Manny Ruiz, 53, runs 42 honeybee hives scattered across western North Carolina’s mountain hollows, and he hasn’t voluntarily let anyone get closer than arm’s length to his personal life since his ex-wife left him for a Florida real estate developer eight years prior. His knuckles are perpetually scraped from prying apart hive boxes, his flannel shirts always carry a faint tang of beeswax and pine sap, and his most defining flaw is that he’d rather work through a rheumatoid arthritis flare so bad he can barely grip a hive tool than ask a neighbor for help. That stubborn streak had served him well enough building his small honey business from scratch, even when his ex’s family spread petty rumors about him being lazy and untrustworthy in the months after the split, almost tanking his local customer base before he could prove them wrong.
The October air at the small town fall festival smells like fried apple pies, burnt caramel, and the damp dead leaves crunching under work boot soles, and Manny’s half paying attention to the bluegrass band plucking a wobbly version of *Foggy Mountain Breakdown* two booths over when she leans over his display table. He recognizes her immediately: Elara Voss, his ex’s younger cousin, the one who’d only been 20 when he got married, who’d snuck a piece of his wedding cake before the ceremony even started. Her auburn curls are pulled back with a burnt orange silk scarf, there’s a smudge of ink on her left jaw from stamping library books, and she’s close enough he can smell jasmine hand lotion and cinnamon gum on her breath when she grins. “Heard you’re the only guy in the county that sells sourwood honey that doesn’t taste like corn syrup cut with tree bark,” she says, holding eye contact so steady he feels heat crawl up the back of his neck.
He freezes for half a second, every instinct screaming to shut the interaction down before the town gossip mill catches wind. He’d heard she moved back three months prior to run the local public library, had deliberately avoided every community event he thought she might be at, too wary of the drama that came with even being seen talking to a member of his ex’s family. But when she reaches for a jar of the small-batch sourwood he only reserves for repeat, trusted customers at the same time he does, their knuckles brush, and the warmth of her skin shoots up his arm so fast he almost drops the jar. He fumbles it, she laughs, a low warm sound that cuts through the noise of the festival, and he finds himself leaning over the table a little too, closing the distance between them instead of stepping back.
They talk for 20 minutes, Manny forgetting to ring up the two customers that wander up to the booth in that time, too focused on how she leans in when he explains the difference between sourwood and wildflower honey, how she doesn’t flinch when he mentions the rumors her family spread about him, just snorts and says half of them still think the moon landing was faked, so their opinions aren’t worth the air they’re spoken with. He’s torn the whole time: half of him is disgusted with himself for even entertaining this, knows every old biddy in town will be texting his ex before the sun sets, will call him a creep for going after his ex’s cousin, will make up lies about him cheating on her with Elara years prior. The other half of him hasn’t felt this seen since before the divorce, hasn’t had someone ask him about his bees like they actually care, not just want a discount on a jar of honey for their grandma’s Christmas gift.
A sharp gust of wind blows through the festival grounds, sending paper napkins skittering across the pavement, and Elara’s scarf comes loose, catching on the corner of his wooden display stand, right next to a row of 4 ounce honey jars. He reaches over to untangle it, his hand brushing the soft skin of her neck when he tugs the silk free, and she doesn’t pull away. She tilts her chin up a fraction, her eyes flicking from his mouth back to his eyes, and says, quiet enough no one else can hear, “I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to come talk to you for a month. Knew you’d probably write me off because of my cousin, but I didn’t want to not try.”
Manny stares at her for a long second, the noise of the festival fading into background static, and realizes he’s tired of letting other people’s opinions dictate what he does with his life. He grabs the best jar of sourwood he has in the display, the one he’d set aside to give to his abuela for her birthday, and scrawls his cell number on the lid with a black sharpie, right next to his handwritten “Ruiz’s Wild Honey” label. He slides it across the table to her, no charge. “I do a foraging walk every Saturday morning, looking for new spots to set up hives,” he says, and he’s surprised at how steady his voice is, no trace of the nervousness he felt 20 minutes prior. “If you don’t mind getting your boots dirty, you can come along. I’ll even bring you a free honey stick to snack on.”
She tucks the jar into the canvas library tote slung over her shoulder, taps the lid with one finger, and grins, the same grin she had when she snuck that wedding cake all those years ago. “I’ll text you tonight to confirm,” she says, and winks, before turning to walk toward the fried pie booth. Manny watches her go, the orange of her scarf flapping in the wind, and picks up a hive tool he’d left on the table, twisting it between his fingers. He’d spent eight years tending to nothing but his bees, convinced that was all he needed to be happy. He watches her pause to pet a golden retriever that trots past her, and realizes his hives aren’t the only thing worth tending to this fall.
