Breaking the Rules: The Honeybees, book 1 (12 page)

In the afternoon we worked on the art project I’d planned, the one that involved building a popsicle stick box. I’d found some crusty old tempera paint in the art closet and brought it back to life as best I could, and I’d also made a worksheet of simple math problems related to the box-building.

I walked around, supervising. Brandon, of course, was painting his sticks with abandon, then smearing on glue before the paint was dry.
 

“Hey, Brandon,” I said. “Why don’t you work on your math problems while you wait for the paint to dry? That way you won’t smear the paint.”

The little boy squinted up at me and shook his head. “No,” he said, and went back to the glue.
 

“But you’re getting the paint all over the other sticks,” I pointed out. “And look, it’s all over your fingers too.”

He looked up at me again, seeming confused. “I don’t care,” he explained.

I moved on. Next to him, Angelina was still working on painting her popsicle sticks. Each was a different color, and she’d carefully and painstakingly applied paint to both sides of the sticks and the edges, making sure to apply the paint evenly.
 

“Wow, that looks great!” I told her. I’d never seen a five-year-old work so carefully, but Angelina seemed determined to paint her sticks perfectly.
 

“I miss art class,” she told me.

“I know you do,” I said sympathetically, and made a mental note to check in with Ms. Mayfield about the museum visit.

I moved on to the next student, a little girl with brows furrowed in concentration. But a moment later I heard Angelina scream, and my attention shot back to her.
 

“What happened?” I asked in alarm.
 

She started crying. “Brandon ruined my popsicles,” she moaned. I looked at the artwork in front of her, not finding the problem.
 

“Brandon? What happened?” I asked.
 

He shrugged. “I was painting mine,” he said.
 

I knelt down next to the still-sobbing Angelina, and she pointed at a blue popsicle stick. I looked closer. There was a tiny dot of green in the midst of the blue. “He was going like this…” Angelina mimed picking up a paintbrush and attacking her artwork with huge, sprawling movements, “and his green got on my popsicle.” The little girl was devastated. I wanted to both laugh and sigh—but I also had a strong urge to protect Angelina, to make everything okay again.

“Hey, it’s okay,” I told her. “We can wipe that off. And it’s so small no one would even notice it anyway.” I got her a paper towel and eliminated the offending dot.

“Okay,” she sniffled, and carefully repainted the area with blue.
 

“Brandon, I thought you were done painting,” I said.
 

“But it got some red on,” he told me, and I determined that he meant his green sticks had gotten smudged with red, and he was simply painting over the red—such a different reaction from Angelina’s.
 

“Just try to keep the paintbrush close to what you’re painting, okay?”

He nodded, and I went to supervise the other kids. If Angelina reminded me of what I’d been like as a kid, what did her perfectionism say about me? I understood her desire to always do everything perfectly the first time, and I appreciated it. But it was hard for the Angelinas of the world to accept the fact that the Brandons of the world would always be there to derail our best efforts.
 

I just wished I’d gotten more sleep so that I were better equipped to handle it.

That evening, I finally got a text from Devin. “Had a great time yesterday,” he wrote. “Hope you found some dry clothes.”

I smiled, my stomach turning flip-flops inside of me. In just twelve hours’ time, I’d see him again for our Tuesday morning training session. How would he act toward me? How would I act toward him? His text was flirtatious, but noncommittal. He didn’t, for instance, suggest getting together again soon. And “hope you found some dry clothes”? Did that mean clothes other than his? Was he suggesting I should’ve given him his hoodie back, or maybe just reminding me that I hadn’t yet?

Whoa
, I told myself.
You’re reading way too much into this. Don’t act crazy.
 

This was totally unlike level-headed, pragmatic me. I reminded myself not to get swept up in Devin, and typed back, “I had fun too. I’ll bring your hoodie in the morning.” That could go either way, right? It wasn’t a flirtatious response, but didn’t suggest I was pulling back.
 

The fact was, I wanted Devin. I wanted to be with him, wanted to date him. I just didn’t
want
to want it.

The next morning, my heart was pounding as I mustered all my courage to walk into the room where the training sessions met. Devin was already there, and my eyes went straight to him, as though he were wearing bright red and everyone else was in gray. He looked at me too. I smiled shyly, and he grinned back and started toward me.

Of course. Of course he didn’t feel awkward. Of course he was just his normal, goofy, happy-go-lucky self. Of course I had to be the one who felt awkward.

“Hi, Sophie,” he said, and touched my arm lightly. I melted at his touch, which felt electric and warm.

“Hi,” I said, feeling myself blush.
 

“It’s good to see you.”

“You too.”

I could think of literally nothing else to say in that moment, my brain going crazy with activity and my tongue tied in knots. Luckily, the coach walked in then and clapped once.

“Let’s get started!” she called.
 

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” Devin asked quickly before we started our drills.
 

I swallowed. Were we doing this? I wanted to reach out and stroke his arm, have him touch me again. But instead I just said, “No plans.”

He smiled at me, his eyes twinkling in that way I found irresistible. “Come to my place and let’s watch a movie. Maybe cook some dinner while we’re at it. Do you want to do that?”

It was all I could do to keep from screaming “Yes!” I wanted to go to his house so much it hurt. And I was terrified.
 

Shoving aside my reservations and swallowing my fear, I said, “That sounds great.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a few of the other group members watching us. No one had asked me how the dog incident had resolved itself, and I could tell they were curious, but I no longer felt the need to explain anything to anyone. I was still shy around the other members, and aside from polite small-talk, had not done a good job of making friends. Devin was the one who made conversation easier, but he hadn’t suggested breakfast or any other group outings again since the first day.

And as we started in on the drills, I felt giddy with nervous energy. Unlike the sluggish run of the day before, I went faster that morning than I ever had.
Maybe
, I thought,
if I run fast enough, I can outrun my fears.

The next night, I chose my favorite skirt and a shirt that was slimming and made my boobs look a little bigger than they were. It was a shirt that Matt had always liked, and I hoped that Devin would too.
 

Thinking of Matt shot a wave of a nausea through me, though not because I was uncertain what I wanted with him anymore. In sudden, absolute clarity, I knew what I needed to do. In fact, I’d known for a while now. Putting on red lipstick that made me feel sexy and sophisticated, I picked up my purse and keys to head out, glancing at myself one last time in the mirror and straightening a stray strand of hair. But at the door, I hesitated.
 

Quickly, before I could change my mind, I went back into the house, sat down on the armchair, and then picked up the phone and called Matt.
 

Please don’t answer, please don’t answer
, I willed silently, but he picked up on the second ring. And of course he did. The fact that he wasn’t out doing something only made me more certain of what I needed to say.
 

“Matt, it’s Sophie,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation last week, and I need to tell you that I can’t get back together.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

After a moment, I asked, “Are you there?”

“I’m here,” he said. “Thank you for telling me.”

And that was it. I hung up the phone feeling lighter—and so, so scared. Was I making a mistake by getting involved with Devin?

I arrived at Devin’s just before seven o’clock—always early—and debated with myself for a moment about whether I should ring the bell or wait a few minutes so as not to appear over-eager. But then, from inside I heard Taco’s excited barking as he ran toward the door, louder and louder, and then Devin’s footsteps behind him. I smoothed my skirt and waited.

“Hi, Sophie,” Devin said, swinging the door open, and my nerves almost got the better of me when I saw his cute grin. Taco ran out the open door and jumped up on me, and I gave him a pat on the head while Devin scolded him. “Come on in.” He opened the door wider and I passed him into the hall, Taco at my heels.
 

“I missed you, pup,” I told him.

Devin led me to the kitchen and I set down my purse and the bag of produce I’d brought. His house was a kind of comfortable chaos, much like Devin himself. Piles of mail and magazines littered on the counters, though the sink was empty and the counter space nearest it was freshly cleaned, I could tell, because it still had damp streaks from the sponge.
 

“So what did you bring?” he asked, peaking into my grocery bag.
 

“Anything I had,” I said, then added teasingly, “since you wouldn’t tell me what you wanted to cook.”
 

“More fun that way,” he said, unloading the zucchini, broccoli, onion, and bell pepper from the bag.
 

“I usually do a stir-fry with these,” I said, “but I didn’t have any rice. Does that sound good to you? Do you have rice? Or we could go get some.”

“Hmm,” Devin said, and opened up a cabinet full of pantry items. “How about this.” He pulled out a package of rice noodles and set them on the counter, then started pulling out bottles and containers: soy sauce, fish sauce, oyster sauce, sesame seeds, white vinegar, ground ginger.

I stared at the growing pile. “You make a sauce out of all of this?” I asked.
 

But Devin just laughed. “Nah, just seeing what I have.” Once he was satisfied that he’d pulled out anything we might need, he started opening the various items and sniffing them. Some he closed back up; others he poured into a bowl. I watched skeptically, then grabbed a cutting board and started chopping veggies, wanting to avert my eyes from whatever this disaster-in-process was going to be.
 

A few moments later, Devin dipped a fingertip into the mixture, tasted it, and declared, “Well, that’s terrible.” I laughed as he dumped the sauce down the drain.
 

“Really?” I chided him. “Your mixture of random amounts of random items didn’t come together? Shocking.”
 

He accepting my teasing in good humor, then gestured to the pile of ingredients in front of him. “Care to try?”

“Sure.” I made stir-fries roughly once a week, so I had the sauce recipe memorized. It was simple, maybe a bit boring, but I knew it worked. I pulled out the soy sauce, rice vinegar, brown sugar, and garlic, measuring them together in the right proportions.
 

I held out the sauce for Devin to try, and again he put an experimental fingertip into the mixture. “Hmm,” he said, sucking on his finger in a way I found a little too enticing. “Pretty good.” He dug around in the fridge and pulled out chicken stock and half a lime, and before I knew what he was doing he’d splashed in a few tablespoons of stock, squeezed the lime juice, and tapped in some ground ginger.
 

“What are you doing?” I asked, trying to resist the urge to pull the bowl away from him.
 

He tasted the new version of the sauce, then held it out to me. “Try it now.” I found a spoon and dipped it into the sauce. To my surprise, it was delicious—way better than the sauce I’d made, the same sauce I’d had week after week with Matt and later by myself.
 

“Wow,” I said, looking at him in surprise.
 

“We’re a good team,” he said, and I nodded slowly. It was true—my go-to plus Devin’s experimentation had turned out way better than either of our attempts alone. Maybe his spontaneity wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
 

When dinner was ready, we served ourselves from the cast-iron pan and I followed Devin past the kitchen table to the couch. We chose a rom-com, and while he put the DVD into his player, I took a bite of our food. It was perfect, salty and sweet and sour all at once, with the umami flavor of the soy sauce underlying it all. We sat on opposite ends of the couch, resting our plates on the couch’s arms. It was a good couch, I noticed, and just the size of the one that used to be in my own house, the one that Matt had taken with him when he’d left, which I still hadn’t replaced.

“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.”