Page 39 of Deep Gap

“Is that what we should be doing? Do you want me to see a doctor?” I haven’t got the foggiest when it comes to birth control. Safe sex is… It’s this, right? Waiting for the person who completes you and trusting you’re both doing the correct thing?

His eyes flick to mine, and Byron flattens me to the mattress. He spreads his palm wide over my belly. “I told you I’m taking as many days as forever lasts with you, Greer. I want you to read between the lines on that, and for you to understand whatever happens, happens. There is no way of knowing what tomorrow has in store, but it’s going to take a lot to tear me away from you. I seriously have no plans to go anywhere—not without you by my side. Okay?”

“Okay.” My lips twist. I try to spin, angling away from him to conceal my glee.

“What?” Byron catches my waist. His chest hair scratches my back and his fingertips tickle my sides. I roll to my stomach, relieving the tingling sensation. Byron’s hard cock slides between my butt cheeks, slipping toward my pussy, and rousing another as I shimmy my hips up.

“If you love me and I love you, uhm—Do you possibly want to bury your hatchet inside of me again?”

I may not have been sore after the first time or even the second, but by the next morning, I may have juuuust a tad overestimated what my body could handle. I’m positive while letting the hot water run over me in the shower the next morning that the person who came up with the saying “too much of a good thing” was talking about sex.

Dressed in comfy clothes and drying my hair with a towel, I pad into the kitchen.

“Good thing we’re staying home today. You’re walking a little ginger there, honey bee.” Byron waggles his brows, reaching out to draw me into his arms. He kisses me softly. “I’ll go easier on you tonight. And,” he tacks on, “maybe give you a ride to work next week. Unless you want driving lessons?”

I stiffen and pull away. “No, thanks.”

“Woah, Woah! What did I say?”

“I thought I made it clear I’m not interested in driving.”

“You did.” He runs a hand over his scalp. His shoulders shrink, and he sighs, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. You have every right to change your mind, or not to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I spit.

Byron’s lips purse. He heaves a breath. “You have this line drawn about not getting your license again. You’re worried you’ll hurt someone. Fine. I respect it. But why can’t you draw a line with Karen? Why do you let her continually drag you back and allow her to hurt you?”

The doorbell rings before I can retort. Of course, it is Karen interrupting. What else would intrude on a fight besides my past, especially since it’s the impetus of most of our disagreements?

Karen perches on the sofa, clutching my hand, and looking grave as she asks how I’m feeling. I tell her I’m fine out of reflex, Byron’s accusation ringing in my ears.

“Mac and I had an argument on the way home from the hospital.” Karen swallows. “He accused me of holding on too tight. Holding you back. I told him he was a fool until he pushed about stopping to check the hives and why it bothered. The reality is, Mac didn’t want me to agree. He wanted me to tell him that those bees were his thing. What he’s cared for since Ellis has been gone. I was caring for you. And he replied, ‘Then why is Greer out there with me?’.” She tilts her chin to Byron, who is blending in against the wall. “You avoid me. Now, more than ever.”

“I love you, Karen.” I pause, understanding Byron and Mac are right. They’ve both paved the road for this discussion. “But I’m not the person I was. I’m not even the girl Ellis grew up with anymore, and I only remember so many stories about who we were.”

“I don’t like bees.” She graces me with a watery smile and a silly eye roll. “But the soaps you make are lovely, and I’d like you to teach me how to make them. I can come here if it’s easier for you. I’d like to learn the process, and maybe in the process, get to know the you who Mac’s so keen to see succeed.”

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One year later…

“Put the broom down,” Karen huffs, holding a ream of shiny paper to her chest. “Ester will be here in twenty. That’s her job.”

“Force of habit,” I reply. Unapologetically, I toss my chin toward an open box and a baker’s dozen of rose and cedar beard oil. “I ran out of labels and needed to stay busy while you were at the print shop.”

Karen sets the stickers atop the boxes that are set to ship. She lifts a bottle off of the counter while I make a tidy dust pile in the corner. It is part of Ester’s job, but I don’t mind pitching in. Someone else helped me once upon a time, too.

Together, Karen and I affix the last of the labels on our latest product. I use the big fancy tape dispenser that makes the ripping and squealing sound to seal it shut. Karen pats the stack of boxes. “I can’t believe how popular this scent is. I get daily emails asking if we’ll make candles and lotion with the same scent.”

There’s an ease to my conversations with Ellis’s mom nowadays. It started the first afternoon we melted wax in my haphazard double boiler. Having a task to keep us occupied made learning about who the other person was fun.

Come to find out Karen’s hatred of bees is as minute as the tip of their stingers. Initially, we spent one week a month goofing off in the kitchen. After those four weeks, we had an insane amount of product—way more than the random orders the mill girls had requested. Karen suggested renting a booth at the Farmer’s Market.

There was a flurry of activity and interest at our tables. We were a buzz when it happened; A Brighton townie who had been circling the tent we were under, pointed at me saying, “Aren’t you?”

They glanced in Karen’s direction. The stiff movement of their arm followed their jaw-dropping gaze. The gall of the next question took Karen by surprise. Her eyes widened with the same shock as the customer’s had, and it was obvious Karen hadn’t clued in that I was still recognized for what I did.

My heart sank, trying to come up with a way to assuage the situation. As I opened my mouth, Karen beat me to responding.

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