Page 121 of The Beekeeper

“‘Honey Trap Farms has somewhere between thirty-five and forty hives, not two-hundred. Ninety-percent of what is put in those jars comes from barrels that were bought out-of-state and delivered by truck. That gets mixed with a little of actual local honey and then heated and filtered. It’s not raw. It’s not one-hundred-percent local. But for the last four years, it was my job to make sure you thought it was. I’m sorry, but I won’t be bullied anymore.’”

I scrolled through the other photos in the post. Pictures of pallets of drums being delivered to Honey Trap Farms, the sides stamped with names of other states. The honey poured into their jars. And finally, an image from the farmers’ market at the moment when Adam had raised his arm and screamed at her.

“Harper.”

I looked at my cousin, not even realizing I’d lifted my hand to cover my mouth.

“Say something.”

What did I say? Everything I thought…For two years, I’d strung myself out with worry over everything I did, not wanting to step on Adam’s toes. Not wanting to look like I copied him. And as it turned out, there was nothing original about him to begin with.

“I can’t believe this. I mean…” I exhaled slowly. “This is…wild.”

“You have to share it,” she insisted immediately.

“What?” I gaped.

“You don’t need a caption or anything, just share the post⁠—”

“Frankie—”

“You have forty-one-thousand followers. One share and this is all over for him. And for you.”

She was right. One share would cement my vindication. One share would take Adam down for good. And that was why I couldn’t do it.

“No.” I clicked off my phone and set it on the table.

“No? Why no? Why not?”

“Because then I’m doing exactly what he did. Weaponizing my followers.”

“But he deserves it,” she insisted, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Maybe he does, but I don’t,” I said, watching her eyes round into saucers. “I won’t fight for someone else’s good opinion of me. Not when it comes at the expense of my own.”

Not when going after him would make everything I told Blaze that night a lie. When it came right down to it, you could only care about one thing: other people’s opinions of you or your opinion of yourself. And I was going to continue to prioritize my opinion of myself.

When Frankie said nothing, I stopped wrapping and looked over at her. Her eyes glistened and she wore a proud smile on her face, and then she reached out and hugged me.

“Love you, Harper.”

“I love you, too.”

“And just know you don’t have to fight for our good opinion of you.”

“Thanks,” I said with a watery smile.

“Blaze, on the other hand⁠—”

“Don’t,” I warned her and drew back. I didn’t want to talk about Blaze. I didn’t have anything to say—or at least nothing that wouldn’t hurt to admit.

“Just hear me out. I have an idea.”

“I really hate when you say that,” I groaned and tried to sidestep her, but she moved with me.

“Why? All my ideas have worked out splendidly in the past.”

“Splendidly?” I asked, both my brows raised. Newsflash: it didn’t feel that splendid to have your heart broken. Nor did it feel splendid to have to go around pretending it was still whole.