Breaking the Rules: The Honeybees, book 1 (5 page)

“Hey,” he said, nodding at me, his voice thick with sleep. “How’d you feel the other day after the workout?”

“Sore,” I admitted. “More sore than I expected, actually.” I looked him up and down. He was clutching his water bottle to his chest like a sleepy child holding his blankie. “Not so into mornings, I take it?”

He shook his head no, plopping down on a bench and looking like he could fall asleep right there. “It’s hard. It’s so hard.”
 

I couldn’t help but laugh. I had to admire someone who hated mornings as much as he obviously did, yet still signed up for the six a.m. training sessions.
Or maybe he was just up late last night
, I thought. A vision of Devin in bed with an imaginary beautiful girlfriend popped into my head, the one who worked at Les Etoiles. His ass would be up in the air as he tickle-attacked her, still joking around even during sex, before he would finally roll on top of her and start kissing her passionately, his hand snaking up her skirt and over her perfect legs.

We started in on drills, and Devin seemed to wake up quickly once we’d started moving. The air outside was chilly, but I was glad for it. It encouraged me to move faster to create heat. As the sun began to rise into a foggy sky, I felt myself gaining energy, running faster. The session went quicker than I’d expected, and I found myself hoping Devin would get together a group to go out to breakfast again, even though it was a weekday.

And then the anger hit me. It came out of nowhere, and I was not normally an angry person. It happened after the drills, which had gone remarkably well, and as I was starting out on the longer run. Thinking about breakfast, I remembered how Matt used to make oatmeal for us both for breakfast in the mornings when it was cold. I had hated oatmeal when they’d first started dating, but had grown to love it over the years. He ate his plain, and I sprinkled brown sugar and almonds in mine.

But then he had abandoned me. The worst part was that he was the one I wanted to talk to about it. Matt got flustered when I talked too long about my feelings, but it was comforting to know that he’d listen, then stop me when he couldn’t take anymore by giving me a big hug that always helped me to feel better. I always felt silly when he stopped me while I was talking, but it was helpful: I felt silly because it was a reminder that I was
being
silly. He was always so good about helping me to put things in perspective, to help remind me to look at my problems with rational, not emotional, eyes.
 

And I was angry that he had left. I was angry that he hadn’t allowed me a fight. I was angry that I wasn’t angrier with him, that he hadn’t even given me the gift of being able to hate him. I was angry that he hadn’t let on, that I had no idea how long he’d been thinking about leaving me. I was angry that he was so damn mature about it all. I was angry that it had all happened so fast I felt like my head was left spinning, one day my life was right-side-up and the next it was upside-down, and that was just the way it was. And I was angry that he had taught me that I had control over my life and my feelings, but now I felt that I had no control at all, that it was all just an illusion, that it was he who had all the control, that maybe it always had been.
 

I was angry. I ran out the anger, stomping it into the ground, pounding it down beneath my feet, allowing the anger to propel me as the sun rose higher and the group emerged, victorious, from the run.
 

Afterward, I had no anger left. I just wanted to move on. And for the first time, I was able to see all the good things about not being with him anymore: I liked not interrupting his video games when I got home from work. I liked being able to go out when I felt like it rather than worrying he’d rather be at home. I liked not having to worry that he’d think I was too emotional when I got impassioned about something.

And I liked flirting with Devin.

Devin didn’t get a group together for breakfast that day—not surprising since it was a weekday. There was always Saturday, I thought. I felt shy after the training and didn’t talk to anyone as they gathered their stuff together, mentally chastising myself for not acting on Rule #1 about making friends in the group.

The one bright spot was that I had ended the training feeling stronger than I had during the previous training. Maybe it was only because the workout had been shorter, and maybe it was only because my workout had been fueled by a burning anger, but I felt like I had performed significantly better this time than I had before. Maybe I could do this after all. I was still a long way off from being able to run a marathon, but maybe it was possible.

As I headed out the door, Devin stopped me, fully awake and jovial now. “Hey, I almost forgot—how’s that dog of yours?”

Muy face burst into smile. “He’s a lot of fun!” I said, and then, without thinking, added, “I haven’t done it yet, but I’m really looking forward to taking him on some runs.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I remembered Devin’s comment from the previous session about how we should run together with the dog, and I blushed.
 

But he just nodded and smiled at me. “Good,” he said. “Glad it’s working out. See you next time. Bring your dog!”

“To the training?” I asked in surprise. “Can we do that?”

“Sure, why not!” he said, shrugging.

“Okay,” I said. That wasn’t committing to anything, not like agreeing to go on a run with him was. Bringing Taco to training would be fine—fun, even. “I’ll bring him Saturday,” I promised.
 

After sitting on it for a while, I found that I was even more excited to reconnect with my old friends that I had realized. It was embarrassing to admit what had happened to me, yes, but it wouldn’t be so bad to talk it over with friends. The hard part would be going to the reunion and having to face classmates who didn’t necessarily want the best for me, who might be looking to gloat over others’ failures. Telling my friends, assuming that on the inside they were still the people they had been in high school, would be the easy part.
 

And I could sure use a friend.
 

So I started sending messages. “Hi Caroline,” I wrote first, “it’s been a while since we’ve talked! I got my invitation in the mail last week to our high school reunion. I can’t believe it’s been ten years already. I’d love to catch up before the reunion if you’d ever like to get together. Sophie.”

The short message had taken me half an hour to write, and I ended up sending virtually identical messages to my other three high school friends as well.
 

I heard back from Hannah, the social butterfly with a profile full of photos, right away. “Hey Sophie! Great to hear from you! Let’s get together soon! There’s been so much going on in the last few years I don’t even know where to start. Love always, Hannah.”

Hannah always had been effusive. And elusive, I thought, re-reading the message and noticing how Hannah had thrown back the idea of getting together without offering a time or place.
 

Caroline wrote back next. “Sophie, wow! What a nice surprise to get your message. I wasn’t sure I’d go to the reunion, but if you’re going I’ll be there. Would you like to get together for drinks Saturday afternoon?”

So soon! Was I ready to see my old friends yet? But then again, there was no point in waiting.

“I’d love to,” I wrote back. We decided on a place and a time, and over the next few days I thought back on high school more than I had in years, re-immersing myself in all of the memories, all the good times and the bad times, and most importantly in all of my friendships with this group of girls. I remembered sitting around with my friends on Saturday mornings, cooking brunch together. I remembered late nights around the fire pit in Caroline’s family’s backyard. I remembered first loves and first breakups, made more bearable by talking it through with the other girls.
 

When Saturday arrived, I took Taco to training as I’d promised. He’d made himself at home in my house right away, and now I had him settled in with his own dog bed, real dog bowls (not makeshift ones from my own dishes), and some toys. He loved his toys, and could spend an hour chewing on one contentedly, stopping only to follow me from room to room if I got up. But I was nervous about bringing him with me to training. What if he jumped up on people? What if he got into something he wasn’t supposed to? What if he barked while Ada was talking?

The early morning air was even chillier than the previous week, and Taco was hopping around like crazy. He had the energy of a puppy in this weather. Although I had brought him home just two weeks earlier, I could hardly remember the days before I’d had him around. Something about a guy named Matt? Who could remember. All ancient history. I grinned to myself at the thought.

I got to the shoe store early, and found myself disappointed to see that Devin wasn’t there yet. I got Taco some water and let him sniff around the store.
 

“Oh, isn’t he just so cute!” a voice came from behind me. I turned, and it was the woman from the older couple I had noticed on the first day of training.
 

“Thanks,” I said. “You can pet him if you’d like.” The woman cooed to Taco, and as more people filtered into the room others noticed him and came over to say hi.
 

Maybe he’s going to be the one to help me make friends in this group
, I thought, smiling at all the attention Taco was getting.
 

And then I noticed Devin coming in, looking as bleary-eyed as he had the previous week. I watched as he stepped inside, took a moment to appreciate being out of the cold, spotted me and Taco and lit up for a moment, then got the most confused look on his face, then lit up again looking startled.
 

Sleepily, he approached, that same odd confusion heavy in his brows as he stared at Taco.
 

“How did you—what? You
found
him?”

“Found who?” I asked. This guy was clearly still asleep.

But he didn’t answer me and turned to the dog instead. “Paco. Paco!” That was odd, I thought. Had I told Devin my dog’s name? The dog noticed him for the first time and his excitement over all the attention seemed to explode. Taco jumped up on Devin, sniffing him frantically and licking him up and down.
 

“Taco, no! Down!” I said, horrified at the dog’s misbehavior. But Taco completely ignored me and continued his friendly assault on Devin.
 

“Paco,” Devin said again, holding the dog’s head between his hands. I was starting to get a bad feeling in my stomach.
 

It seemed as though something clicked in Devin’s sleep-deprived brain then, and he looked at me, head cocked to one side. “This is your dog?”

“Yes.”

“This is
my
dog.”

He was confused. He was sleepy. He would wake up once he started running, and then he would realize his mistake, that perhaps Taco looked mildly like the dog he had lost, but was definitely not the same dog.
 

“I told you I lost my dog a few weeks ago,” he said, sounding awake and clear-headed now. “This is my dog.”

Everyone was staring at me. My face got hot. “Um…no,” I stuttered. “I…he’s mine. I adopted him. Maybe he just looks similar?”

Devin was getting obviously agitated now. “You have
my dog
. I only adopted him over the summer, but I know what my dog looks like.”

I hated to see the lovable goofball irritated with me, the one person who had made me feel most welcome in the group, but he was mistaken. There was no other possibility here.
 

Ada walked in then, and the training got started right away, the group going into our drills without another word about dogs. I tied Taco to a tree during the drills, assuring him that he’d get to run with me once drills were over.
 

Devin’s face was dark and unreadable during the drills, and I was anxious to get to the bottom of this. I didn’t like him blaming me for something I didn’t do, and I wanted this situation to be behind us. I also, I had to admit, missed his engaging smile.

Surely he’ll realize he’s made a mistake
, I thought.
Once it gets lighter, he’ll look at him again and see that his ears are different, or the shade of his fur is different, or the pattern on his back.
I didn’t think for a second that this could actually be true, and just wanted it behind us—ideally with the rest of the group around to hear that I was innocent. How could he have put me on the spot like that, and so unfairly?

But then why was Taco acting so excited to see him?
a little voice in my head wondered. Maybe it was a response to how Devin was acting toward him. Maybe Devin smelled like meat. Maybe…

Maybe it’s his dog.

No!
It just wasn’t possible. The odds were too tiny, that in all of San Francisco, the dog I would find would be the same dog as my marathon training teammate had lost—it just wasn’t possible.
 

Yet I couldn’t help but glance between Taco and Devin throughout the training, and if realization was dawning on Devin it sure didn’t look like it. For Taco’s part, he seemed eager to be untied and join in the fun, but it was impossible to tell whether he was interested in hanging out with me, with Devin, or just with whoever would have let him run around.
 

After drills were over, I untied Taco and we began our run through the park, Ada in the lead. After a few minutes, Devin ran up to us and began jogging alongside me with Taco in between us.
 

“Where did you find him?” he asked.
 

I looked at him. “He was wandering around alone on the street,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “He was going to go into the busy intersection.”

“So you just decided to take him home?” he asked. His tone wasn’t accusatory, exactly, but it was confused and hurt.
 

“No!” I said. “Of course not!” I told Devin the story about finding Taco—leaving out the part about the painful breakup that preceded it—and how I’d taken him to the animal shelter, waited two weeks for them to confirm that his owner was
not going to claim him
(I emphasized these words), and then had adopted him myself.