Yet on that night, when he opened the hive, to his surprise, the bees were doing . . . well. Every hive had its own personality, and somehow, some way, this one decided to work it out. Diana-28 was on the first frame; Diana-27 on the back one.
Not possible, Zig thought at the time.
When he posted the details of his two-queen hive on a popular online bee forum, most people told him it wouldn’t last—that he should still squish the old queen. But a woman in Massachusetts told him that while it was rare, her two queens had lived together for over a year. “Bees don’t read the same books we do,” she wrote. “You don’t have to choose.”
Zig liked that.
“Okay, see you tomorrow, kiddos,” Zig said, sliding the wooden frame back into its slot and putting the cover back in place.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, the hive sang, already drunk on bee whiskey.
When he was alone, Zig sometimes wondered what would’ve happened if he’d never met his wife . . . if they had never had a daughter. He’d play through the permutations, thinking how much easier his life would’ve been. In the end, though, even with the heartache, with the pain, with the loss—with the deafening, piercing regret that consumed his state of innocence and peace, ensuring he could never attain them again . . . If the only way for Zig to avoid all that was to erase those early years as a family, those moments of pure good . . . It wasn’t a choice at all. He’d forever take the pain. He’d take all of it. Easily.
Sitting down in his favorite rusty lawn chair, Zig pulled out his phone and hit the button to dial a number. It rang once . . . twice . . .
“Please don’t tell me you kissed her,” Puerto Rican Andy answered.
“You really think I’m that predictable?”
“You told me she was coming over. Doesn’t take a genius to guess the rest,” Andy said. He lowered his voice. “Humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things that are worst for them.”
“That a Dumbledore quote?”
“All the best quotes are Dumbledore quotes. I’m proud of you, though. I thought for sure you’d screw it up.”
Mmmmmmmm, the bees said.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Zig said. “Anyway, just wanted to see how you’re holding up.”
“You call twice a day. I’m doing okay.”
It was a lie. Andy’s voice was hoarse, his throat still healing. “You up for a visit?”
“Actually, if it’s okay, Ziggy, can I rain-check?” He’d said the same yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. “I’m just not the best company right now.”
“Y’know, Andy,” Zig said, lowering his own voice. “Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.”
“Sonuva—！” Andy let out a laugh, a loud rippling burst. “You’re doing Dumbledore to me? To me? You just google that?”
“Memorized it last week. Figured it’d come in handy. Now, c’mon—I caused those stitches in your throat. Lemme make up for it. I got a fancy present for you.”
The phone went silent. “How fancy?”
“Balvenie 25 Year,” Zig said, glancing over at the crystal decanter sitting on a small three-legged plastic table that usually held a six-pack.
“Ten points to Gryffindor!” Puerto Rican Andy yelled, even though it hurt to yell. It’d hurt to drink scotch, too. After a beat, he added, “You understand that means—”
“I know what it means,” Zig interrupted, hopping from his chair, grabbing the crystal bottle by the neck, and heading for the door.