Javier Ruiz, 52, has run a 12-hive apiary outside Bastrop, Texas, for eight years, ever since his ex-wife packed a U-Haul and drove west to marry a software salesman she met on a hiking app. His biggest flaw is that he pretends not to care what small-town gossips think, but he catches himself adjusting his worn work shirt before regulars stop by his farmers’ market booth, avoids lingering in conversations that might spark side-eye, still cringes when the local Facebook group drags the disgraced city councilman caught canoodling with a 24-year-old intern last month. The whole town’s been on high alert for “creepy older guys” ever since, and Javier’s gone out of his way to keep interactions with anyone under 35 brisk, impersonal, strictly transactional.
The heat hangs thick enough to sip at 9 a.m. that Saturday, sweat beading at the edge of his sun-bleached baseball cap, dripping down the scar on his left forearm he got when a hive swarmed last spring. He’s wiping sticky honey residue off a quart jar when he sees her, the art teacher who’s been stopping by his booth every weekend for three months, buying raw local honey for her first graders’ sensory bins. Clara’s carrying a stack of crumpled construction paper slipping out of her grip, cutoff denim shirt tied at her waist, freckles dark across her nose from chaperoning a hill country field trip the week prior. He feels his jaw tighten, remembers the two women running the jam booth two stalls over snickering when she stayed to ask him about bee dance language two weeks before.
She stops at the edge of his booth, grinning, and drops half the construction paper on the ground when she waves. He leans over to help her pick it up, their heads bumping when they both reach for a neon yellow sheet covered in crayon drawings of bees. His shoulder presses to hers for three full seconds, and he can smell coconut sunscreen and the lavender lip balm she wears, can feel the callus on her thumb from holding paintbrushes when their hands brush reaching for the same drawing. He yanks back like he’s been stung, shoves the stack of paper at her, and turns to grab the usual pint of wildflower honey he sets aside for her every week, not meeting her eye.
“You okay?” She tilts her head, and her hair falls over one shoulder, sun catching the gold streaks in the light brown strands. “You’re being weirder than normal.”
“Fine. Busy.” He nods at the line forming behind her, even though there’s only one old guy waiting for a jar of comb honey, and he’s been coming for 7 years, doesn’t mind waiting. He slides the honey across the counter, tells her it’s eight dollars, no discount, even though he usually knocks two bucks off for her.
She stares at him for a long beat, then digs in her tote bag and pulls out a framed watercolor, bright splatters of yellow and gold, little black bee shapes scattered across a green background, signed by all 22 of her first graders. “The class made this for you. They loved the hive tour you did last month. I told them you’d like it.”
Javier freezes, his hand hovering over the cash box. He’d forgotten the field trip, forgotten how she’d laughed when a bee landed on her wrist and didn’t sting her, forgotten how she’d stayed after all the kids left to help him put hive covers back on, their elbows brushing every time they reached for a strap. He looks up, she’s holding eye contact, no embarrassment, no hesitation, leans in close enough that he can feel her breath on his cheek when she speaks, quiet enough no one else can hear. “I don’t care what the jam ladies say, by the way. I don’t think you’re anything like that councilman. I like talking to you. I’ve been asking Lila from the jam booth about you for three months, for the record.”
The knot in his chest loosens, slow, like warm honey melting. He’s spent eight years telling himself he doesn’t get to have things that feel this easy, this bright, that any younger woman paying attention to him is just a cliché waiting to be mocked, that he deserves the quiet, lonely life he’s built with his bees. He reaches for the watercolor, his fingers brushing hers on the edge of the frame, and he doesn’t pull away this time. “I save the best wildflower honey for you every week. Didn’t think you’d notice.”
She grins, leans in further so their knees bump under the counter, and pulls a Sharpie out of her tote, scribbling her phone number on the back of the watercolor’s cardboard backing. “I noticed. I also noticed you don’t wear a wedding ring anymore. Bring that jar of honey to my place tonight at 7. The kids added glitter to the painting, so you can help me hang it without making a mess if you’re not too scared of what the gossips will say.”
She tucks the pint of honey into her tote, winks, and walks away, the hem of her linen sundress fluttering in the hot breeze, the jam booth ladies staring so hard their jam spoons are frozen mid-stir. Javier tucks the painting under his arm, wipes his sticky hand on his jeans, and pulls out his flip phone to text her before she even makes it to the tamale truck at the end of the market row.
