The Deal

The Honey Bee

*TW: death, grieving, suicide*

The Universe's design is not a complete mystery, not if you're willing to listen.

She sends signs to those open to hearing them —little messages to nudge souls in the right direction or away from danger when needed— and my ear is specially tuned to Fate's soft whisper.

Sometimes I do things simply because it feels like I should and sometimes my soul sets off alarm bells right before tragedy strikes.

Once I dreamed of heavy snow and Niall's voice calling out for help and I convinced him to cancel his road trip to Yorkshire, where they experienced the worst blizzard in town history that week. Another time I woke with a deep craving for chocolate and the candy bar I ended up buying had a ticket for a lifetime supply —though, I did give that to the neighbor girl (I don't have much of a sweet tooth).

Of course, as the tragedies in my past can attest... Fate doesn't always intervene, not if it doesn't follow Her plan... no matter how cruel the outcome. In the end, though, I trust these signs implicitly, knowing to never turn my back on Her messages.

Interpreting their meaning, though, can prove difficult. And lately... She's sending me lots of mixed signals.

Discovering Harry's letter the day before his opening night? Bad sign. Finding flights to England the morning of Harry's gala for £80? Good sign. Having to take three trains and two flights to get to Cornwall? Not great. Diving into Nan's Paris fashion archives from the 70s and finding a gala-worthy dress? Blessed.

So many things could have gone wrong with my travel plans —one delayed flight or missed connection and I never would have made it to the show at all. But, the planes landed early and the trains didn't stop once and, somehow, I find myself at the grand glass building in Cornwall only an hour after the event begins.

Despite the late letter and frenzied packing and chaotic itinerary, I made it to the gala as if I was always meant to come. And I could feel Fate's guiding hand the whole way.

Coming tonight was an easy decision to make. Regardless of the fact that Harry and I aren't together, regardless of all that we've been through, my heart still beats for him. He wanted me to come, to share in this moment of triumph, and how could I deny him that?

Still, that doesn't mean my stomach doesn't curdle with every step and my hands don't tremble as I check my reflection in my compact.

I didn't have much time or space to do my makeup while traveling, opting for mascara and a red lip that is as elegant and simple as Nan's old dress. It's a pale-yellow silk that sweeps the floor and cuts low in the front, shooting stars made of gemstones patterning the fabric.

Yellow symbolizes power and strength, often worn by royalty and religious figures. It also represents hope and happiness, a prosperous color that will bring good fortune to the wearer.

I hand my jacket and suitcase to the coat-check lady, who politely doesn't decline to take my luggage before turning the corner and taking a pamphlet from a man in a tux. The gallery is surprisingly crowded —hordes of finally dressed people mingling and drinking and laughing and looking at the art. The room is bright and loud and I'm already so anxious that it takes everything in me not to flee.

Each artist has been designated their own cubicle to display their photos as they see fit. A few of the artists are making speeches in their pods, explaining their work and ideas behind the project. I force myself to at least peruse each exhibit like the artists deserve, but my nerves don't let me stay in one place for long.

I'm looking at blurred photos of people I don't know and places I've never been without really seeing them. There's only one thing, one person, on my mind.