I.
When Jeffrey was young, he played in Arundel's gardens, scampering through wilting lilies and dense hedges into the clear blaze of sunshine beside his grandfather's birdbath.
II.
The world was so colorful there; pastel lilac blossoms aching against the neon heat of his tennis shoes. He spent hours on his knees, plunging small fingers into the coarse blend of dirt and pebbles, searching for earthworms and stones and other small treasures. He built hundreds of little houses out of leaves, sticks, and pine-cones all sticky with sap. He decorated the miniature cottages with fallen blooms and iridescent beetle shells. Above his head, birds tumbled through the atmosphere like feathery comets, and he watched them and wished he was free.
III.
Jeffrey's family was acerbic and rife with dysfunction. Too often, arguments erupted from the simplest of disagreements, and he found himself desperate to get away from the scorching resentment and misunderstanding. He snuck from the house one humid Tuesday afternoon, ghosting over the gravel and across the tidy sprawl of grass to his hidden meadow. He threw himself down among the weeds and wild-flowers, feeling the sunlight on his skin as the clamor of insects and birds replaced the shrill cry of human disappointment.
Something landed on his bare knee, and he paused to watch. It was a honey bee. Its body twitched and quivered, antennae trembling as gossamer wings shone in shades of gold and ash.
The distant bang of the house's front door made Jeffrey start, arms flailing fitfully, and he hissed in pain at the sharpness of the sting. The bee whirled off, leaving its barb behind. Perhaps someone else would have hated the creature for the pain it had caused, but he knew better. It was done without malice, a simple demonstration of the insect's dichotomy: small and outwardly benign, but always ready with a judicious sting.
IV.
Over time, Jeffrey forgot about those arguments and the honey bee. Then one day, he met Skye—lovely in her own way and seemingly harmless.
A collision in the hedge, a burnt cottage, Skye's face twisted with helpless regret.
And, for the first time in years, he thought of bees.