Breaking the Rules: The Honeybees, book 1

by Archer, Amy

  Sitting down, I stared at him from several yards away, wishing he would come over to me. And then, though I wasn’t wanting to influence his path but rather to follow him in case he was going home, I called to him gently. “Here, pup!”

  He jumped up and bounded over to me, as though to say, “I thought you’d never ask,” and then jumped up on the bench beside me and lay his head in my lap.

  “Oh!” I said, touched by the affection. For a moment I wondered if I should move his head off my dress, but instead began stroking him. I wondered what we’d look like to someone passing by, a twenty-seven-year-old woman in an unseasonable, fancy peacock-blue dress, sitting alone in a park shivering with a mottled mutt.

  “I’m so glad you found me,” I murmured down to him. “I had the worst day before you came along.” I started crying then, not the body-wracking sobs from in the restaurant, but quiet streams of tears flowing down my cheeks as I told the dog my story.

  “I feel so stupid,” I said to him. “I thought he was going to propose. After all these years together. And then—boom. He just broke up with me. No warning. Nothing. How could he?”

  The dog made a throaty sigh, which I took to mean he was on my side.

  “And now I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t want to go back home tonight and see him. I don’t want to have to move out of our house. Wait—no,” I added as a ribbon of anger moved through me. “He’s the one who should move out. I’m staying put.” I liked our house.

  “But I can’t stay here forever,” I continued. “I didn’t even eat all of my food, and I’m getting hungry. I wish I had a taco or something.”

  At the word “taco,” the dog perked up, ears at attention, and sat up staring at me.

  I laughed. “Do you want a taco too?” I asked. “Is that what you’re trying to say?” His ear twitched as he kept his alert eyes on me. “Okay, then. That’s your name now. Taco.” Content, he lay back down in my lap.

  I told Taco everything, from how Matt and I had met our last year in college and how our lives had become intertwined, how he had been so supportive when I was searching for jobs after I’d graduated with a teaching degree, how he’d found a job as a back-end Web developer easily out of college. We’d lived apart for the first six months after graduation, but it had quickly become apparent that it made more sense to cohabitate.

  We’d moved into a tiny one-bedroom house, and that’s where we’d been ever since. It was true that over the years we’d stopped talking to each other as much, and Matt kept to himself, preferring the company of gamers and other strangers on the Internet to most people in real life, but that was just because he was shy. We didn’t fight, though, and that was what I loved about the relationship. It was stable, steady, predictable—just like Matt.

  “I always just assumed we’d be together forever,” I told the dog, still lazily stroking his silky fur. My leg was warm where his furry head lay, though goosebumps prickled my arms. The repetitive motion of petting him was almost hypnotic, and between getting the words out and petting the dog, I was starting to feel a little better. It didn’t matter that the dog had no idea what I was saying.

  “I just…I just want everything to go back to how it’s been,” I said. “I’ve been working toward this for so long. I finally have a stable life. And now he’s taking that away from me. But it’s not just that.” I looked down at myself, remembering the reflection I’d seen in the glass door of Les Etoiles. “I think I let a lot of stuff go because I assumed he and I would be together. I’m overweight, and I didn’t even notice. And I don’t have friends anymore—I don’t even have anyone to talk to about the breakup. Except you, of course.” I stroked the dog’s head, thinking.

  “And what’s worse…” I whimpered at the sudden memory. “What’s worse is that I realized the other day my high school reunion will be coming up in a few months. I can’t believe it’s been ten whole years. And what do I have to show for it?” I sighed heavily, and the dog shifted positions, keeping his head in my lap, and looked up at me. I looked back at him.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I can’t just wallow. I should figure out what I need to do to get back on track.” Decisively, I pulled a small notebook and a pen out of my purse and opened to a fresh page in the book. I would do what I always did when I needed to get things in order: make a list. The only difference was that this time, it wasn’t a list of errands to run or groceries to buy; it was a list of steps I would take to get my life back in order, to return to the stability I longed for, before I’d need to face my old classmates and admit to the direction my life had gone.

  What do I need to do to get over him? I asked myself. Well, first off, I would need to make some new friends. In retrospect, I couldn’t believe how little time I’d spent with people who weren’t Matt over the past few years. But how does one make new friends in their late twenties?

  “Join a group!” I said out loud, and the dog stared straight into my eyes as though to agreed that this seemed like a good plan. I wrote it down.

  What next? I wanted to lose weight, maybe fifteen pounds, before the high school reunion, so I’d need to start exercising. Besides, I could definitely use some endorphin rushes in the next few weeks.

  “And I’m going to get healthy,” I told him. He licked my hand, which I took as a sign of agreement. I wrote that down as well.

  Then I thought back on times in my life when I’d been stressed or frustrated. The time after college when I’d had trouble finding a job sprang to mind. How had I distracted myself from feeling bad about myself when I was going through that?

  Well, I’d had Matt around, for one. What else?

  “Oh!” I remembered now. “I took a painting class at the community college.” It had been a great escape from the real world. Maybe I could find a new hobby like that again that would keep me occupied and my mind off Matt. “Start a new hobby,” I wrote in my tight, neat handwriting, reading it aloud to the dog as I did so.

  “And I think my life would feel more stable and purposeful if I had something I were working toward—anything that’s a long-term project, you know?” I could’ve sworn the dog nodded.

  I finished the list, sat up straighter on the concrete bench, and read the words aloud to the dog, who listened intently.

  Sophie’s Rules for Getting Life Back on Track Before the Reunion

  1. Join a group and make new friends.

  2. Get healthy.

  3. Start a new hobby.

  4. Always be working toward a goal.

  The moment I’d finished my list, I felt better. Now I had a plan of action—I just needed to implement it.

  And then, in sudden inspiration, I figured it out. “Running!” I said to the dog. I could follow all of these rules at the same time through running. It was exercise. It was a new hobby—something I’d tried occasionally since high school but had never stuck with. And as for my goal? I could train for a 10K perhaps—maybe even a half-marathon!

  No, I decided. No half-anything. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right.

  “I’m going to run a marathon,” I told the mutt triumphantly.

  I set down my pen, satisfied. Yes. That was it. I would get over Matt by training for a marathon. And I would join a running group to train with, and make new friends. My life would return to stability—a new structure of stability, but stability nonetheless. I would learn to be single again, would learn to be self-sufficient, would create a life I was proud to tell my former classmates about.

  It was less than two hours since I’d had my heart smashed into pieces, but I had a plan. Was it foolish to think I could run a marathon when I’d never even run consistently? Maybe. But I was not one for half-measures. Starting right now, I was training to run a marathon.

  And just like that, the healing began.

  “I guess we should get you to the animal shelter,” I said to the dog. I pulled out my phone to find the nearest one, and saw for the first time that I had five texts
and a missed call from Matt. My phone had been on silent since before I’d entered the restaurant, and I was glad for that now. If I’d seen those texts as they’d come in, I would have read them, and they probably would’ve brought me more pain. Now, though, I had more important things to do.

  Ignoring the texts, I found a no-kill shelter on my phone. Amazingly, it was only half a mile away—a ten-minute walk if the dog cooperated.

  “Okay, you ready?” I asked the dog, who seemed to understand from the tone of my voice that we were moving on. He hopped off the bench and stared up at me expectantly. For the first time, I took the lead. “This way,” I said, and he followed me obligingly.

  At the shelter, the woman at the front desk took me in with a stony, unreadable face. One of the fluorescent lights overhead flickered.

  “You found him wandering in the street?” she confirmed after taking my name and contact info.

  “Well, on the sidewalk.”

  “But wandering alone.”

  “Yes.”

  I gave the woman all the information I could about where I had found the dog and how I’d followed him to try to confirm his owner was not nearby.

  Another woman came to take the dog to the kennel, and I felt a tug of sadness at saying goodbye to my new friend. I gave him a last pat on the back while the woman attached a collar and leash to him, and he licked my hand before following the woman across the cavernous room and disappearing.

  Turning my attention back to the front desk, I asked, “So how do you try to track down the owner?”

  “We’ll check to see if he has a microchip, and if so contact the vet that put it in. Otherwise, we just keep him here and hope that the owner checks for him. If not, after two weeks, he goes up for adoption.”

  “Okay,” I said, not wanting to leave. “Well…thank you.”

  “This is a well cared-for dog,” the woman added, a little more kindly. “He’ll find his way home.”

  I tried to smile. “Thanks.”

  This had been an anticlimactic end to the story, and I hated leaving the dog alone in a shelter. A teary reunion with the owner would’ve been much more satisfying. I turned and walked back out of the shelter, the chilly wind whipping through my dress the moment I opened the door.

  Outside, it was so dark, and a chilly mist of rain had begun to fall. A feeling of dread descended on me. This had been a great diversion, an unexpected break from real life. But now I would have to face my life again, and I was at the precipice of a choice: go home and see Matt, or find somewhere else to spend the night.

  Instead of deciding just yet, I turned on a whim and rushed back inside.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the woman behind the desk. “If the owner doesn’t claim him…would you be able to let me know?”

  “We don’t typically follow up with people who bring in strays,” the woman said. “Or do you mean you’d like to adopt him if he’s not claimed?”

  I took a deep breath. This was crazy. I knew nothing about caring for a dog—I wasn’t even sure my landlord allowed pets in the house. But this dog had been there for me when no one else had. “I’d like to adopt him.”

  “Sure, I’ll make a note. I have to warn you, though—that dog looks like someone loves him. I think the chances of you getting a call are low.”

  “I know,” I said. “Thank you.”

  I gave a small smile to the woman before leaving again, and this time my heart felt better, stronger. Maybe even ready to face my current situation.

  When I got home that night, Matt was already asleep on the couch. I snuck into the bedroom, glad not to have to talk to him, and slept fitfully until nine the next morning, late for me. When I woke up, though, I lay staring at the ceiling for another hour, not quite ready to face the day yet. Instead, I snuggled deeper into the comforter, thinking about the night before.

  It was all so painful, what had happened.

  But then there was the dog. I smiled, remembering him, and wondered what he was doing right now. Had his owner found him yet?

  Finally, I pulled myself out of bed, sure I’d find Matt in the living room at his computer, playing a game with his headphones on, totally absorbed. I wondered whether he was upset, or if he really was dealing with this “rationally,” a term that infuriated me more the more I thought about it.

  But he wasn’t there. The house was still and silent, so I made myself breakfast and sat at the kitchen table, thinking about how to start in on my list. I’d need to find a marathon training group, and the sooner the better. I searched idly on my phone while I ate, and quickly found that there was a marathon here in the city at the end of May, nine months away, and a training group that started, unbelievably, in two weeks. It was too perfect.

  Finally, at almost noon, Matt walked in.

  “Hey, Soph,” he said, his eyes darting around as though unsure what I’d do to him.

  “Hi, Matt,” I said. My stomach did a little flip-flop at the sight of him.

  “I found an apartment,” he said. “I can move in next week.”

  “You—what?” I asked, shocked. He’d found a place to live already? This was all happening so fast, I felt like my head was spinning.

  “Yeah, I’m going to start packing up now.”

  I stared at him. “Already?”

  “I think it’s best, don’t you?”

  I didn’t answer, and after a moment he disappeared into the bedroom. I shook my head in frustration. Matt had been kind throughout our relationship, but I wasn’t particularly surprised that he was so matter-of-fact now. He hated conflict, hated dealing with emotions. I hated conflict too, but there were times—such as at the end of a six-year relationship—when a little bit of communication could’ve gone a long way.

  But there was no time to wallow. I pulled myself up and headed out the door to sign up in person for the marathon training group. The marathon was now top priority.

  CHAPTER 2

  Finding a marathon training group was one thing. Getting up the courage to actually go to the first training was another.

  I’d gone on a few practice runs ahead of time to make sure I wasn’t totally out of shape, but as the date neared for the training group to start, I worried about who I’d find when I went. Would everyone there be seasoned athletes? Would they already run every single day, and would I feel woefully behind and out of shape? Would I embarrass myself? Had they all run marathons before, and would they laugh at me for wanting to start big without ever having run so much as a 5K in the past?

  In the end, I’d managed to swallow my pride—and my fears—and arrived at the first session early one Saturday morning jittery but excited. The group met twice a week at a store that sold running shoes and apparel, and from there, I’d read, they’d head to a nearby park to do drills and interval trainings followed by a run, longer on Saturday, shorter on Tuesday mornings.

  “Welcome!” the group leader, Ada, said. She was a trim woman in her forties with a light brown ponytail that bounced as she talked. “I see a lot of new faces today, and that’s fantastic. Many people find that training for a marathon can be cleansing in many other areas of their lives, so you’re making a big step today by committing to go through this training. First off, let me tell you a little about my own journey….”

  My eyes wandered around the room as Ada talked. I was surprised at the variety of people she saw around her, though the group was only about fifteen people. Some looked to be around my age or even younger, while one couple was probably in their sixties.

  One guy caught my eye. He was tall and looked healthy and fit. His thick brown hair was long enough to tuck behind his ears, and it curled slightly in an unruly way—the kind of hair that every woman dreamed of, unless they had it. I ran my fingers through my own fine blonde hair.

  He sure was cute. He was watching Ada intently as she spoke, and I wondered whether he was really into running or just really into her. He smiled when she made a joke, and I couldn’t seem to pull my eyes away. That sm
ile was electric. Even across the room, even though it wasn’t aimed at me, I couldn’t help but smile too just seeing his smile.

  After the introduction, Ada explained how the class would work, and then everyone headed outside to the park to do start the training.

  The training was hard, and the sprints were harder. I had a moment of doubt—everyone else, while not the star athletes I’d feared they’d be, did seem to be in better shape than I was.

  But then I remembered The Rules, as I’d come to think of them, and began running harder. I could do this. I could get up to speed, no matter how hard it was. I could make new friends, turn running into something I loved, lose weight, complete a marathon. I could get my life back on track.

  After doing drills for half an hour, the group started a longer run. This was the part I was most nervous about. Everyone ran together, and if I wasn’t able to keep up, it would be obvious. We started out on a trail through the park, Ada leading the way, and soon the cute boy with the unruly hair fell into step beside me. I smiled to myself when I noticed the way his hair bounced around frantically as he ran.

  He flashed me the gorgeous smile I’d noticed earlier, then glanced back to make sure no one was following him too closely before saying, “Watch this.” Without breaking stride he went from running into a perfect cartwheel, then landed back on his feet and kept running.

  I laughed in surprise. Something about the continuity of the motion reminded me of the way the dog had licked my hand and then gone straight back to chewing on leaves when I had first encountered him.

  “That was very impressive,” I said as he fell back into stride beside me. Show-off, I thought, but with affection. I wondered how the dog was doing, not for the first time since their encounter. It had been two weeks now since that day. Surely he was back home by now. At any rate, I hadn’t heard from the animal shelter, and it was past the date they’d said they’d call.