Page 21 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

I laugh, but Charlie keeps watching me. “You’re calm. Focused. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Bees tell you what they need.”

“So do people,” Charlie says. “Sometimes by checking their phone five times since leaving the apartment.”

My attention flies to Charlie. “I did not.” My voice sounds way too defensive. Especially for someone who’s trying to exhibit inner peace.

Charlie ticks off on her gloved fingers. “You checked once while unlocking the car.”

“That barely counts.”

“Once at a stop sign, and once at a stop light.”

“I was verifying the time.”

“You checked again in your mom’s driveway. And you checked once more before you put on your second glove.” She rests one hand on the side of the hive box. “You miss Miles.”

I reach for the smoker and give the hive a gentle puff, even though they don’t really need it. I need it. Apparently, my emotional support smoke machine has multiple uses. “When your best friend gets pulled into a weird work emergency and disappears for a day, you worry. That’s normal.”

“Absolutely.”

“It is friendship concern.”

“Classic.”

I lift the last frame I want to check and hold it between us. Bees crawl over capped honey that’s golden in the low sun. “I can miss him without it being a thing.”

Charlie says nothing, but I can practically feel the look she’s giving me. I sigh. “What?”

“Are we still pretending you and Miles are a strictly best-friend situation?”

Something in my chest jumps hard enough that I almost tighten my grip on the frame. I force my hands to stay gentle. “It’s not pretending,” I say. “It is the reality.”

“Is it?” Charlie looks at the frame, then at me. “If it helps, I’m not saying you should do anything. I’m saying maybe it makes sense that you miss him this much.”

I set the inner cover on the hive, then the outer cover, making sure everything is aligned. The bees continue moving in and out below us, calm despite the disruption. I wish I could be more like them. Disturbed for a few minutes, then back to work. No spiraling. No overthinking. I start toward the shed, and Charlie follows, slower this time.

For a while, neither of us talks. We take off the veils near the shed, then the gloves, then the suits. The late-afternoon air feels cooler against my face after being under the mesh. My hair is stuck to my temples, and my thoughts are stuck everywhere else.

Charlie sets her veil on the workbench. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

“Great.”

“But if you did…”

“Less great.”

She leans back against the shed doorframe, tired but gentle. “I’m just saying, if Miles were anyone else, I’d probably tease you harder. But he’s not anyone else.”

“No,” I say before I can stop myself, “he’s not.”

He is the person who notices when I’m overwhelmed before I know I’m overwhelmed. The person who turns my mistakes into adventures. The person who makes room for the ten tabs open in my brain and somehow finds the one playing music. The person who sends me articles about bees recognizing faces because he knows I’ll love it.

The person I cannot afford to lose.

I turn toward the workbench and begin putting tools away. Smoker. Hive tool. Bee brush. Gloves. Everything in its place. Out here, I know where things go. Out here, I can make order and keep it. I hang the bee brush on its hook, then take it down and rehang it because the bristles are facing the wrong direction.

“You know,” she says carefully, “for someone who thinks she’s a disaster, your bee shed looks like it was organized by Emerson.”