Manny Ruiz, 53, has made a fine living for the last decade tending 42 hives of wild honeybees in the hills outside Asheville, North Carolina, and avoiding all human contact that doesn’t involve selling a jar of honey and exchanging less than 10 words. His biggest flaw, if you ask his niece Lila, is that he’d rather talk to a queen bee than a stranger, and he’s carried that chip on his shoulder ever since his wife left him seven years prior, fed up with how he’d withdrawn after his father’s sudden stroke. Lila signed him up for the county fair honey contest without asking, and he’d driven down at 6 a.m. grumbling the whole way, convinced the whole thing was a waste of time that would end with him overpaying for a bad corn dog and going home alone, same as always.
He’s kneeling to stack jars of sourwood honey on his display table when his work boot catches on a tent stake, sends a full 16-ounce jar of wildflower honey crashing down the edge of the table, spilling golden, sticky goop all over the divider between his booth and the one next door. Before he can grab a paper towel, a woman’s laugh cuts through the hum of early fairgoers. She leans over the divider holding a stack of wet wipes, her forearms dusted with flour, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid streaked with silver at the temples. He recognizes her immediately: Clara Hale, married to his high school lab partner Jake for 25 years, until Jake dropped dead of a heart attack mid-hike three years prior. She’d run the bakery out of their garage as a side hustle for years, then expanded to a storefront after he passed.
She steps around the divider to help, her shoulder brushing the side of his thigh when she kneels to wipe honey off the bottom of his boot. He can smell lavender hand cream mixed with the warm, yeasty tang of sourdough rolling off her flannel shirt, and his throat goes dry. “Manny Ruiz. I’d know that scowl anywhere. You still throw fits when inanimate objects don’t do what you want?” She looks up at him, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners, and he forgets how to speak for three full seconds.
He grunts something about tent stakes being garbage, goes back to stacking jars, but he can’t stop glancing over at her. She brings him a black coffee an hour later, no sugar, just how he liked it back in high school, and sits on the edge of his table when the foot traffic dies down. She teases him about the “hermit beekeeper” rumors she’d heard around town, he admits he’s barely left his property except to hit the farmers market once a week for seven years, scared if he lets anyone get close they’ll leave same as everyone else. She doesn’t pity him, just snorts and says “Join the club. I didn’t leave my house for three months after Jake died. Turns out, the world doesn’t end when you stop hiding.”
The sky opens up at 2 p.m., thick, cold rain lashing at the tents, wind so strong it yanks the side of his pop-up canopy loose, sends his whole display of honey jars tipping toward the ground. She vaults over the divider before he can react, grabbing half the stack of jars just in time, pressing her back to his chest as they huddle under the remaining intact edge of the canopy, rain drumming so loud on the fabric he can barely hear his own heartbeat. She tilts her head back to look up at him, rain drops beading on her cheek, and says “For the record, I had a huge crush on you senior year. Before you started dating your wife, before I started dating Jake. I thought you were too busy staring at your bee hives to notice I existed.”
He freezes, the weight of that admission settling soft between his shoulder blades. He’d had a crush on her too, back then, had even planned to ask her to prom, until he’d seen Jake slip her a note between chemistry classes. He’d never told a soul, had written it off as a stupid teenage what-if for 35 years. “I noticed you,” he says, quiet enough only she can hear. “I was just too much of a coward to say anything.”
The rain slows to a drizzle 10 minutes later, and they both laugh when they realize they’re still standing pressed together, both holding stacks of unbroken honey jars. He grabs his special reserve jar of tupelo honey off the top shelf, the one he only gives to people he actually likes, and hands it to her. “For your honey butter recipe,” he says. “I’ve heard yours is the best in the county. You can tell me if it’s better with tupelo.” She takes it, pulls a bakery business card out of her pocket, scribbles her cell number on the back in bright blue pen, tucks it into the front pocket of his canvas work overalls, her fingers brushing the fabric over his chest for half a second longer than necessary. He doesn’t flinch. He pulls out his phone as soon as she’s behind her table, types a text asking if she wants to get burgers at the old diner on the edge of town after the fair closes, and hits send before he can talk himself out of it.
