Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE: Honey, Spice and everything Nice
Honey Bee...
That’s my actual name.
Honey and then Bee. Which is really funny cause there’s nothing honeyed about my life and to be perfectly honest, I don’t consider myself to be much of a bee either.
Bees are graceful, pollinators, loyal, and yeah, sure, they might sting a few people here and there, but everyone acknowledges their usefulness to the ecosystem. No, I’m no bee. Maybe a wasp. A hornet or a housefly when I’m feeling pretty.
And despite how ridiculously ill-fitted my name is, I wouldn’t be called anything else. Mostly because Honey Bee was my mother’s idea, and with no memory of her, my name was the only link to my mother that I had.
The coffee in my hands is lukewarm now, its bitterness lingering on my tongue longer than I’d like. The air in the kitchen is thick with the scent of old wood and something…burnt? Dad must have used the toaster again. The weak morning light filters through the window, washing the walls in a pale-yellow glow.
“Bee. You’re up early.” The gravelly sound of my father’s voice startles me a bit, and my hand jerks, sending a splash of coffee onto my shirt. The warmth seeps through the fabric, spreading across my skin. I hiss and rush to the kitchen sink, scrubbing at the stain with cold water.
“Maybe a bit of warning next time, Dad? This is my favourite shirt.” I turn to glare at him, the damp fabric clinging uncomfortably to my stomach.
“Did you get burned?” He raises a brow in concern.
“No.” I sigh. “But I definitely need to change.”
Dad shrugs in reply, his expression unreadable, and I roll my eyes before trudging into my room. I can feel his gaze lingering on me from the kitchen corner, watching, always watching.
Dad wasn’t the kind of man who filled a room. He was the kind who shrank into the corners, quiet and watchful, like he was waiting for something—or maybe trying to forget.
He calls me ‘Bee’, never ‘Honey’, like he couldn’t bring himself to say the whole thing. I used to wonder if it was because of Mom, if my name reminded him about her too much, but I never asked. Some things in this house would stay buried, and Mom is one of them.
There were no pictures of my mother anywhere. No keepsakes. Nothing at all. I ponder a little on this as I stare at the brown-skinned teenage girl in my vanity mirror. The weak morning light casts soft shadows over her face, highlighting the beauty marks right above her lips and under her left eye. I take in the shoulder-length braids, the tired eyes. Did she—did I look anything like my mother? What if I don’t look like my mother at all? What if I’m just my father’s daughter and nothing of my mother remains?
I pull a fresh T-shigʻrt over my head, the fabric brushing against the skin. My father’s voice breaks through the silence again, his version of a yell:
“Bee. You’re gonna be late.” “Coming.” I yell back before I grab my satchel and head out the door. The heat of the morning greets me the second I step outside, thick and sticky against my skin. I tug my bag higher on my shoulder and start walking, the pavement radiating warmth through the soles of my sneakers.
The street hums with life—dogs barking behind fences, the distant buzz of a lawnmower, a car door slamming shut. Mr. Patel from next door watering his plants, his hose arcing a glittering rainbow in the sunlight. He gives me a nod; the same one he gives every morning.
The bus stop isn’t far, just a few blocks down, and I fall into the rhythm of my steps, my thoughts a tangled mess. Dad was quieter than usual these days, especially this morning. Not that he’s ever been much of a chatterbox, but today felt…off. I shake it off. Dad was just being Dad. He was always in his head. Always holding things in like, a badge of honour.
The grocery store comes into view, its fluorescent lights spilling onto the pavement even in daylight. Work is nothing fancy—just Fresco’s, the kind of place where you can buy everything from stale bread to off-brand cereal that tastes like regret.
I push through the doors, the conditioned cool air slapping against my skin, cooling me down from the intense summer glare. The smell of overripe fruit and disinfectant clings to everything.
“Well look who finally decided to grace us commoners with her presence.”
I don’t even have to look to know it’s Dina. She’s perched behind the register, her blonde curls piled on her head, popping her gum like it’s an Olympic sport.
“I’m right on time, Dina,” I say, clocking in. “You’re actually two minutes late and failed to deliver the coffee you promised me a week ago.” She tsks, a perfectly shaped eyebrow raised.
Marco, our shift supervisor, grunts as he stacks a tower of canned beans onto the shelf. “Less talking, more working.”
I roll my eyes but grab an apron, tying it around my waist. The morning drags. Shelf stocking. Price checks. Someone spills a bottle of soda in aisle two. I mop it up while Dina pretends, she suddenly has back pain. Classic.
Then he walks in.
Sleazy Regular.
He always shows up around noon, smelling like cheap cologne that fails to cover up the stench of even cheaper cigarettes. He leans on the counter, flashing a yellow-toothed plaque-encrusted grin.
Gross.
“Hey sweetheart,” he drawls. “Miss me? I know I did.” I force bile down and beep his groceries. He keeps talking. “You ever get tired of bagging groceries? Cause a pretty thing like you should be bagging cash, ya know…having a good time?”
I force a smile, grip the counter, and look him square in his red-rimmed eyes. “That’ll be $12.70.”
“Awn, don’t be like that.” He winks—or at least I think so—slides the money across the counter. When I take it, his fingers linger too long against mine, and I struggle with the urge to throw up.
I yank my hand back, shove his receipt, and change into the grocery bag to prevent touching him again. “Have a nice day.”
He chuckles, saunters out, and the tension in both my shoulders eases. “You should really tell Marco to do something about that creep,” Dina mutters. “Yeah. Like Marco cares.” Dina gives a light shrug, then her face darkens with seriousness. “I’ve got a can of pepper spray in my bag. Just say the word.” A smirk I can’t help appears on my lips.
By the time my shift ends, I’m exhausted, my feet aching. Dina’s leaning against the counter, scrolling through her phone, her cherry red nails tapping against the screen. “You aren’t leaving yet?” I strap my bag, hand pressed firmly against the store’s glass door ready to push. “Gonna pull a double. Rent don’t pay itself...” She responds, eyes still focused on her phone. I nod more to myself since she can’t see me anyway and let myself out.
The evening air is thick with humidity as I step off the bus, my sneakers scuffing against the cracked pavement. The streetlights flicker lazily, not quite ready to wake up. The sun has already started dipping behind the rooftops casting everything in that weird in-between light—where the world isn’t quite day or night.
I roll my shoulders, shaking off the stiffness. The strap of my satchel digs into my shoulder, but I don’t bother adjusting it. It’s a small discomfort, and I can handle this much.
The house looks the same as it always does when I turn the corner—a little worn but standing strong. The porch light isn’t on yet. It should be.
Dad always turns it on before I get home.
I push the thought away and climb the steps, fishing my keys out of my bag. The metal is warm in my fingers as I slide it into the lock and push the door open. The house is dark, except for the thin slice of light spilling from the kitchen.
He’s home.
I let the door swing shut behind me and drop my bag near the entryway before toeing off my shoes. I step into the kitchen and find Dad sitting at the table, hunched over a stack of papers. His fingers drum absently against the wood, his eyes skimming over whatever he’s reading. A half-empty cup of coffee sits beside him, the liquid long gone cold.
“Hey,” I say, leaning against the doorframe.
He doesn’t jump, doesn’t even look up right away. Just exhales through his nose before firmly dragging his gaze to mine. His eyes are tired. Shadowed. Something heavy clings to him, but I can’t quite put a name to it.
“You’re late.” His voice is rough, but I’ve lived with him long enough to identify the worry in his words.
I frown, stepping into the kitchen. “No, I’m not. I got off at the same time I always do.”
Dad blinks like he’s trying to process that, then shakes his head slightly. “Right. Yeah. Long day?”
“The usual. Dina still thinks she’s allergic to actual work, and Marco is, well…Marco.”
That earns me a small, fleeting smirk before his expression shutters again. He glances at the clock, then back at the papers in front of him.
I pull open the fridge, scanning for something quick to eat. “Did you have dinner?” “Not hungry,” he mutters.
Liar.
Dad always made sure we ate together. No matter what, he always makes something for both of us. A plate of two half-made ham sandwiches on the counter tells me he made the effort but never followed through.
Something is wrong.
I decided not to push.
Instead, I grab a leftover container of pasta and pop it in the microwave. The quiet hum fills the space, stretching between us. I sneak another glance at him. His shoulders are tense, his fingers still drumming. I wonder if he even realizes he’s doing it.
“So, uh…work okay for you too?” I try to salvage a conversation, scooping the pasta onto a plate.
Dad hesitates. “Yeah. Same as always.”
Another lie.
Or maybe not. Maybe it really was the same. Maybe this heaviness, this thing that’s pressing into the air, has been here longer than I realized, and I failed to notice…until now.
I take a seat across from him, poking at my food. “You sure you’re good?” His jaw tightens. “Why wouldn’t I be?” I shrug. “You just seem…I dunno. Off.”
For a second, I think he’s going to tell me something. His lips part, then press into a thin line, like he’s swallowing whatever words were about to slip free. His fingers stop drumming.
“I’m fine, Bee,” he says, a little too firmly. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
That’s the thing, though. I do. And of course, I do. He was acting weirder than usual, and that bothered me more than I care to admit.
I shove a forkful of pasta into my mouth, chewing slowly. Dad runs a hand down his face, then finally, finally pushes the papers away like he decided he’s done with whatever thoughts were plaguing him.
“Got the weekend off?” He asks. “Yep.”
He nods, eyes flickering toward the clock again.
Awkward silence.
I try to force some more pasta down my throat, but now it tastes like paper, and I’ve lost my appetite.
I chose to stare out the kitchen window, I couldn’t bear any more of the weird tension between myself and my father. As soon as I do this, I notice a car pass outside, its headlights cutting across the window. The shadow moves over Dad’s face, and for the briefest moment, he looks…haunted. Like there’s something lurking behind his eyes that I can’t quite see.
Then it’s gone.
And I tell myself it’s nothing.
Even though I know better.
Even though I saw the envelope on the table earlier, half-tucked under a stack of bills. It had no return address. Just a name I didn’t recognize scribbled across the front in dark ink. I didn't ask. I should have.
Tomorrow, maybe. Tomorrow I’ll ask.
Or maybe...
Maybe I won't need to.
But as I turn away from the window and head to my room, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s already changing. Like the world’s taken a breath, just waiting to exhale. And deep down, I know: whatever’s coming isn’t going to wait for me to be ready.
