Page 4 of Deep Gap

“The colony stays warm. They swarm together to maintain the heat.”

“Really?”

“I had a difficult time believing it myself.” Greer looks longingly at the box.

“Ah, that’s why you’re standing in a field when it’s about to pour.”

“We can go,” she blurts as I ask, “The rest of them are alive in there?”

“Yeah, put your ear to this one. Don’t bump it. It’s an active hive Mac didn’t want to chance splitting at the same time as with the others. Those four on the end are smaller. They’re the two he split this summer.”

I lean toward the box and, sure enough, there’s a faint rumbling buzz that’s almost electric.

“We can go.” Greer blurts again, bouncing on her toes.

“Don’t want me here?”

“I’m not even supposed to be here. You don’t disturb a hive in the winter. It was the small ones I was worried about. Mac let me watch from a distance when he separated them and… I just don’t want anything to go wrong. A small colony is still a lot of bees to lose if they do freeze. I mean, look how many are on the ground.”

“I thought those were the ones who took it for the team?”

“It’s still sad.” She shrugs.

At the same moment, the heavens open up. Faster than lightning crashes, the pups are already jumping up into the trunk of my crossover. I slam the tailgate and dash to the driver’s door. Greer is inside, flicking water off her wet hands. I turn the engine over and direct the blower at her.

“Keep you warm. Like the bees.” I kid.

She graces me with a tentative smile and polite thanks. It somehow makes me feel like we’re above the clouds and she’s comfortable with me giving her a ride. I don’t understand why she didn’t want Karen to do it. They’re close.

It’s not too far to Greer’s place. The building is on the dingy side. My hard-wired response is to set the parking brake and lock the dogs in the car. I belatedly ask Greer if I can use her restroom and follow her inside, scanning the block for any unsavory characters. Some habits are damn near unbreakable. It was the same weary thing when Trig and I pulled up to a small village in Afghanistan.

Her key turns too easily in the lock. The apartment door is too thin. The small living room, though not unkempt, is too sparse. The elastic of the blue stretchy sofa cover nearest the bare floor has given all it’s got. She’s spread newsprint over half of a scratched coffee table. On top are upside-down glass bowls of various sizes that look to be drying. Green paint, glue, and glitter are to the side. A well-used brush lies beside them.

“It looks odd, but I’m building a glass Christmas tree. It’s this thing I saw on Pinterest.”

She feels the need to justify its significance. Whereas, I’m curious about how festive the end result will turn out. The bowls all have different etched and molded designs.

“Neat,” I reply, cautious not to ask if she’s adding any colors to it after it’s assembled. Greer doesn’t need to defend her actions to me.

“The restroom is in there. You sort of have to squeeze by the bed. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. You’re doing me a favor.”

The bedroom is tight. Unlike the sparsity of the living area, a bold white Ashley-something-or-other—you know, the expensive furniture store a guy like me can never get the name straight of—fills every nook and cranny. There’s about enough clearance between the full-size bed and the dresser to open the drawer. I turn and crab walk to the utilitarian bathroom; A sink, commode, and stand-up shower are all she wrote.

I don’t really have to use the facilities. My elbow grazes the salmon pink shower curtain. I tip the tap to rinse my hands so that Greer is none the wiser and thinks I’m the type who never forgets to scrub. Steam rises before the water splashes into the basin. Muttering a swear word, I pull my hand away. I’m about to open the cabinet under the sink to see what the matter is when voices filter through the thin walls from the kitchen.

________________

I’m a creature of habit, many of which were born out of necessity. My gut feeling is Byron escorted me inside because a woman on this side of Brighton may not be as safe walking to her door. He’s right. I live in a shadier part of Brighton. There is a strip club mere blocks away. Everything Sweet Caroline’s faces has undergone urban revitalization. Behind lies the slums. Normally, I unlock the apartment and, for as flimsy as the door is, flip the deadbolt as soon as I’m inside. Of course, Byron did the courteous ladies first gesture. And the first thing that slipped my mind?

I never relocked the door to give myself fair warning when my landlord jiggled the handle. And unfortunately for me—right as I got my wits about me and remembered I should have also told Byron about the freaking boiling water in the bathroom—the knob turned and Waylon let himself in.

Now, we’re squared off in my kitchen with Waylon arguing that he knocked, that I must not have heard him, and that he didn’t know I was home. Given past experience, I’d be surprised if his nasty knuckles brushed the chipping paint.

I swear he tracks when I come and go. However, Waylon’s not only big on breaking and entering—something I can’t prove since he has a set of keys—he’s a close talker. The kind of mansplainer who invades a woman’s space.

“Can’t you do this later? Now’s not a great time.”

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