Shutting off the shower and drying off, Meg quickly brushes her teeth and runs some gel through her black hair. Even with the recent weight gain, Meg still has incredible cheekbones that are perfect for her pixie haircut.
Rummaging through her tiny IKEA wardrobe, Meg removes a blue and black striped sundress and a pair of white Keds. She lathers lotion on her bare legs, scowling at the ridiculous tattoo that sits on her ankle. She’s been known to tell people that the cherries and skull represent the misconceptions of rebellion, but that tattoo is a direct result of her Rockabilly phase during her sophomore year of college.
Meg applies very little makeup – liquid black eyeliner for her hazel eyes, peach blush for her freckled cheeks, and hot-pink lip gloss for her pouty lips. Fully dressed, Meg grabs the orange juice carton from the refrigerator and takes a big gulp, gagging as the citrus mixes with her minty-fresh breath.
“Bleh!” She spits into the sink. Patting her mouth with a napkin, she then reapplies her lip gloss and bolts out the door to head to her favorite place.
Like Seth, Meg needed a job out of monetary desperation. Raised as a privileged snot in an apartment on the Upper East Side, she’d played the role of darling socialite for eighteen years. But instead of boarding a plane after high school graduation to spend the summer abroad, Meghan Victoria Fitzpatrick chopped off her russet hair, dyed it black, sold her Louis Vuitton luggage, enrolled in theater classes at NYU, moved into a Village apartment with two roommates, and began her adventure as Meg.
Following college graduation, very few auditions called for a sarcastic pixie with a raspy voice, so Meg worked as a ticket agent during the day, and a cocktail waitress at night. It was such a clichéd story, and like every twenty-something single girl in New York City, Meg wanted an original story – a complex narrative fueled by romance and self-discovery.
Trying to find her groove, Meg spent two years living on tips, going on auditions, and sleeping with any man that could offer something in return. Her life was disappointing, and she’d had enough. So last summer, armed with her laptop and the determination to find an adventure, Meg set up an outdoor office in a public space in the Seaport. While padding her thin resume outside a coffee shop, Meg overheard Thessaly and Seth discussing media strategies for The Hive. She’d thought it was some trendy nightclub which piqued her interest, but when she quickly Googled the store, she was presently surprised. She wanted to be a part of this small business, but what she really needed was to be a part of something. Using an aggressive yet creative approach, Meg blasted every social media platform with catchy hashtags about The Hive. She then emailed her resume and a short cover letter directly to Thessaly that read: #hireme.
So it was on that cool summer day when Meg approached their table and said, “Hi, did you receive my email?”
Caught off-guard by Meg’s simplistic beauty, Seth muttered, “What?”
“Meghan Fitzpatrick?” Thessaly asked, looking up from her phone and the dozens of social media notifications.
Meg nodded, pulled out a chair, and joined her new co-workers.
Seth, still unaware of what was going on asked, “What’s going on?”
Smiling, Thessaly announced, “Meghan, welcome to your first business meeting!”
Working for The Hive has afforded Meg with great friends, a new studio apartment, and a potential romance with a stable and doting graphic designer. It’s everything the sarcastic rich girl from the Upper East Side ever wanted – plus all the honey and jam she can physically eat. And just like Seth, in three months, she will own one and a half percent of The Hive as a token of her loyal service.
Leaving her building, Meg places earbuds in her ears and begins a brisk walk. It normally takes her fifteen minutes, but today, eager to be the first to arrive at The Hive, she books it down John Street like a woman being chased. She passes the Beanery, the storefront with the mermaid mannequins, the fresh vegetable stand at the market, and then darts the last block to Fulton.
Outside The Hive, Meg unlocks the door while glancing at Seth’s bike leaning against the window.
Could he be the right guy?
Once inside the shop, Meg switches on the chandelier and props open the screen door.
“Meg?” Thessaly squeals.
Losing her footing and catching her fall on the screen door, Meg replies, “Oh, shit, Tess. You scared the crap out of me. Why are you sitting in the dark?”
Thessaly, sitting at the island with her phone and a pile of Starburst wrappers, pats the stool next to her. “I needed to think, and the sunrise is really amazing from this spot. Here, come sit with me.”
Removing her earbuds and shoving them in her small bag, she sits down across from Thessaly. “What’s up?”
“I need to talk about what happened last night before Seth gets here.”
Flinching slightly at the mention of his name, Meg rambles, “Oh, Seth’s okay, Tess. I mean he’s acceptable. He’s somewhat funny and adequately smart. Last night we just had way too much to drink.”
Confused by Meg’s sudden admission, Thessaly scrunches her nose and asks, “Huh?”
“What?” Meg blushes.
But before Meg can divert the conversation, Seth bursts through the door of The Hive with a Starbucks tray. “Ladies, what’s the topic of chit-chat?” he announces with a cocky smile.
“I’m not sure,” Thessaly replies, analyzing Meg’s body language.
“Nothing!” Meg lowers her head and pretends to scroll through her phone.
Seth places the drink tray on the counter and removes Meg’s iced coffee. Setting it in front of her and gently brushing her bare shoulder, he whispers, “Creamy – just the way you like it.”
Meg squirms under his touch and laughs nervously. “Ha, um, yeah.”
Taking her iced latte from the tray and wiping the condensation with a napkin, Thessaly shakes her head. “Can you two just do it already?”
Seth glances at Meg’s tense shoulders and red cheeks. “I wish, Tess. Meg’s way too good for a guy like me. And I’m completely content knowing I get to see her pretty face at work every day. And on the rare occasion, I get to make her laugh.”
Meg, head lowered, smiles from ear-to-ear. “What did you want to talk about, Tess?” Meg’s voice cracks as she raises her head.
“Oh, God, it’s really silly and insignificant, but I saw Mason last night – at my apartment.”
“You let him come to your apartment?” Seth confirms, pulling up a stool next to Meg.
“Yep, for a booty call.”
“Wait, did you just say booty call?” asks Meg.
Smiling, Thessaly teases, “And what do the hip kids of the Village call it these days?”
“Personally, I find that hooking up is vague yet classy,” Seth interjects, secretly pinching Meg’s thigh under the counter.
Thessaly arches her eyebrow and complies. “Fine. Mason wanted to hook up.”
“End your sentence with yo for emphasis.”
“Mason wanted to hook up, yo!” Thessaly chirps.
Meg and Seth smile and demand in unison, “Continue.”
“So he came by and we messed around a little – but I wasn’t feeling it. Maybe I realized something was missing. Like, where’s the passion? The give and take?”
“Go on,” Seth instructs while chomping on ice.
“He had me pinned against the wall,” she reveals, suddenly ashamed. “Anyway, all I could think about was the need for honey sticks.”
Snickering, Seth asks, “Should I insert a joke now?”
“I’m talking about honey in sticks. They’re treats.”
“I bet they are,” he panders.
“You killed the mood, didn’t you, Tess?” asks Meg.
“Not even close. Mason is tenacious and always gets what he wants. Very few things will stop him.”
“Like?”
“Like, I told him I wanted to date other people.”