“What, uh, what happened to your arms?” David asks me.

I look down at my arms, my eyes drifting over the welts. Sometimes I barely even see them, and now I’m realizing how odd it must look, me sitting across from this dashing doctor in a slinky sleeveless top in a nice restaurant, my arms covered with puffy red marks. I should have worn a cardigan.

“The girls were a bit cranky this morning,” I tell him.

“The girls?”

“My bees,” I remind him.

“Ah yes,” he says with a nod. “Now are these your bees or someone else’s? Didn’t you say you do live hive removals?”

I nod. “I also have host hives, where people host the hives in their yard in exchange for some of the honey. I do all of the work though.” I clear my throat, knowing I already talked about this all on the first date. “But today was just my own hive acting up. I wanted to take some pictures and the guard bees weren’t having any of it.”

“Don’t you wear a suit?”

“It depends. Normally just for collecting the honey or taking out the frames and inspecting the comb. But you can still get stung through a suit if you’re not careful. They aren’t magic force fields.”

“It doesn’t hurt?”

I shrug. “It hurts less and less over time.”

“Because your body is building up a resistance to the venom,” he says.

“Exactly,” I tell him with a smile, loving when he goes into doctor mode. “I just hate that they die after they sting me. I don’t like to lose any of them.”

He adjusts the glasses on the bridge of his nose and gives me a curious look. I’ve seen that look before. It’s the “I’m not sure what to do with this person” look. Honestly, I’m a little surprised he’s still giving it to me after two dates already. He should know who he’s dealing with.

Maybe calm down and stop talking so fast, I remind myself. All that excess caffeine has not done me any favors. I’ve been bouncing in my chair and tapping my sandals on the floor for the majority of the steak tartare appetizer.

“More wine?” the waiter says, appearing with the bottle.

“Yes, more,” I cry out, immediately holding out my glass. I know that the doctor is giving me yet another one of those looks but I ignore it. Wine will counteract the racing heart.

The waiter fills it up, and I try and pace myself as I have a few gulps.

Except I finish the whole glass.

It’s red wine, too. Not exactly chuggable.

David is watching me with mild horror.

“I’ve had a rough day,” I explain to him, even though it’s a lie. I’m not about to tell him that this whole date is making me inexplicably nervous.

“Looks like it,” he says, staring at my welts.

Right, well I guess I’ll just blame it all on the bees.

“This restaurant has very high ratings on Yelp,” David goes on, clearing his throat.

I just smile and catch the eye of the waiter, subtly beckoning him over. And by subtle, I mean I’m jerking my head violently.

“Something wrong?” David asks.

“Do you want to split a bottle?” I ask him. “I think all these glasses of wine are going to add up.”

He opens his mouth to say something. Then closes it and nods. “Sure.”

Done.

I get a bottle of red and then proceed to drink most of it, David only having a glass and tiny sips.

Shit. He doesn’t like me. He thinks I’m annoying. He thinks I’m a prude. He thinks I’m a drunk. He doesn’t think I’m pretty.

All these thoughts start bombarding my head.

“Hey,” I say to him. “Tell me about the worst break-up you’ve ever had.”

He frowns at me. “Is that appropriate conversation for a date?”

I shrug and have another swallow of wine. “Probably not. Who cares?”

“Are you all right?”

“I’ll tell you mine,” I tell him. “I’ve never actually been dumped! Can you believe it? No, you probably can’t.”

“You’re very lucky,” he says, his words measured.

“Lucky?” I laugh. “I’m not lucky. It just means I’ve never actually been in a proper relationship. Can you believe that? I make it to the third date and then guys just ghost. You do know we’re on our third date right now, don’t you?”

He clears his throat, looking totally uncomfortable. “I am aware.”

“Right. So after this, you’ll ghost, you’ll do what they all do. You won’t even tell me that you don’t want to see me anymore, you’ll just stop returning my calls and texts, and if we finally do speak and I bring up plans, you’ll be busy. That’s the way it goes. Look, okay, sometimes I’ve gone on more than three dates but it always ends the same way.”

He stares at me in such a way that reminds me of my aunt when she was trying to deal with my panic attacks. “I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink.”

I laugh. “I’m fine. Seriously. Too much coffee is what it is.”

I reach for my glass but he puts his hand out to stop me. “Marina, it’s okay. We’re just having dinner. There’s nothing to be nervous about.”

“Nervous?” I squeak. “Who said I was nervous?”

Okay, I’m aware I’m starting to slur a bit. I attempt to correct it. “I. Am. Totally. Fine. And. Sober,” I say, extra-enunciating my words. “This. Is. A. Great. Date.”

Then the waiter comes by, putting down our plates of pasta.

It’s like I’ve never seen food in my entire life. I start wolfing it down, going through the linguine like I might never eat again.

Until…

Until…

Ohmigod.

The pasta is not going down.

It’s stuck in my throat.

Ohmigod, am I choking?

I glance at David with wide eyes.

Keep calm, keep calm, see if you can get through this without anyone knowing.

“Marina?” David asks.

I nod, my face going red, cheeks puffing out, trying to swallow down the pasta but shit, shit, shit, it’s not moving.

I’m choking.

I point at my throat as in, a little help here?

“Oh my god!” David exclaims, loud enough for everyone in the restaurant to look at me and erupt into murmurs of “Good gracious!” and “I think that girl is choking!” At any moment I expect Mrs. Doubtfire to come running across the restaurant to tackle me.

But instead it’s David, who, rather calmly I might add, comes around the back of the chair, pulls me to my feet, and starts doing the Heimlich.

Thanks to his skills, it only takes two thrusts of his fist into my abdomen before I’m choking up the linguine all over my shirt.

On one hand, yay I’m alive and I think my date just saved my life.

On the other, everyone is staring at me expectantly. The entire restaurant is in a hush. I start picking off the linguine like it’s lint and then turn to face everyone with a big smile. Because I’m fine.

Really.

They need to stop staring.

“Hey, did you know that bees communicate to each other through the waggle dance?” I say to the patrons, hoping they find this fascinating. “It goes a little bit like this.”

And then I try and imitate the figure eight and circular movement of a bee’s waggle dance, shaking my butt all over the place.

“Marina,” David says, grabbing my elbow and interrupting me mid-waggle. “You should sit down.”

I grumble and let him put me back down in the chair.

The wine is taken away.

I drink some water.

I don’t dare finish my food.

Soon the date is over and David is leading me out of the restaurant and to his car. “I’m going to drop you off at home. Do you have anyone there who takes care of you?”

I realize that aside from superficial talk, I don’t think I’ve really let David on to who I really am. Am I always like this? In my drunkenness I say, “I live alone, aside from my landlord, and she’s ancient. You don’t know anything about me, do you?”

He gives me a steady look. “Marina, it’s only been a few dates.” He pauses, opening up the passenger side door. “But I hear what you say about ghosting and only an immature man would do such a thing to you. So I won’t ghost. Unfortunately, I don’t think there will be a fourth date.”

“Why not?” I ask as I get in the car, even though I know the answer.

“There’s someone out there much better suited for you than me,” he says with utmost diplomacy. Then he shuts the door, gets behind the wheel, and drives me home.

Naomi can’t stop laughing.

“It’s not funny,” I tell her over the phone, even though it feels good to have her laugh for once, despite being the butt of the joke. I can’t remember the last time she sounded even remotely happy.

“Oh, but it is,” she says. “Marina, I can’t believe you. And yet I can. I mean, I’m glad you didn’t choke to death but did you really have to start dancing?”

It’s the next morning and I’m lying in my room on the phone, trying to come to grips with what happened last night. The end of me and Doctor David.

“Well, there goes date number three, just like I predicted. I’m never ever going to get a boyfriend.”

She clears her throat and says soberly, “That’s not such a bad thing.”

I sigh. Naomi is still technically a newlywed, having married Robert last year. He seemed like a nice enough guy and had all you needed on paper to be good husband material—a great job as an investment banker, fit body, a great face and smile, wasn’t too uptight nor did he act like a teenager. Naomi was swept away and under by his charm and fell for him quickly. And in a very bad way. I’d never seen the normally grumpy and cynical Naomi so crazy over a guy before.

Which explains why they got married after only four months of being together. I didn’t express any concerns, other than the required, “Are you sure? You haven’t known each other that long,” but Naomi assured me this was it, she was in love, and that was that. And considering I’ve never been in love before, I knew I had to take her word for it.

She was happy too. It was amazing, albeit jarring, to see. But now…well the honeymoon is more than over, and her marriage is starting to crumble.

“Did Robert end up agreeing to counseling?” I ask her gently.

She sighs. “Yes. But it took a good screaming match to get there. The fool doesn’t even get it, doesn’t understand why. I tell him my concerns, that I think he’s stepping out, and he’s just not budging. He’s lying. You know he’s lying.”

I nod, even though she can’t see me. “So, another fight?”

“A huge one.” She sounds so tired.

“You should have called me,” I tell her.

“You were on a date. I’ve interrupted your dates before and I don’t want to keep doing that.”

“Naomi, believe me, it’s okay. Call me next time and I’ll pick you up. You can stay the night.” I pause. “Why not come over tonight?”

“Nah. I should be here. He said he would watch a movie with me. Anyway, I’m sorry I laughed at your disaster date.”

I chuckle. “Well, it was a disaster. But hey…that’s my life. I’m inherently undateable.”

“Marina, you’re not.”

“I am. I should probably start putting out on the first date.”

“Look, honey. I’m not going to tell you how to date because Lord knows it hasn’t worked out so well for me. But you do what you feel comfortable with. If you need to sleep with a guy on the first date in order to keep him interested, there’s something wrong with him. You do you.”

“But the more I do me, the longer I stay single. I wish I could be like Laz and just get a girl with the snap of my fingers.”

“Girls are just as complicated.”

“You know what I mean. He gets the opposite sex without any effort. He dates them for months, then breaks up with them. He’s not getting rejected, he’s not getting hurt. Then there’s me, who gets so far and then the guy just vanishes. They all vanish. They can’t be bothered getting to know me anymore. Fuck. Sometimes I just want to get laid.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that either,” she says. “I would if I could.”

“You can,” I tell her. Though I know she won’t. She won’t let go of her upper hand.

“When he goes low, I go high,” she says. “But still…some honest dick wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

I burst out laughing. “Honest dick. I like that.”

“Let me know if you find any.”

After we hang up, I discover a text from Laz.

How was last night?

I respond Shitty.

He texts back: How about we do lunch and go to B&N?

I smile, my heart growing warmer. Man, if he wasn’t my friend, Laz would be the perfect boyfriend. Lunch in Studio City usually means scarfing down tasty treats at Umami Burger and then heading across the street to the Barnes and Noble that they repurposed in an old theatre. Literally my idea of heaven and it’s become almost a tradition for us after we’ve had a bad day.

OK. I have to write a blog post and get ready. Pick me up in an hour.

Why can’t you pick me up?

Because you’re the guy and this is your idea. See you then.

My blog post doesn’t take too long. Usually I update it every other day or so while I make it a point to constantly upload to Instagram. My Instagram and social media feeds are the easiest part for me. I have a huge database of microphotographs I’ve taken of my hives as well as bees out and about. There’s a wealth of information about them I can share, so I usually just post a pic and a few lines about it. Sometimes it’s me doing a hive removal and showing followers how insane some of the natural hives can get. Sometimes it’s just of the queen, when I find her. Other times I do slow-motion photography of bees.

I know it’s an odd career to have, but I love it. When I went to university and got my bachelor of science, I got a minor in entomology. To be honest, I’m not a fan of bugs in general and even more so after studying them, but I’ve been fascinated by bees for a long time. Growing up just outside San Diego, my mother had several hives in our backyard and a huge garden. Every single happy childhood memory came from being in that garden with her.

My heart clenches at the thought and I take a deep breath through my nose, closing my eyes and centering myself. I’ve been trying to wean myself off of medication lately through breathing exercises and I’m not quite sure if it’s working.

I go back to finishing up the blog post then wonder if there’s something else I need to do. I started Palm Trees & Honey Bees two years ago, not really sure where my focus would be, but I was determined to become a full-time beekeeper. I finally quit my job as manager of a local garden center a few months ago when I officially reached my goal but even so, I need to expand and find new ways of creating revenue aside from educational classes and hive removals. The actual sale of honey, which I do out of the garage of the place I’m renting, doesn’t add up to much either.

Soon Laz is pulling up to the house in his vintage Camaro. It was originally a gift from his stepfather, and for various reasons he didn’t want to accept it. Now, thanks to Laz’s success as a poet, he’s been able to buy the car outright.

It’s black and sleek, with red leather seats, and it’s sexy as hell. I lock up the studio (which is pretty much a guest house) and make my way around the narrow slice of pool, a layer of leaves covering it, that sits between my place and the main house. As I walk through the side gate, the fig leaves brushing against me, I can feel Barbara, my landlord, watching me through the blinds.

I give her a wave without even looking at her and hurry across the lawn to the car.

“You know, I’d love to meet her one day,” Laz says to me as I climb in the passenger seat, nodding at the windows where the blinds are moving.

“Barbara?” I ask. “Good luck with that.”

“You said she enjoys handsome men,” he says with a waggle of his brows.

I roll my eyes. “Yes. She did. In the forties and fifties. She says you scare her.” I wave my fingers at him. “You know, the piercings and the tattoos and all.” With his aviator shades and leather jacket, he looks particularly badass today.

“She doesn’t know about my dick piercing, does she?”

I punch his arm, trying not to think about his dick. It’s hard with the pants he wears sometimes and I will myself to keep my eyes from drifting down to his crotch. “Grow up.”

In July I’ll be at the two-year mark of living at Barbara Sullivan’s place. For those that don’t know, Barbara Sullivan was a semi-famous actress from Hollywood’s golden age. She’s pretty much Gloria Swanson’s character from Hollywood Boulevard, all reclusive and living in the past, dressing up in old fancy gowns and piling on the pancake makeup from ye old days. She usually played the woman in B-movies that someone like Clarke Gable cast aside for someone else.

But despite Barbara’s borderline agoraphobia and quirks, we get along really well and I love living there. The property consists of the main house, the pool, the guest house, and the garage, on a half-acre backed onto the dry craggy hills of Coldwater Canyon. She’s owned the house forever, and because of that, the rent I pay is pretty cheap too.

Plus, she gets companionship and honey out of the deal. That’s when she feels like talking. Most of the time she watches old clips of herself and smokes a carton of Camels. After my mother died, I really missed having someone older to talk to on the regular and offer advice. I can’t talk to my dad, so Barbara is a pretty good substitute with some amazing stories to keep you entertained.

She has yet to meet Laz, though, or any of my friends. Like I said, she has her quirks.

“So, are we going to talk about it?” Laz asks as we start cruising down the street. It’s May and the jacarandas are in full bloom, one of my favorite times of the year. I roll down the window and hang my head half out, closing my eyes, focusing on the smell of the flowers above all the smog.

“I take it that you don’t want to talk about it,” he says. “That’s cool.”

I bring my head back in and glance at him.

It’s one of my favorite things to do. Just take him all in.

My friend, Lazarus Scott, is extremely hot. He was hot when I first laid eyes on him at his band’s show four years ago, and he’s even hotter now. I don’t know what it is about men, but they honestly only get better with age, and even though Laz is still super young at thirty, he just gets more handsome every day I see him.

He knows it too, the jerk. He’s cocky but thankfully not in an obnoxious way, and he’s quick to point out his faults. But even so, he’s got this cool confidence that I wish I could siphon.

I sigh and lean my head back against the seat. “I wish it was as easy as this.”

“As what?”

“You and me. Talking. I wish the guys I dated got me the same way that you get me.”

He grows silent for a moment and I look over at him. He’s frowning, his attention focused on the road. “Maybe you’re just dating the wrong guys,” he finally says.

“You think?” I laugh. “I thought everything was going fine with David as the night started. He took me to this nice Italian place in Calabasas, and yeah, I was a little jumpy with the caffeine and then a little drunk with the wine, and then I…well, it doesn’t matter. But even before disaster struck, I could tell that he thought I was a weirdo.”

“What the hell are you doing on these dates anyway?”

“Nothing! I’m just being me.” I stare out the window as we cruise down Ventura. “But I guess that’s the problem.”

“I refuse to believe that.”

“I appreciate your loyalty,” I tell him as a current of warmth runs through me. It always makes me feel extra good when Laz lays on the compliments. Sure, I get them from Naomi or when I’m messaging with Jane, but when it comes from a guy, especially an extremely attractive one, it means a lot.

“I always have faith in you, Bumble,” he says softly, with just a bit of a smirk to his lips. He loves calling me that, I have no idea why. I think it’s because he thinks it bothers me, but honestly, I find it really cute.

“See, if you were my boyfriend, I’d have nothing to worry about,” I tell him. Then I immediately clamp my lips together. God, I have to stop saying the stupidest shit! “I mean, look at you,” I go on awkwardly. “I’m having a hard go and you’re picking me up, taking me out for my favorite food and to my favorite bookstore. You’d be perfect. If you were my boyfriend. But, of course, you’re not. Because you’re my friend.”

Bumbling. Bumbling fool. The nickname is apt.

Laz doesn’t say anything. He steals a glance at me, studying my face.

I shrink down in my seat and pull my hair over my eyes and nose, obscuring them from view.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Why are you staring at me?”

“I’m thinking.”

A few moments go past and then I straighten up, getting it together. This is Laz we’re talking about. Who cares if I just said he’d be the perfect boyfriend? He knows we’re just friends. He knows I didn’t mean anything by it.

“The thing is,” he begins to say, choosing his words carefully, “you know I would be a horrible boyfriend.”

“I was just joking.”

“I know. But honestly, I would be. We’re great together because we’re friends and nothing more.”

Shit. As much as I know that’s true and it shouldn’t be any other way, for some reason that really stings. I grimace, trying to hide it from him.

“I mean, I can’t seem to keep a girl around for longer than five months. All my relationships crash and burn and I’m the one at fault. I’m the one breaking up with them. So, we both kind of suck at this whole dating and love thing.”

“That’s for sure.” I don’t know where he’s going with this but it’s enough that my heart is starting to race. I start playing with my hair in order to calm down. Who needs a fidget spinner when you have a plethora of split ends?

“Maybe there’s something we could do to…help each other.”

I look at him sharply. “Help each other? Like be each other’s wingman, wingwoman…wingperson?”

He considers that with a tilt of his head, the sun catching the ebony strands of his thick hair and making them gleam. “Yeah. That could be part of it. Maybe at the end of it all.”

“At the end of what?”

He shrugs with one shoulder, wrist draped casually over the top of the steering wheel. He glances at me over his aviator shades. “Maybe we could date each other.”

I swallow hard.

Whoa.

Whoa.

I was not expecting that.

“Are you high? Did you smoke up with Scooby before you left the house?”

“No,” he says plainly. “I didn’t. I’m serious.”

“You just said that you would be a horrible boyfriend.”

“That’s true. But I don’t want to be. And I don’t mean that we would actually date each other. We would just pretend to date each other.”

I shake my head, trying to find the words to convey my confusion. “But…what? That makes no sense.”

“It does, trust me.”

“I ain’t trusting nothing from you right now. You’re crazy.”

He exhales. “Let’s get a burger in you and I’ll explain. You have low-blood sugar and are borderline hangry, so nothing will make sense until you eat.”

My stomach growls at the thought and I narrow my eyes at him. Sometimes I hate how well he knows me.

It’s not long before we’re sitting at the bar at the busy Umami Burger restaurant and I’m shoving their namesake dish down my throat when Laz starts at it again.

“Feeling better?” he asks, stealing a French fry and dipping it in wasabi aioli.

I swat his hand away. “Get your own fries.”

“Can’t. I’m watching my figure.”

I growl at him. Laz has the metabolism of a horse. He also works out a lot, so he’s incredibly ripped and in shape. Not that I often see it since he’s usually in layers except for in the most sweltering heat waves. It’s probably for the best. It’s hard to be friends with someone when you’re already aware of how attractive they are. Luckily I’ve trained myself to not look at him in that way.

“So, let me start again,” he says, adjusting himself on his seat so that he’s facing me, his long legs and shit-kicker boots hooked on the bottom rung of my stool. “What if the two of us dated each other? Just for a little while. Just as a test.”

“A test?” I ask, trying not to choke on the burger.

“Yeah. We go on some dates. Definitely at least three. And see what we’re doing wrong.”

“Who says I’m doing anything wrong?” I glare at him. “I thought we agreed that it’s their problem, not mine.”

“Even so, wouldn’t you want to learn?”

“But it would be your opinion.”

“And don’t you trust my opinion?”

I do. He’s got the experience that I don’t have.

“So, this whole thing would be about teaching me how to be a better date?”

“Kind of.”

“What about you? Like you’re so perfect.”

“I’m not. I know.” He chews on his lip for a moment. “Maybe then after the third date, we start getting into a relationship.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, putting the burger down and wiping my lips with the napkin. “Relationship?”

“A fake one.”

“How is that going to help?”

He runs his hand through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead. “I don’t know. I’m spitballing.”

“Maybe you ought to think this all through before you start spitballing. I mean, we’re friends and this…this seems like it’s going to get really complicated, really fast. I need a beer.” I wave at the bartender and order one.

“We’ll have rules in place so it doesn’t.”

“I’m not sleeping with you,” I blurt out.

He winces. “Not that it was an option, but ouch.”

“Sorry.” And I don’t know why I said that. It’s something I wouldn’t dare let myself entertain for a second.

The bartender slides me the beer, eyeing the both of us like we’re the most interesting customers he’s had all day.

I slam back half the beer, let out a burp I immediately cover with my hand, and then give Laz a sheepish look.

“Please don’t tell me you’re burping on your dates,” he says, grinning.

“I hope not,” I tell him. God, what if I am?

“This is what I mean,” he goes on. “We’ll go out on dates, pretend to be different people…or we’ll be strangers to each other. And we’ll see what happens.”

“Yeah, but while you’re judging and schooling me on whatever I’m doing wrong, what will I be doing?”

“You get to judge me,” he says. “Maybe there are problems I’m not even seeing, problems that might come up later.”

“And then later, what, it turns into a relationship? How does that even work if it’s not real? What’s the difference between that and, well, the fact that we’re friends?”

“I wouldn’t see anyone else. Neither would you.”

“I guess that’s fair.” I can’t even fathom dating anyone for real right now anyway.

“And we wouldn’t act like friends around each other either,” he adds.

“There you go with the sex thing again.”

“Or maybe we’ll just go on dates for a few weeks and that’s it. I don’t know. But it can’t hurt.”

“Are you kidding me?” I finish the rest of the beer and push it away. “It can hurt everything, Laz. You’re one of my best friends. I don’t want to mess that up. I don’t want to lose you, this, what we have. I appreciate your concern for me and yourself, and obviously I don’t want to keep failing at this love game but…it’s not worth risking our friendship for. Is it?”

He nods, exhaling through his nose as he looks away. His shoulders slump slightly. “Yeah. You’re right, Bumble.” He brings his gaze back to me, looks me dead in the eye. “Forget I said anything.”

But I can’t forget it. Now that he’s brought it up, it’s like it’s already altered the dynamic between us. After the burger we go to the bookstore across the street, and though we lapse back into our usual ways on the surface—Laz spending his time flipping through biographies and sifting through poetry books, me in both the historical romance and horticulture sections—I know that something has changed.

It’s the idea of dating Laz.

Just that little seed of something, tossed into the dirt of my brain.

I know he said it would be fake.

I know that we wouldn’t be dating each other for any other reason than to maybe learn something about ourselves and how we are in relationships.

I know all that.

But even so, I can’t help but look at him differently. Not with new eyes, just with a new filter.

I’m terrified I might change my mind.