by Ashley Pullo
It was just sex. After a night of mojitos. But Seth is pretty cool. And he likes me. But we work together. And he annoys me. Immature fuck gave me a hickey! We’ll have to forget last night. Can we? The sex was pretty good. And he didn’t seem to mind the cellulite. I need more shampoo. I’ll avoid him for a few days. Maybe he doesn’t like me. What if he ignores me? Fuck, I’m late for work.
Shutting off the shower and drying off, Meg quickly brushes her teeth and runs some gel through her black hair. Even with the recent weight gain, Meg still has incredible cheekbones that are perfect for her pixie haircut.
Rummaging through her tiny IKEA wardrobe, Meg removes a blue and black striped sundress and a pair of white Keds. She lathers lotion on her bare legs, scowling at the ridiculous tattoo that sits on her ankle. She’s been known to tell people that the cherries and skull represent the misconceptions of rebellion, but that tattoo is a direct result of her Rockabilly phase during her sophomore year of college.
Meg applies very little makeup – liquid black eyeliner for her hazel eyes, peach blush for her freckled cheeks, and hot-pink lip gloss for her pouty lips. Fully dressed, Meg grabs the orange juice carton from the refrigerator and takes a big gulp, gagging as the citrus mixes with her minty-fresh breath.
“Bleh!” She spits into the sink. Patting her mouth with a napkin, she then reapplies her lip gloss and bolts out the door to head to her favorite place.
Like Seth, Meg needed a job out of monetary desperation. Raised as a privileged snot in an apartment on the Upper East Side, she’d played the role of darling socialite for eighteen years. But instead of boarding a plane after high school graduation to spend the summer abroad, Meghan Victoria Fitzpatrick chopped off her russet hair, dyed it black, sold her Louis Vuitton luggage, enrolled in theater classes at NYU, moved into a Village apartment with two roommates, and began her adventure as Meg.
Following college graduation, very few auditions called for a sarcastic pixie with a raspy voice, so Meg worked as a ticket agent during the day, and a cocktail waitress at night. It was such a clichéd story, and like every twenty-something single girl in New York City, Meg wanted an original story – a complex narrative fueled by romance and self-discovery.
Trying to find her groove, Meg spent two years living on tips, going on auditions, and sleeping with any man that could offer something in return. Her life was disappointing, and she’d had enough. So last summer, armed with her laptop and the determination to find an adventure, Meg set up an outdoor office in a public space in the Seaport. While padding her thin resume outside a coffee shop, Meg overheard Thessaly and Seth discussing media strategies for The Hive. She’d thought it was some trendy nightclub which piqued her interest, but when she quickly Googled the store, she was presently surprised. She wanted to be a part of this small business, but what she really needed was to be a part of something. Using an aggressive yet creative approach, Meg blasted every social media platform with catchy hashtags about The Hive. She then emailed her resume and a short cover letter directly to Thessaly that read: #hireme.
So it was on that cool summer day when Meg approached their table and said, “Hi, did you receive my email?”
Caught off-guard by Meg’s simplistic beauty, Seth muttered, “What?”
“Meghan Fitzpatrick?” Thessaly asked, looking up from her phone and the dozens of social media notifications.
Meg nodded, pulled out a chair, and joined her new co-workers.
Seth, still unaware of what was going on asked, “What’s going on?”
Smiling, Thessaly announced, “Meghan, welcome to your first business meeting!”
Working for The Hive has afforded Meg with great friends, a new studio apartment, and a potential romance with a stable and doting graphic designer. It’s everything the sarcastic rich girl from the Upper East Side ever wanted – plus all the honey and jam she can physically eat. And just like Seth, in three months, she will own one and a half percent of The Hive as a token of her loyal service.
Leaving her building, Meg places earbuds in her ears and begins a brisk walk. It normally takes her fifteen minutes, but today, eager to be the first to arrive at The Hive, she books it down John Street like a woman being chased. She passes the Beanery, the storefront with the mermaid mannequins, the fresh vegetable stand at the market, and then darts the last block to Fulton.
Outside The Hive, Meg unlocks the door while glancing at Seth’s bike leaning against the window.
Could he be the right guy?
Once inside the shop, Meg switches on the chandelier and props open the screen door.
“Meg?” Thessaly squeals.
Losing her footing and catching her fall on the screen door, Meg replies, “Oh, shit, Tess. You scared the crap out of me. Why are you sitting in the dark?”
Thessaly, sitting at the island with her phone and a pile of Starburst wrappers, pats the stool next to her. “I needed to think, and the sunrise is really amazing from this spot. Here, come sit with me.”
Removing her earbuds and shoving them in her small bag, she sits down across from Thessaly. “What’s up?”
“I need to talk about what happened last night before Seth gets here.”
Flinching slightly at the mention of his name, Meg rambles, “Oh, Seth’s okay, Tess. I mean he’s acceptable. He’s somewhat funny and adequately smart. Last night we just had way too much to drink.”
Confused by Meg’s sudden admission, Thessaly scrunches her nose and asks, “Huh?”
“What?” Meg blushes.
But before Meg can divert the conversation, Seth bursts through the door of The Hive with a Starbucks tray. “Ladies, what’s the topic of chit-chat?” he announces with a cocky smile.
“I’m not sure,” Thessaly replies, analyzing Meg’s body language.
“Nothing!” Meg lowers her head and pretends to scroll through her phone.
Seth places the drink tray on the counter and removes Meg’s iced coffee. Setting it in front of her and gently brushing her bare shoulder, he whispers, “Creamy – just the way you like it.”
Meg squirms under his touch and laughs nervously. “Ha, um, yeah.”
Taking her iced latte from the tray and wiping the condensation with a napkin, Thessaly shakes her head. “Can you two just do it already?”
Seth glances at Meg’s tense shoulders and red cheeks. “I wish, Tess. Meg’s way too good for a guy like me. And I’m completely content knowing I get to see her pretty face at work every day. And on the rare occasion, I get to make her laugh.”
Meg, head lowered, smiles from ear-to-ear. “What did you want to talk about, Tess?” Meg’s voice cracks as she raises her head.
“Oh, God, it’s really silly and insignificant, but I saw Mason last night – at my apartment.”
“You let him come to your apartment?” Seth confirms, pulling up a stool next to Meg.
“Yep, for a booty call.”
“Wait, did you just say booty call?” asks Meg.
Smiling, Thessaly teases, “And what do the hip kids of the Village call it these days?”
“Personally, I find that hooking up is vague yet classy,” Seth interjects, secretly pinching Meg’s thigh under the counter.
Thessaly arches her eyebrow and complies. “Fine. Mason wanted to hook up.”
“End your sentence with yo for emphasis.”
“Mason wanted to hook up, yo!” Thessaly chirps.
Meg and Seth smile and demand in unison, “Continue.”
“So he came by and we messed around a little – but I wasn’t feeling it. Maybe I realized something was missing. Like, where’s the passion? The give and take?”
“Go on,” Seth instructs while chomping on ice.
“He had me pinned against the wall,” she reveals, suddenly ashamed. “Anyway, all I could think about was the need for honey sticks.”
Snickering, Seth asks, “Should I insert a joke now?”
“I’m talking about honey in sticks. They’re treats.”
“I bet they are,” he panders.
“You killed the mood, didn’t you, Tess?” asks Meg.
“Not even close. Mason is tenacious and always gets what he wants. Very few things will stop him.”
“Like?”
“Like, I told him I wanted to date other people.”
Meg laughs while Seth shakes his head. “Lemme guess . . .” he starts.
“Now he wants you, right?” Meg snorts.
“He didn’t want to believe me about the dating, he’s so arrogant, but this morning, he sent me five texts – the five stages of jealousy.” Thessaly reads from her phone in a deep voice. “I love you. We belong together and I was stupid for not seeing that sooner. We have a history and a future. No prick is good enough for you. I won’t wait for you to change your mind.”
Meg’s jaw drops as Seth whistles.
“Wow, that’s some lame shit,” Meg says flatly.
Seth grabs Thessaly’s phone and insists, “Don’t text him back! I want to see how far this goes.”
Standing from the island, Thessaly yanks her phone out of Seth’s hand. “He won’t give up.”
“Maybe you need a sexy farmer with a hankering for ice cream to kick his ass,” Meg suggests with a smile.
“Maybe so.”
Using the iPad to research Shelter Island weddings, Thessaly quickly checks Pinterest to gather a few ideas. She always tries to stay away from cheesy puns when it comes to using her products as gifts, and the best way to avoid clichéd phrases is to show an elegant bride how overused that crap really is.
Aware that her two o’clock appointment arrived early, Thessaly watches as they wander around the store. Overhearing their remarks about the gorgeous packaging of the confections and the exquisite modern design of her shop, Thessaly takes the opportunity to approach the ladies.
“Hello, welcome to The Hive. I’m Thessaly Sinclair.” Extending her arm and motioning toward the island, Thessaly adds, “We can chat over here.” As the women sit with their designer handbags and remove their iPads and folders, Thessaly signals to Meg standing near the register. Taking her cue, Meg heads to the kitchen to retrieve the glorified refreshments.
Smiling and arching her Botox-ridden eyebrows, the wedding planner exclaims, “Thessaly, it is so nice to meet you – I’m Mindy Hollis-Klein. We’re absolutely in love with your shop!” Tapping the island in front of the bride, she adds, “Heather and I were discussing how your honey and jams are like little pieces of art.”
“Thank you,” Thessaly replies, sitting down across from the two women. “I take great pride in my family’s farm – it was only right to share it with the Seaport.”
Meg arrives at the island carrying a wicker tray of warm cornbread, and a sampling of jams and honey. Thessaly places a small plate in front of each woman with a smile. “I hope y’all are hungry.”
Heather’s eyes expand with horror, terrified of ingesting unwanted calories before her wedding. “It smells delicious, Thessaly, but I’ll just have a water with lemon.”
Mindy uses the serving tongs and places a small portion of cornbread on her plate. “Think of this as a tasting, Heather. Jam or honey?”
Suggesting something lighter, Thessaly offers, “Try the peach-infused honey, Heather. No added sugar and the taste is phenomenal. I also have sugar-free strawberry jam you could spread on a low-fat rice cake.”
“No, please don’t bother – I’ll rely on Mindy’s impeccable taste. Does the honey come from your family’s farm? I’m so fascinated with the subject.”
“It does! I receive raw, harvested honey shipments every few months and then I package it in my shop.” Thessaly opens a photo album on her tablet and shows the ladies previous examples of custom products. “Mindy will direct me as to what you’ll want during your reception – from there, we can create almost any flavor and personalized packaging specifically for your wedding.”
In a hoity voice reserved for the Manhattan elite, Mindy reveals, “Heather’s fiancé owns a lovely property on Shelter Island. Since family and friends from all over the country will be attending, they’re graciously hosting a destination weekend wedding. Every detail is important, as I’m sure you understand.”
Heather opens an album on her iPad and scrolls through the pictures of the white and blue beachfront estate. “Dennis and I want our guests to enjoy a weekend getaway while attending our wedding. The rehearsal dinner will be outside featuring a feast of an autumn harvest. We’ve planned a pancake breakfast the following morning, lunch in town, boating activities, a trip to the winery, and then on Saturday night, a reception that will impress Julia Pierce. Nothing over the top or pretentious though – Dennis and I want the wedding to mimic an upscale bed and breakfast.”
“Oh, Heather, it looks amazing – will Julia Pierce be there? I love her columns,” Thessaly adds, glancing in her periphery as a burly delivery man enters her shop.
“She’s doing a two-page spread!” Heather beams.
Rising from the island, Thessaly asks, “Two pages? Can you excuse me for a moment?”
“Of course, dear. I’ll just be sampling this strawberry jam.”
Joining Meg as she tries to answer the silly questions of a young couple, Thessaly nudges her hip. It never ceases to amaze her that honey and jam can bring so much debate.
“Hi, you will love the light and fragrant taste of the lavender honey. I’ll have Meg bring you some tea,” Thessaly offers.
“What’s up?” asks Meg when the couple leaves.
“Can you bring the wedding chicks some water with lemon? There’s a delivery guy here unloading crates, but I didn’t order anything.”
Meg glances at the door and shrugs her shoulders. Plodding to the kitchen, she mumbles, “Water and tea.”
Walking to the front of the store, she watches as a large, hairy man wipes sweat from his brow. “Can I help you?” Thessaly asks with a polite smile.
“Tess Sinclair? I got your order of white peaches – one bushel.”
“I think there’s a mistake! I would never order that many peaches.”
“I only deliver, lady – and I don’t get paid if I don’t deliver. You wouldn’t do that to me, would ya?” Sweat runs down his cheeks like dejected tears while he continues to unload his dolly.
“But, I, where did they come from?”
The delivery man stacks the crates of peaches in the front corner of the shop, moaning as he stretches from his rolling cart to the short tower of wooden crates. “Brooklyn Soil.” He pulls out a crinkled slip of paper from the pocket of his plaid shirt and drops it into the top crate. Wiping sweat from his upper lip, he smiles quickly and then scurries out the door before Thessaly can stop him.
“I didn’t order peaches,” she mutters to herself. Lifting the folded invoice from the top crate, Thessaly reads silently. If you have a dispute with your order, please call Levi Jones.
Fighting a smile, Thessaly walks toward the kitchen. “I’ll be right with you, ladies,” she says as she passes Mindy and Heather.
Returning a plastic smile, Mindy replies, “Take your time, dear.”
As Thessaly enters the kitchen, Seth looks up from the pyramid of stacked jars and frowns. “Tess, you’re flushed,” he teases.
“Hey, can you give me a minute?” she asks.
“Sure – but don’t mess with my Jar Jenga.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” she promises.
When Seth leaves, Thessaly removes the business card she stashed in the canister with her candy. Dismissing the three new texts she received from Mason, she starts a casual text to Levi. Mid-thought, Thessaly takes the plunge and dials the number to Brooklyn Soil.
After the third ring, a familiar, gravelly voice answers the call. “Hello, Brooklyn Soil.”
Her throat dry, Thessaly crackles, “Hi, um, may I speak to Levi Jones?”
A brief pause is followed by a snicker before he replies, “Levi Jones is currently at a tent revival sacrificing the baby carrots. C
an I take a message?”
Knowing that she’s speaking to Levi, Thessaly decides to play along. “Yes, please leave him a message. Tess Sinclair would like to know what she’s supposed to do with a bushel of peaches.”
“Levi would probably ask why you speak in third-person.” Pausing for effect, he adds, “And then he’d ask you to dinner.”
Chapter Six
Ms. Sinclair, CEO, The Hive:
The patent office has received your trademark request for the name, Sinclair Wild Honey. As you are aware, we go to great lengths to secure trademark applications within a timely manner. However, please allow six months for the request to be approved.
Best of luck in your new venture,
Christopher Reinhart, Patent Officer
Cheering quietly and closing her laptop, Thessaly dances to the bathroom to finish primping for her date with Levi. Humming a U2 song and shaking her hips, she removes the loose towel from her head and pats her hair dry. Her golden curls are somewhat limited in styling, but her hair looks amazing when it dries naturally with just a dab of Bumble and Bumble Curl Conscious Defining Crème.
She scrunches segments of her layered bob while singing the chorus to Wild honey.
Leaving the bathroom and twirling through the kitchenette, Thessaly makes her way to the small closet. Fishing out a tangerine dress with a price tag, and a sexy pair of turquoise pumps, she commits to being bold by ripping the Nordstrom tag off in a swift yank. She would never wear such a vibrant color with Mason – in fact, he didn’t like her in anything other than the sophisticated classics of black, navy, and a touch of pale pink.
“Wild honey,” she says, stepping into the dress.
She tugs at the side zipper and then slides her hands over the curve of her hips. Pleased with her reflection in the floor-length mirror and shocked that she’s a different person with just a dress, she chuckles. Stepping into her pumps and grabbing a small floral clutch, she switches on the overhead fan to cool her apartment, and then locks the door behind her.
