Javier Ruiz, 52, third-generation beekeeper out of Gonzales, Texas, leaned against the chipped Formica bar of the town’s only bowling alley, twisting a cold Shiner Bock between calloused fingers. He’d dropped off three cases of his award-winning wildflower honey for the fire department fundraiser’s silent auction an hour prior, and was only sticking around to avoid going home to an empty house and the stack of hive maintenance invoices on his kitchen table. A lifelong stubborn streak had kept him single for eight years, ever since his ex-wife moved to Austin for a corporate marketing job and told him his bees were “a charming hobby, not a career.” He still wore the same scuffed tan Carhartt overalls every day, the left sleeve frayed where a 2019 hive collapse had left a pale, jagged scar snaking up his forearm.
The air reeked of fried pickles, lemon Pledge, and cheap beer, the clatter of bowling pins and rowdy laughter from lane seven drowning out the George Strait track playing over the speakers. He was half watching a group of volunteer firemen play cornhole by the front door when a woman bumped into his side hard enough to slosh the half-full jar of sample honey he was holding for a regular customer down his bare forearm, the thick golden liquid dripping right over the scar.
“Shit, I am so sorry,” she said, grabbing a handful of bar napkins off the counter before he could react. She pressed the napkin to his arm, her cool, soft fingers brushing the raised edge of the scar as she blotted the honey off. Javier froze, his throat going dry. He recognized her immediately: Lena, 42, Tom Hale’s stepdaughter. Tom had been his high school rival, the guy who’d tripped him on the 10-yard line during the 1988 homecoming game, costing their team the win, and Javier had avoided every family gathering and community event Tom was at for the past 35 years on principle.
He pulled his arm back half a step, half wanting to storm off, but she was grinning, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners, a faded Willie Nelson tee tight across her shoulders, bare feet planted on the sticky linoleum where she’d kicked off her sandals ten minutes prior. “You’re the honey guy, right? I order your wildflower off Etsy all the time, shipped all the way to Portland. Tastes better than any of the garbage they sell out west.”
Javier hesitated, the weird twist of disgust at talking to Tom’s kid warring with the low hum of heat in his chest at the way she was looking at him, like she actually gave a shit what he had to say. He mumbled a thanks, nodded at the scar when she asked what happened, told her about the 2019 storm that had knocked 12 of his hives off their cinder blocks, the hundreds of stings he’d gotten trying to save the queen bees. She leaned in when he talked, her elbow brushing his, the faint scent of lavender shampoo mixing with the honey smell still lingering on both their hands. She told him she ran a vintage mystery bookstore in Portland, was only in town to visit her grandma in the hospital, thought Tom was a “self-absorbed tool” and hadn’t spoken to him more than twice in the past five years.
They talked for 40 minutes, Javier glancing over at Tom every few minutes to make sure he wasn’t watching, half ashamed of how badly he wanted to keep talking to her. When she asked if he wanted to sneak out early and show her his hives at dusk, said she’d never seen bees up close outside of a nature documentary, he said yes before he could talk himself out of it.
They drove out to his 10-acre property in his beat-up 2007 Ford F-150, the windows rolled down, the warm spring air carrying the smell of clover and cut grass. The sun was dipping below the oak trees by the time they pulled up, painting the sky soft pink and tangerine, the bees slow and calm as they drifted back to their hives for the night. Lena stepped right up next to him, so close her shoulder pressed against his, when he pointed out the queen bee marked with a tiny dot of blue paint on one hive frame. She brushed a stray worker bee off the collar of his overalls, her face inches from his, and he kissed her before he could second guess it. She kissed him back, her hand coming up to rest on the scar on his forearm, the faint taste of peach hard seltzer and honey on her lips.
They sat on the tailgate of the truck till the fireflies started blinking in the tall grass, sharing a jar of iced tea he’d stashed in the cooler that morning. She scribbled her cell number on the back of a crumpled receipt for a 1972 Agatha Christie first edition from her bookstore, tucking it deep into the front pocket of his overalls, and told him she was flying back to Portland the next afternoon, but wanted to order a whole 5-gallon barrel of his wildflower honey for the bookstore’s cafe, and was planning to come back to visit when the clover bloom peaked in June.
He drove her back to Tom’s house, waited in the truck till she turned the front porch light on and waved through the window before he pulled away. The receipt crinkled in his pocket when he shifted gears, the faint taste of lavender and honey still lingering on his lips.
