Rudy Galvan is 62, spent 34 years running Galvan’s Bee Supply out of a cinder block shop off Highway 71 in central Texas, sold the business last March to a pair of 20-something beekeepers from Austin, now spends his days tuning up vintage fishing reels, tending to the 12 wild hives he keeps scattered across his 3-acre property, and avoiding any family functions that might include people tied to his 2005 divorce. His worst flaw, one he’ll admit to only after three beers and no audience, is that he holds grudges for far longer than they deserve. For nearly two decades, that grudge has been fixed firmly on Lena Marquez, his ex-wife’s 18-years-younger cousin, convinced she ratted him out for skipping out on his ex’s sister’s wedding to fish a bass tournament on Sam Rayburn Reservoir the weekend before divorce papers were signed.
He’s leaning against a splintered split-rail fence at the town’s annual Fourth of July beer garden, half-empty Shiner Bock in one hand, worn flop hat pushed back off his forehead, when he spots her. She’s across the crowd, leaning against a picnic table, laughing at something the local large-animal vet just said, wearing a faded cut-off Willie Nelson tee that shows the constellation of freckles across her shoulders, frayed denim cut-offs, scuffed cowboy boots with silver toe caps glinting under the string lights strung between the live oak trees. He tenses, already mentally mapping the exit to his truck, when she locks eyes with him. Holds the gaze for three full beats, no smile at first, just a slow, knowing tilt of her chin, before she pushes off the table and heads straight for him.
He can’t leave without looking like a coward, so he stays put, sipping his beer, watching her weave through the crowd of kids chasing sparklers and old men swapping drought and cattle stories. She stops so close when she reaches him that her elbow brushes his forearm when she lifts her own beer to her lips, and he catches a whiff of coconut sunscreen and cedar smoke, like she’d been sitting by a backyard fire pit for hours before she showed up. “You still avoiding me, Rudy?” she says, her voice lower than he remembers, a little rough around the edges, like she’s smoked menthols most of her adult life. He grunts, doesn’t answer, staring at the patch of dandelions growing through the gravel at his feet. “I didn’t tell her, you know,” she says, so quiet he almost misses it over the pop of a firecracker a few feet away.
He snaps his head up to look at her, and she’s closer now, the toe of her boot almost touching his scuffed work boots. “Your ex. She went through your truck’s glove box when you were at the shop, found the gas receipts and the tournament registration. Tried to tell you that back then, but you blocked my number, walked the other way every time you saw me at the H-E-B.” He feels his face heat up, equal parts sharp embarrassment and the unexpected, low jolt of desire he’d tried to stomp down 20 years earlier, when she was 22 and showed up at his shop crying because her deadbeat boyfriend refused to help her get a swarm of honeybees out of her garage. He’d driven out there, helped her relocate the hive to a box on her property, stayed for a beer after, and spent the next three months kicking himself for even thinking about kissing her, back when he was still married, still delusional enough to think he could fix things with his ex.
He’s about to fumble through an apology when a kid darting past chasing a stray sparkler slams into her back, and she stumbles forward, her palm landing flat on his chest. He can feel the heat of her hand through the thin cotton of his faded work shirt, the rough callus on the side of her index finger, like she works with her hands for a living. She doesn’t pull away immediately, just looks up at him, her brown eyes dark even with the red and blue glow of the portable stage lights hitting her face. “I train cutting horses now,” she says, like she can read the question on his face, wiggling her fingers a little against his chest before she drops her hand. “Got four of ’em out at my place west of town. Also have a hive behind my barn that’s been acting real weird the past two weeks, won’t stop swarming. Was gonna ask you to come take a look, if you ever stopped being mad at me.”
The first firework goes off then, a bright burst of magenta overhead, and the crowd cheers loud enough to rattle the fence posts. She leans in to say something else, and her lips brush the shell of his ear, her breath warm and sweet with the peach hard seltzer she’s drinking, and he has to fight the shiver that runs down his spine. “I’ve had a crush on you since you showed up at my garage with that puffy bee suit and that stupid lopsided grin on your face,” she says, loud enough only he can hear over the crackle of the fireworks bursting one after another. “Waited 22 years for you to stop being an idiot long enough to hear me out.” He doesn’t say anything, just reaches down and laces his fingers through hers, her palm warm and rough against his, his own hands crisscrossed with tiny white scars from decades of bee stings and turning screwdrivers on fishing reels. She squeezes his hand once, hard, and doesn’t let go, even when the next firework bursts so bright it makes his eyes water.
When the last firework fades to wispy gray smoke and the crowd starts dispersing, she tugs on his hand a little, tilting her head toward the parking lot. “I baked a peach pie this morning,” she says, grinning now, the corners of her eyes crinkling at the edges. “Got cold Shiner in the fridge, and the hive’s easy to get to tomorrow morning, if you wanna stay over.” He nods, already leading her toward his beat-up 2008 Ford F-150, the one with the hand-painted bee sticker on the back window he never bothered to peel off after he sold the shop. He opens the passenger door for her, and when she climbs in, her thigh brushes his hip, the heat of it seeping through his worn denim jeans. He slides into the driver’s seat, turns the key in the ignition, and the radio flickers to life mid-George Strait track, the same one that was playing the day he helped her move that hive out of her garage all those years ago. He doesn’t even consider turning down the back road that leads to his empty cottage, instead heading straight for the address she mumbles against his shoulder as he pulls out of the parking lot.
