Mad Honey

by Jodi Picoult

“Like someone stabbed me,” I say slowly, “and then blamed me for getting blood on the knife.” I suck in a breath. “When that stopped being only metaphorical, I left.”

People always talk about how their love for you is unconditional. Then you reveal your most private self to them, and you find out how many conditions there are in unconditional love.

How similar does someone have to be to you before you remember to see them, first, as human?

“Your father could be pretty persuasive,” I reply, but I think: Maybe that’s when it happened. When he taught you how to lie.

The secret weapon of mad honey, of course, is that you expect it to be sweet, not deadly. You’re deliberately attracted to it. By the time it messes with your head, with your heart, it’s too late.

It was realizing that my doubts had very little to do with Asher, and everything to do with my own experiences.

This has always been my favorite fact about bees: in their world, destiny is fluid. You might start life as a worker, and end up a queen.