Page 147 of Bad at Love
That’s right. I’m no longer the only writer in the house. After I mentioned Marina and her beekeeping business to my editor, Abigail, she started Instagram stalking her. Once Marina’s online bee courses started taking off, then she ended up grabbing the attention of another publisher who wanted to capitalize on it.
Naturally, with one book out with me (and another on the way), Abigail wanted to keep the power couple in the family. She outbid the other publisher and Marina’s book:Palm Trees & Honey Bees: A Girl’s Guide to Beekeepingis coming out next week.
It hasn’t been without some challenges. For one, Marina hates the title and insists that the book is meant for everyone and that “girls” don’t beekeep any differently than men. But it’s gimmicky and catching people’s attention and since Marina’s long-term goals are for bees to take over the world, then whatever gets people interested in keeping them and saving them is good enough for her.
Later, we’ll head over to Irvine and have a smaller party over at Marina’s Aunt Margaret’s. Her father has been more or less sober for a year now and has his own apartment right down the street. He even has Pickles with him again.
I say, “more or less,” sober because even after three months at the treatment center and four months living in a group home with other recovering addicts, Mr. Owens still had a slip up and fell off the wagon. We all know it happens. Luckily it wasn’t anything big, just a few beers when he shouldn’t have, and ever since then he’s been doing brilliant.
Which makes Marina happy, and honestly, that’s all that matters.
But I’m about to see if things could somehow get even better.
Because things can always get better.
You see, the whole book celebration on the beach was my idea. It was my idea to fly Jane out here. It was my idea to bring Noah. I would have brought my mother too but ever since she left Daryl and is applying to adopt Noah, she’s been working around the clock at her new job.
There’s a reason we’re all gathered here together and it’s not just to celebrate the book.
It’s to, hopefully (fuck,hopefully) celebrate something else.
I clear my throat and poke Marina in the shoulder.
“Hey, you know what people don’t know about?” I ask her. “Your waggle dance.”
She laughs. “It’s notmywaggle dance. It’s how the bees communicate time and distance to each other.”
“This oughta be good,” Naomi says under her breath. “Always heard about this infamous dance.”
“Why don’t you do it,” I tell her. “Give us a show.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I’m curious. You’ve never shown it to me.”
This is not true but I don’t think she cares.
She sighs but she’s smiling. “Okay.” She gets up to herfeet and tugs down at the hems of her jean shorts before she claps her hands together and addresses her friends. “So, the waggle dance is a dance that all bees do to communicate where nectar and water sources are. It’s basically a figure eight pattern, except when they cross over the middle of the two circles or curves, they waggle back and forth. The longer the waggle in the middle, the greater the distance it is to the food source. It also takes in the angle of the sun. In this way, the bees are able to tell each other where?—”
“Just get on with it,” Jane says. “I thought we’d escape this party without any more bee shit.”
“Fine!”
So, she starts doing the waggle dance. It’s epically cute, especially the waggle part where she’s waving her butt in circles, her smile big and joyous, not caring what she looks like, her blonde hair flying around.
When she comes to a stop, she’s breathless. Gorgeous. In her element, which is right where I want her. She takes a bow and everyone claps.
And I crawl over to her on my knees and reach up with my hand to grab hers.
“Marina,” I say to her, smiling though my tone is serious.
She stares down at me, grinning, looking a bit confused. “What? You asked me to.”
“I know,” I tell her, “but I just wanted to see your smile, that’s all.”
“Awwww,” Noah says.
“I also wanted you to get to your feet. So, I could be on my knees.”
