Rafe Mendez, 62, spent 31 years as an air traffic controller in Atlanta before a near mid-air collision on his watch left him with a permanent knot between his shoulder blades and a burning need to stop talking to people entirely. He moved to the mountains outside Asheville 12 years prior, set up 42 beehives on his 7-acre plot, and only left the property twice a week to sell raw honey at the farmers market, never staying longer than he had to, never exchanging more than three sentences with any customer. His worst flaw, the one he’d never admit out loud, was that he’d convinced himself loneliness was a choice he preferred, that any connection with another person would only lead to the same kind of mess that ended his 22-year marriage.
He only showed up to the rec center’s end-of-summer barbeque because his 82-year-old neighbor, Mabel, had begged him to bring three jars of his wildflower honey for the peach cobbler station, promising him a free plate of pulled pork as payment. He’d planned to drop the jars, grab the pork, and hightail it back to his hives before anyone could corner him into small talk about the weather or the local high school football team. The air was thick with charcoal smoke and the sweet tang of vinegar-based BBQ sauce, crickets chirped loud enough to cut through the bluegrass band playing off by the baseball diamond, and his faded flannel shirt was already sticking to his back within five minutes of stepping out of his beat-up Ford F-150.
He was turning to leave, a jar of honey he’d grabbed for himself tucked under his arm, when a kid on a scooter darted between his legs, making him stumble. The jar slipped out of his grip, and he reached for it at the exact same time a woman standing next to the dessert table did. Their hands collided on the cool glass, and Rafe flinched like he’d been stung. Her hand was smaller than his, cool even in the thick humidity, a smudge of royal blue ink on her middle knuckle, and he could smell lavender hand cream mixed with the smoke from the grill, a scent so unexpected he froze for half a second before he let go of the jar.
She was 58, he later learned, Clara Bennett, the new librarian who’d moved to town three months prior, the same woman who’d put holds on every single beekeeping book in the town library’s collection, whose name he’d seen scrawled on hold slips tucked into the spines when he’d gone to renew a reference book the month before. She held the jar out to him, grinning, and didn’t look away when he met her eyes. Most people looked away after two seconds max, weirded out by the scar that cut across his left eyebrow from a bee sting that got infected back in 2019, but Clara just stared, the corners of her eyes crinkling like she was laughing at a joke only the two of them knew.
Rafe’s first instinct was to mumble a thank you and walk away, to scrub the memory of her hand on his out of his brain before it could take root. He’d spent 12 years actively avoiding this exact feeling, the flutter in his chest that came from looking at someone who felt like they might actually get the weird, quiet life he’d built for himself. He told himself he was being stupid, that he was too old for this, that getting involved with anyone would only mean having to compromise the routines he’d built to keep himself calm: no more 5 a.m. hive checks, no more eating peanut butter sandwiches for dinner three nights a week, no more unbroken silence when he wanted it.
But then she said, “You’re the beekeeper, right? I’ve been checking out all your books. I tried to set up a hive in my backyard last month and got stung three times before I even got the frame in the box.” Her shoulder brushed his bicep when she shifted her weight, and he could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin flannel of his shirt, the fabric worn soft from 10 years of wear. He nodded, still not talking, and she handed him a cup of peach lemonade she’d been holding, the condensation dripping down the side onto his wrist. “I owe you for catching that jar. Was gonna take it home for my tea, but you can have it. I’ll just buy one from you at the market Saturday.”
The lemonade was tart and sweet, cold enough to make his teeth ache, and Rafe found himself leaning against the dessert table instead of leaving, listening to her talk about the beekeeping program she wanted to start for the teens at the library, how she thought getting them outside working with hives would help the kids who never talked, who spent all their time locked in their rooms scrolling TikTok. He hated TikTok, hated most rowdy teens, but he found himself nodding along, telling her about the time he’d taught Mabel’s 16-year-old grandson how to calm a swarm by breathing slow, how the kid had come back every weekend for six months to help with the hives.
He talked for 20 minutes straight, which was more than he’d talked to anyone in the past three months combined, and he didn’t even realize it until the bluegrass band finished their set and a round of cheers went up from the crowd by the stage. Clara leaned in close to be heard over the noise, her breath warm against his ear, and said, “So will you teach me? I’ll bring you pie every week. Apple, your favorite, Mabel told me.”
Rafe almost said no. He almost made up an excuse about being too busy, about how he didn’t like teaching beginners, about how he preferred to work alone. But then she tucked a strand of sun-bleached blonde hair behind her ear, her thumb brushing her lower lip, and he found himself saying yes before he could think better of it.
They walked over to a picnic table set back under a gnarled oak tree, away from the crowd, and sat down. Clara told him about growing up in Florida, about how she’d moved to the mountains after her ex-husband retired to play golf full time, about how she’d always loved bees but had never had the space to keep them until now. Rafe told her about the near-collision that made him quit air traffic control, about how his ex-wife had left him three months after he moved to the mountains, said she couldn’t stand the unbroken quiet. He hadn’t told anyone that part, not even Mabel.
A bumblebee hovered over the clover patch next to the table, fuzzy and bright yellow, and Clara leaned forward to point at it, her knee pressing against his through the thin fabric of their jeans. Rafe didn’t move away.
