Javier Mendez is 61, a beekeeper with 47 hives scattered across his 14-acre plot outside Asheville, and his worst flaw is that he’s spent 11 years perfecting the art of bailing on any social obligation that lasts longer than 10 minutes. His wife left him for a craft brewery rep who passed through town selling seasonal IPAs back in 2012, and he’s treated small-town gatherings like a contagious disease ever since, only leaving his property once a week to drop off honey at the downtown general store and pick up coffee and propane. The only reason he’s at the county fire department’s annual summer cookout is that his next-door neighbor fixed his broken hive lift for free three weeks prior, and the favor came with a non-negotiable attendance requirement.
He’s leaned up against the dented metal beer cooler, half-hidden behind a stack of paper plates, when her hand brushes his reaching for the last cold IPA. He flinches like he’s been stung, pulls his hand back fast, and she laughs, low and warm, no edge of mockery to it. She’s wearing a linen sunflower-print dress that hits mid-calf, bare legs dusted with a little grass stain at the knee, a smudge of indigo ink on the inside of her left wrist, gray streaks threading through the loose brown braid slung over her shoulder. “Sorry,” she says, nodding at the can, “you go for it. I’ve been stalking the cooler for 10 minutes waiting for someone to restock the good stuff.”
Javier grunts, grabs the can, holds it out to her. He doesn’t talk to strangers if he can help it, but something about the way she’s not leaning in to pester him about who he is, the way she’s glancing over at the fire station’s porch where a group of little kids are chasing a golden retriever, makes it easy. “I don’t drink this swill,” he lies, and she grins, takes the can, her fingers brushing his again, lighter this time, intentional.
The bluegrass band playing on the makeshift stage cranks up their set, so she steps closer, her shoulder pressing against the bare skin of his bicep, the fabric of her dress soft against sun-warmed skin. He can smell coconut shampoo and the faint sweet tang of peach cobbler on her breath when she leans in to talk, loud enough to be heard over the fiddle. “You’re the honey guy, right? The one who sells that sourwood wildflower stuff that sells out at the general store 10 minutes after it hits the shelf?”
He nods, surprised. No one’s tracked him down for his honey outside of regulars in years. Most folks around town call him the Bee Hermit, avoid making eye contact when he’s in the store, assume he’s still bitter enough to bite. He tells her he harvests every other week, keeps the best batches for himself, and she leans in further, her hip brushing his now, eyes bright. “You gonna make me beg for a jar?” she teases, and he feels heat crawl up the back of his neck, a feeling he hasn’t had since he was a teenager sneaking girls into his parents’ orchard.
Half of him is screaming to leave, to get in his beat-up Ford F-150 and drive back to his hives where no one asks him questions, where he doesn’t have to worry about someone leaving again. The other half can’t stop staring at the way she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear when she laughs, the way she rolls her eyes when a group of drunk volunteer firefighters holler across the yard at them. He learns her name is Clara, she’s the new county librarian, moved here from Chicago three months prior to get away from a toxic ex and a job that made her work 60 hour weeks, that she keeps a hive of mason bees on the fire escape of her tiny rental house downtown.
They wander away from the crowd 20 minutes later, down the dirt path that leads to the creek running behind the fire station, the sound of the band fading behind them, fireflies blinking low over the water. She steps over a moss-slick rock, stumbles, and he catches her by the waist, his calloused, honey-sticky hand splayed across the soft fabric of her dress, holding her steady for a beat longer than he needs to. She doesn’t pull away, just looks up at him, her eyes dark in the dusk, and he leans down, kisses her, slow, no rush, tastes IPA and mint gum on her lips, the cool night air on the back of his neck.
When they pull apart, she laughs, swats playfully at his chest. “I asked three different people at the library who the honey guy was,” she admits, “they all said you’d never talk to me, that you hated everyone.” He snorts, laces his fingers through hers, her hand soft and warm in his, no calluses except a small one on her middle finger from holding pens for hours. “I don’t hate everyone,” he says, and he means it.
They walk back up the path toward the cookout, the noise of the crowd growing louder, the smell of charcoal and grilled brats thick in the air. The group of firefighters whoop and holler when they see them holding hands, and Javier flips them off without even looking, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He’s already making a mental note to set aside the half-gallon jar of his best late-harvest sourwood honey he’d stashed in his pantry last week, to bring it by her library tomorrow, to show her his hives this weekend if she’s free. When she squeezes his hand once, slow, he doesn’t even think about making up an excuse to leave early.
