Rico Marquez, 51, has kept bees and sold small-batch honey out of his 12-acre plot outside Fredericksburg, Texas, for 14 years. He’s got a thin scar slashing across his left eyebrow from a run-in with an aggressive hive when he first started, and a stubborn streak so thick he once spent three days repairing a broken extractor himself instead of calling a repairman, even when his shoulder was throbbing so bad he could barely lift a jar. The habit of refusing help stuck after his high school sweetheart wife left him for a traveling rodeo announcer seven years prior, and he decided he didn’t need anyone’s support for anything, sticking to his farm, his two hound dogs, and his hives unless he had to run errands or work the weekly Saturday farmers market.
The April market was busier than usual, spring tourists flooding the sidewalks to sniff wildflower bouquets and sample peach cobbler from the stand two down from his, the air thick with jasmine and the distant tang of smoked brisket from the food truck parked at the end of the block. A kid on a sparkly pink scooter swerved to avoid a golden retriever darting after a dropped french fry, slammed straight into the edge of his wooden display table, and half his stacked jars toppled, two shattering on the sidewalk, golden honey oozing into the cracks of the concrete. He swore under his breath, dropping to his knees to grab the unbroken jars before they rolled into the street, and that’s when he saw her.
She was kneeling across from him, cutoffs frayed at the hem, faded Willie Nelson tee stretched across her shoulders, sun gilding the freckles across her nose, already tucking a jar of tupelo honey into the wooden crate at his feet. Her knee brushed his when she leaned forward to grab a jar that was rolling toward the gutter, and he caught a whiff of lavender hand cream and old paper, sharp and sweet enough to cut through the cloying honey fumes clogging his nose. He realized who she was halfway through cleaning up—Lila, his ex-wife’s younger cousin, the quiet 19-year-old who’d hidden in the corner of their wedding reception 22 years prior, too nervous to talk to anyone, who he’d snuck an extra slice of vanilla wedding cake to when no one was looking.
She recognized him at the same time, grinning so wide the corners of her eyes crinkled, and said she’d moved to town three weeks prior to take over the head librarian job, got sick of Austin traffic and entitled parents yelling about banned books and landlords hiking rent 30% in a single year. She laughed when he apologized for the honey splatter on her white sneakers, wiping a spot of it off the toe with her thumb and saying she’d been buying his honey from the general store for two weeks already, it was the only thing that made her morning chamomile tea taste right. When they both reached for the last unbroken jar of wildflower honey at the same time, their hands brushed, and he felt the rough callus on her index finger from years of turning brittle book pages, the heat of her skin lingering on his knuckle long after she’d pulled her hand back. She held eye contact for three beats too long, the corner of her mouth tugging up like she knew exactly what he was thinking, and he felt his neck go warm, a flutter in his chest he hadn’t felt since before his ex left.
He knew it was messy. His ex still lived 20 minutes outside town, ran a hair salon, would scream so loud the neighbors would hear if she found out he was even talking to her cousin. He’d spent seven years avoiding any situation that could drag her back into his life, turning down invitations to cookouts and bar nights if he knew she’d be there, even switching grocery stores so he didn’t have to run into her in the cereal aisle. But Lila was telling him about the new community reading garden the library was putting in behind the building, asking if he’d be willing to bring an observation hive for the grand opening so local kids could learn about pollinators, and he couldn’t make himself say no. When they finished wiping the remaining honey off the sidewalk with paper towels, she had a canvas tote full of peaches, sourdough, and a jar of his honey slung over her shoulder, and he offered to carry it to her car, his knuckles brushing the small of her back when he passed the tote to her next to her beat-up 2008 Subaru covered in library-themed bumper stickers.
She leaned against the driver’s side door, tucking a strand of sun-bleached blonde hair behind her ear, and asked him if he wanted to come over for dinner that night. She said she had a recipe for honey cornbread she’d been dying to try, and a bottle of small-batch bourbon she’d picked up on her way into town, no strings attached, no pressure, just dinner and whatever conversation they felt like having. He hesitated for half a second, thinking about the angry text messages his ex would send, the gossip that would spread through the small town faster than a summer wildfire, the seven years he’d spent hiding from any kind of connection that didn’t involve his bees or his hound dogs. Then he said yes, no hesitation left.
He grabbed a jar of his rarest mesquite honey, harvested from hives on the edge of his property near the mesquite grove, from the back of his truck, pressed it into her hand, told her to save the extra sweet piece of cornbread for him, he’d bring a six pack of the hazy IPA from the brewery down the road and a jar of pickled okra he’d canned the previous fall. She laughed, tucking the jar into her tote, waving as she pulled out of the parking lot, and he stood there for a minute, watching her car disappear down the tree-lined street, the sun warm on his face. He didn’t care what his ex would say, didn’t care about the small town gossip, didn’t care that he’d spent seven years swearing he was better off alone. He wiped a smudge of honey off his cheek with the back of his hand, already counting the hours until sunset.
