Both of them turned to look at me.
I pointed at them like a crazy person.
“You,” I told Andi. “I saw my exes last night. I’m not hallucinating, am I?”
“Good morning to you too,” she replied, taking another sip.
“You look crazy now though,” Andre added.
“I’m not crazy,” I said defensively, pacing back and forth, trying to make sense of everything. “I know I saw my exes.”
Andre snorted. “Relax. You did. We all did.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“You did,” Andre repeated, way too calm. “All three.”
I stared at them.
“I knew it!”
“You literally came back to the table, hands over your head, like this—” he mimicked my look from last night— “and then said, ‘What in the Mamma Mia?’ like you were in that movie.”
“And then you puked,” Andi added, “on the table.”
“Liar!” I said dismissively. “I pulled the metal bucket.”
“And you did puke on the table still,” Andi said, shaking her head.
“And then you passed out,” Andre finished.
I blinked slowly.
“You passed out mid-panic,” Andre said. “Very dramatic. Ten out of ten performance.”
I put a hand on the counter.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “This doesn’t make any sense. Why would all three of them be there?”
“Because the universe hates you,” a voice muttered from the couch.
I turned, and Honey sprawled there like she had been abandoned mid-existence.
“Like how I hate you disturbing my sleep now,” she added.
“Sorry,” I said automatically.
She did not respond. Just adjusted slightly and sighed like the world had personally offended her.
I walked over and dropped onto the couch, right at her feet.
“Okay, then what happened next, after I passed out?” I asked.
“I need silence,” Honey complained.
“You’re getting participation, lady!” I said, nudging her leg.
From upstairs, footsteps came.
Mel appeared seconds later, hair still a mess, looking like she was ready to fight anyone who made eye contact.
“Why are we all awake?” she asked.
“Because apparently I saw all my exes last night and nobody thought to wake me up and tell me life was falling apart,” I said.
Mel paused. Then nodded. “Oh, yeah, that happened.”
I stared at her. “You’re saying like it’s normal for three exes to show up in one night?”
“It’s not normal,” Andi said. “It’s iconic.”
Mel walked into the kitchen, already reaching for plates like she also lived there.
“You were losing your mind,” Honey said. “Honestly, I was impressed.”
“I am traumatized!” I corrected.
“Same thing,” Andre said.
I dropped my head back against the couch.
“This is insanity!” I muttered.
Honey shifted slightly, finally lowering her arm just enough to look at me.
“Took you long enough to realize that,” she said.
And somehow, that didn’t make me feel better.
“Did they say why they were there?” I asked.
Everybody shrugged and shook their heads, but not looking at me.
“So, you guys took me home, and that was it?” I asked.
“Yes,” Andi said, now clearly over it. “And now we’re feeding you.”
Andre slid a plate onto the counter.
Mel grabbed utensils like she paid rent.
Honey pulled the blanket over her face to try and continue sleeping.
And I just sat there, in the middle of my own apartment, surrounded by people who had fully accepted the chaos of my life.
By the next weekend, Honey and I were already three stores deep into the mall. We were also three stores deep into retail therapy.
We walked around carrying multiple shopping bags like we had just been sponsored by sugar daddies and bad decisions.
The air-conditioning hit just right. The lighting was flattering. And for the first time since my birthday, I felt… well… functional.
Not healed yet.
But at least moisturized.
Honey walked beside me like she owned the place—which, honestly, she might as well have. She had on oversized sunglasses indoors, a fitted top, and Levi’s jeans that looked expensive enough to judge people.
“I’m telling you, James,” she said, flipping through a rack of dresses without even looking at me, “the dating pool in Southside is actually offensive.”
I snorted. “That’s because your standards are offensive.”
She gasped softly, placing a hand on her chest. “Excuse me? Is wanting a man with abs, a sharp jawline, great hair, and is financially stable and emotionally intelligent offensive?”
“That’s not a boyfriend, babe, that’s a Marvel casting call.”
She pushed her glasses down just enough to look at me over the frame. “I’m not asking for too much.”
“You’re asking for a god.”
She smiled. “I am a goddess.”
I shrugged and nodded. “Fair enough.”
We continued browsing like she had just won the argument, our fingers brushing past fabrics—satins, silks, things neither of us needed but deeply believed would fix our lives.
Shopping heals. Or so they said.
“And besides,” she added, holding up a black dress against herself and inspecting it in the mirror, “if I lower my standards, what does that say about me?”
“That you are human?” I answered.
“It means that I’ve given up,” she corrected.
I leaned against the rack, watching her.
“You do realize the men you’re describing probably also want someone who looks like them, right?” I said.
She looked at me through the mirror.
“And?”
“And you’re competing with gym memberships and protein shakes,” I said.
Honey scoffed. “Please. I am the prize.”
I laughed. “I know you are. I’m just saying, your prize category is… elite.”
She turned fully to face me now, crossing her arms.
“And what about you, Mr. Three Exes in One Night?” she asked. “What exactly is your type?”
“Bears? Daddy-looking?” I answered. “At least I don’t expect perfection.”
Honey raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”
I frowned slightly. “What does that mean?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she turned back to the mirror, smoothing the fabric of the dress against her body, studying the reflection like she was deciding something.
“We’ll get there,” she finally said.
By lunch, we ended up at Tampé—because apparently, emotional crisis required good lighting.
Tampé was the kind of place that made you feel like your life was more put together than it actually was.
Light poured in through massive windows, softening everything—your skin, your problems, your questionable decisions from the night before.
The space felt clean but not cold, with just enough warmth to make you want to stay longer than you planned.
The place smelled like espresso and something sweet—cakes, maybe. Or delusion.
We took a corner seat.
I sat across from Honey, but my eyes were drawn to the beautifully painted face of a woman on the wall behind her. She had red curly hair that spread across the canvas like swirling fire, and honestly, she looked like she had her life together more than I did.
Honey was already scrolling through the menu like she hadn’t just spent the last two hours judging men and fabrics equally.
“I need something iced,” she said. “Preferably something that makes me feel refreshed.”
“Water,” I suggested.
She looked at me, unimpressed.
“I said feel, not pretend.”
I laughed, leaning back into my seat.
For a moment, it was quiet. Comfortable, even. Just the sound of low conversations, the clink of cutlery, and the occasional hiss of the coffee machine behind the counter.
Until Honey spoke again.
“So,” she said, not looking up. “Let’s talk about you.”
I groaned immediately. “No.”
“Yes,” she insisted, finally meeting my eyes.
“No, I just healed from last week,” I said. “We just spent money. Let me enjoy this version of myself.”
“This version of you is expensive and avoidant,” she replied. “James, you can’t keep dodging this. You need to talk about it to heal. I know it’s difficult, but for you to get over it you have to kill yourself through to it.”
I sighed.
“I already told you everything,” I said. “All three of them in one night. That should count as emotional growth, right? Getting over that night?”
“That’s not growth,” she said. “And what happened that night was a plot twist. I’m talking about Victor.”
I rolled my eyes, but I felt the shift after.
“Tell me something,” she said. “When you think about him… what do you actually miss?”
The way her voice changed tightened my chest.
It was less playful.
More precise.
“Everything,” I said.
Honey tilted her head slightly.
“That’s not an answer,” she said. “That’s a feeling.”
I frowned. “It is an answer.”
“No,” she said gently. “It’s what people say when they don’t know what they’re actually holding on to.”