I do as he says, moving quickly toward the house, the last of the bees lifting from my arms, vanishing back to their pillaged hive. At the front porch, I set the jar of honey on the steps, then finally look down at the knife. The blade streaked with blood.
Guilt plummets through me. “Oh fuck,” I say, when he comes up behind me. “I’m so sorry, I can’t believe I—that was so stupid, I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s fine.”
He starts up the steps, but I grab his arm. “Let me see.”
He shakes his head, but I reach out, touching his hand and forcing him to release it. The cut is small but deep, blood rising steadily to the surface along the base of his thumb. “We need to stitch it,” I tell him.
“Nae.” He pulls his hand back.
“Look,” I say. “That cut is deep, and it’ll only get infected if we don’t close it up.”
He exhales, looking down at his hand.
“Wait here,” I tell him.
For once, he does what I say, and sinks down into one of the chairs, pulling the handkerchief from his back pocket and pressing it to the cut to stanch the blood.
I return a minute later with a needle and thread, and a glass bottle of white liquid I found in the bathroom that smells of rubbing alcohol. I kneel in front of him, and he looks pliant, like he’s lost all his courage. “You have no fear about climbing onto the roof or disturbing beehives, but you’re afraid of a small needle?”
He shrugs, looking me in the eyes.
“I’ll be as careful as I can,” I assure him.
He allows me to take his hand, and I pour a small amount of the white alcohol onto the cut. He winces but doesn’t pull his hand back. I washed my own hands at the kitchen sink, but I can still smell the faint scent of honey on them as I thread the needle. Blowing out a long breath to steady myself, I ease the sharp end of the needle through his skin along the edge of the cut, and he lets out a small moan—this time trying to yank his hand back. But I grip it tighter.
“I ain’t a sweater that needs mendin’, that’s my skin,” he remarks.
“I never said I was any good at this,” I reply with a smile. “But if you keep flinching, you’ll end up with more holes in you than you already have.”
His shoulders relax, and he lets me pull his hand closer so I can finish the stitch. I never thought I’d be able to stomach so much blood—or suture someone’s hand back together. But I stare down at my work,impressed. I turn his hand in the morning light, inspecting it—ensuring the thread will hold—and suppress some dormant urge to lay my lips over it. His palm is rough, strong, the sweet scent of honey coating his fingertips, and there’s something about touching him—the closeness, the comfort of another person’s skin… It feels like something I’ve missed. Like…
I can feel him watching me and I quickly release his hand, rocking back on my heels.
“Sorry,” I repeat, looking away from him. “I should have been more careful with the knife.”
He nods, lips tugging upward. “Just glad ye were here to sew me up.”
“So I am good for something after all.”
He pushes himself up from the chair. “Dinnae let it go to yer head,” he says with a wink. “We shed a little blood to get some honey. I’d say it was worth the trade.”
Two days later, the afternoon warm, the winds calm, I move through the kitchen preparing rosehip tea and I find myself humming a tune—an Adele song that I remember watching her sing live on TV years ago.
“But if by chance you’re here alone
Can I have a moment before I go?”
Grabbing the mason jar of honey from the shelf, I add a spoonful to my steaming mug—remembering the way the honeycomb peeled away beneath the knife, remembering the warmth of Clay’s palm as I pushed the needle through his flesh. I replace the lid on the jar, then walk to the sink in my bare feet, singing a few notes aloud.“You look like a movie / You sound like a song. Ohhh…”I forget the words, mumble something, then continue.“… this reminds me / Of when we were young.”
I rinse out the tea strainer and set it to dry on a kitchen rag, humming the lines to myself… when I hear him clear his throat.
I whip around and find Clay standing at the back door, hands holding a pair of leather gloves. The cut beside his thumb has turned smoothand pink, healing well. His eyes are watery in the cool air, and he smiles a little. “It’s a nice tune, what’s it called?”
Heat flushes my cheeks. “I can’t remember, actually.”
“It’s a sad song?”
