Rafe Mendez, 53, has run a 12-hive apiary outside Asheville for 14 years, and his worst flaw is that he holds grudges until they rot the inside of his chest like mold on a wet bee frame. For 12 full years, that grudge has been fixed on Lena Marquez, his ex-wife’s younger cousin, the woman he’d sworn ratted him out for sneaking off to a late-night poker game the night his ex suffered a second-trimester miscarriage. He’d skipped every family barbecue, holiday dinner, even his own nephew’s high school graduation just to avoid her, stuck in a loop of anger so thick he could barely breathe around it sometimes.
He’s at the county fair on a sweltering mid-September afternoon, hauling three jars of his award-winning wild sourwood honey to the agricultural contest table, when he spots her. She’s perched on a folding chair behind the judge’s table, denim cutoffs riding up her thighs, that tiny silver nose ring he’d teased her for getting when she was 19 still glinting in the sun, chestnut hair pulled back in a messy braid slung over one shoulder. He freezes halfway across the grass, jars heavy in his hands, half-tempted to turn around and drive straight back to his farm. But he’d tended that specific batch of honey for three straight months, moving hives up to higher elevation twice to catch the last of the sourwood bloom, fighting off a bear that tried to break into a hive two weeks prior. He’s not wasting the entry fee, or the work.
He walks up, jaw tight, and sets the jars down in front of her. She looks up from the clipboard in her lap, and her whole face goes soft, surprised, like she’s been waiting to see him for a long time. “Rafe. I didn’t know you were entering this year.” Her voice is lower than he remembers, a little rough, like she’s been smoking too many menthols or laughing too hard lately. He grunts, noncommittal, ready to turn and leave, when she nods at the empty folding chair next to her. “Sit. I owe you an apology. I’ve owed it to you for 12 years.”
He sits, more out of shock than anything, and the side of her thigh brushes his through his khaki work pants, warm, solid. He can smell jasmine perfume on her skin, mixed with the faint sweet tang of cotton candy and the earthy reek of the livestock barn two rows over. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of the sweat beading down his neck under his faded flannel shirt, the scar on his left forearm from a bad 2019 beesting throbbing a little like it does when he’s nervous. She leans forward, elbows on the table, and tells him the truth: his ex lied. Lena never told her where he was that night. She’d been the one who found his ex passed out on the bathroom floor, drove her to the hospital, stayed with her for six hours while Rafe was unreachable at the poker game. His ex was so angry and grieving she’d blamed Rafe entirely, and made up the lie that Lena had ratted him out to make the blow hit harder.
Rafe feels all the air leave his lungs, like he just got punched in the gut. 12 years of anger, 12 years of avoiding family, 12 years of hating a woman who’d actually done nothing but help his ex when he couldn’t be bothered. He stares at her, and for the first time he lets himself notice what he’d always pushed down out of guilt when he was married: she’s beautiful. The little crinkles around her eyes when she smiles, the callus on her index finger from the pottery business she runs out of her garage, the way she’s biting her lower lip like she’s scared he’s gonna yell at her.
She leans in to hand him a plastic spoon dipped in a competitor’s clover honey, and her fingers brush his, warm, calloused. She admits she’s had a crush on him since she was 22, never said anything because he was married, then he hated her so much he wouldn’t even be in the same room as her, so she kept her distance. The fair loudspeakers blare Alan Jackson’s “Chattahoochee” somewhere behind them, kids scream on the Tilt-a-Whirl, a vendor yells about fresh lemonade, but all Rafe can hear is his own pulse thudding in his ears. He reaches over, brushes a stray strand of hair off her face, and she doesn’t pull away, her eyes dark, soft, no trace of fear left.
The contest coordinator calls his name 10 minutes later, announces he won first place, hands him a crinkly blue ribbon and a $200 check. He shoves both in his pocket without looking at them, stands up, and holds his hand out to her. “You wanna get a fried Oreo and ride the Ferris wheel with me?” She grins, that bright, goofy grin he remembers from when she was a teenager, and slips her hand into his, her palm warm and rough against his. They walk toward the food stalls, his scarred forearm pressing against hers, the sun dipping low over the fairgrounds, painting the sky pink and orange.
