Sweet

Roman was going to do it.

On his first night back in Rock Candy Valley after five years, he would profess his love to Honey Bee Bennett.

The woman who smiled slow and sweet like syrup. The woman who rode mechanical bulls like she would the back of a crescent moon. The woman with a voice of smoke and sugar, smokier in song, sugary in laughter. The woman who could tune lakeside cattails or flute blades of grass for an audience of bayou fireflies. The woman with the best honey mustard in all of Rock Candy. The woman who only winked with her right eye. The only woman who had ever nicknamed him Roam, from the moment they met as teenagers.

The woman who crooned her little folk ditty onstage at the Lucky Charm Saloon that night, the way a morning songbird would perform at his windowsill.

“She’s sweet,” She sang, “She’s sweet as candles, as pie, as life and all her jewelry. Sweet as sugar tea, could sweet ’n sugar the sea. She’s sweet. Sweeter’n you and me.”

Honey Bee plucked the last little cluster of notes on her red maple guitar. The crowd roared in holler and applause before she could strum the final chord. She offered a smile, sweet and pink as berry frosting, then accepted a hug from her sister Cherry as soon as she stepped away from the light and warmth of the stage.

Happy birthday—Roman caught on her lips.

Shortly thereafter, he also caught the angle of her gaze when she found him staring back at her from the other end of the room.

That look right there he would never forget—how her eyes glistened, dark and rich enough to soil orchards of pear trees and grapevines, and the way her lone star smile gleamed in the palest, softest light, down to the nick of her feathery brows and the dimple that puckered her chin.

He had to stop himself from confessing his love to her right then and there.

He would wait until later in the evening, when everyone migrated a few bars over for a round of horseshoes and bourbon. Where he would lead her to the rooftop terrace, as close as he could possibly get to the silver dollar moon, and promise his heart to her, so long as he could have hers in return.

She’s sweet—Roman hummed to himself on his way to the Appleseed Bar, though he filtered the lyrics with thoughts of Honey, not Cherry.

She’s sweet as syrup, as sap, as golden firefly light.

Sweet as stars in white, could sweet ’n sugar the night.

She’s sweet.

Sweeter’n you and me.

Roman had spent the past couple long-winded hours saddled to the same barstool.

Old friends swept in and out of the seats nearest to him like tumbleweeds, to clink their glasses and pass around cigars and erupt in rough-and-tumble chants and laughter. He was having fun, no doubt, but it was about that time. He could only glance at Honey from afar for a short while longer, as she aimed little darts at the corked target on the back wall, and winced into the flesh of a salted lime slice after every shot, and refused Cherry each time she tried to yank her onto the dance floor.

He had decided. He would tell her now. Especially since the last time he saw her had to be near an hour ago, when she fluttered out back to join a game of horseshoes.

He pushed through the batwing doors—but did not see Honey Bee.

In fact, no one hung around outside anymore, and instead they had all drifted up to the rooftop terrace where he hoped to have Honey all to himself. He would’ve gone up there, had he not noticed that Honey Bee’s pine green truck also wasn’t there.

She had left. But Roman knew he couldn’t wait for her to come back.

For the first time in the last five years, he would finally quit waiting.

The drive to her little daisy blue ranch gave him the trouble it always did. Rock Candy Valley had a mind of its own, with scatterbrained roads that changed their minds with a sharp curve at the last second, or circled back in winding loops just to flatten out again, and too many forks to tell apart, that Rock Candy itself had to swap and mix up in the wee hours of the night when the rest of the town slept. It was the only city that patted you on the back as you drove in, with a chasmic pothole that snagged and bucked your truck as it greeted you.

Despite the twister of roads Roman had to navigate, he made it to her home a few minutes sooner than usual. His truck hunkered and rumbled into the gravel driveway, directly behind Honey Bee’s.

He skipped the third, caved-in porch step on his way up to her front door, a habit he wasn’t aware that he still knew by heart.

The door rattled when he knocked. He heard nothing at all.

He rerouted behind the house, settling for the back door instead. This time, he called to her.

“Honey!” Knock knock knock! “Honey Bee!”

Still, he heard nothing.

He had to resort to the workshop little bird feeder that guarded the patio furniture, painted in crude but tender brushstrokes of teal and yellow. He latched it open to retrieve the spare copper key hidden among scatters of birdseed.

He wrestled with the lock, then hustled through to her living room, rushing ahead of the screen door that liked to kick people’s rear end if they didn’t get in the house fast enough.

He called to her again. “Honey? It’s Roam.”

The crash and thunder of something heavy and quick to fall rumbled from the other side of the house. He wasted no time.

Soft candlelight breached the gap in her bedroom door, opened slightly.

And there, he found her—the Honey he had known for as long as he had been away from her, who was as sweet as syrup and sap and firefly light and white stars, whose smile was his very own gold coin moon in hours of darkness, who couldn’t help but lasso her hat above her head on the rare occasion that she danced, who had the sharpest whistle in all of Rock Candy and its competing valleys, who baked cinnamon cookies with a bottle of whiskey on her arm, who sang slow and thick as honey but cried with the grit and rasp of saltwater and black taffy—who laid before him in her blueberry-farm dress, with cheeks and lips flushed candy apple bronze and her heart-shaped curls pinned back by a flower clip, surrounded by a pile of clutter that had just capsized from her fallen nightstand.

She sniffled, smearing the back of her hand under her nose, and did her best to shove a mess of turquoise jewelry, matchboxes, loose pages, and an empty gin bottle under her bed. She didn’t look up at him when he came in.

And, still, when he asked her, “What happened, Honey Bee?”

She sniffled again, with another heave of her arms under the bedskirt. She shook her head, too.

“It was an accident, but—but ‘m fixin’ it.”

“You aren’t hurt, are you?”

He didn’t expect her to chuckle, dry and raspy like her singing voice.

“Not quite,” She murmured.

Within the following half-second of silence, he heard for the first time the trickle of a running faucet.

“Is that the sink?”

“Shit,” She stood quickly. “Could’a sworn I turned that damn thing off. It keeps comin’ back on again, Roam.”

She stumbled a bit on her way across the room, but caught herself on the bedpost, then lurched forward again.

“Need me to take a look at it?”

“‘M fixin’ it,” She sighed.

Roman turned his attention to the fallen nightstand. He hauled it up, pushed it back against the wall, re-shelved its dislocated drawer.

His little bee returned from the bathroom in a buzz of flustered steps. He knew better in this moment than to ask her outright why she had left the party, or confess to her why he too had left the party in pursuit of her. She would need to be watered down first.

“Thank you,” She said, tipping her chin at her bedside table, “I was plannin’ on doin’ that when I came back.”

“Don’t mention it. I figured y’had your hands full with that haunted sink.”

She could not refuse the smile that flustered her lips. “This ain’t like the pottery shed, alright? Don’t even start—”

He shrugged defensively. “Didn’t say nothin’ about the pottery shed—”

“No, because ever since I got the damn pipes fixed under there, the sinks don’t listen to me no more. The pottery shed had a logical explanation but this—”

She interrupted herself when she glanced down at the pile of clutter at the foot of her bed.

“Christ in Heaven, knew I was forgettin’ somethin’.”

She had already crouched down when he said to her, “You don’t gotta worry about that—”

“Lemme fix it real quick.”

“How many times have I told you that you don’t gotta fix everything?”

“Zero, ’n the last five years.”

She glanced up at him, with eyes that flickered like the spark of a lighter. She held that stare for a long while, but he did not let go. He stared back, just as long.

“Honey—”

She sniffled, shook her head, and discarded her stare to her lap with a watery sigh, distracting herself with another shove of her twistered belongings.

“Why ‘re you even here, Roam?”

“I noticed you were gone. Couldn’t’ve expected me not to find you. Make sure you were alright. And ‘m back in Rock Candy because—”

“I know why you’re back in Rock Candy. Been waitin’ on you ever since I saw you at the show. Waited on you all night too, but I just couldn’t take it after long. Couldn’t keep holdin’ my breath. Why else would I be drinkin’ myself near death just thinkin’ about the news?”

His eyes speared into a squint. He recalled her words a few times more, but could not resolve exactly what she meant. Had she really known his intentions coming back into town? Did she actually make herself sick because of it—and why?

“I don’t want to keep you waitin’ anymore,” He said, “It’s been long enough already. I’ve still gotta say it—”

“I couldn’t even see it with my own eyes, Roam. Do you really think I wanna hear it, too? From you ’n Cherry both?”

He faltered back, as if she just aimed the barrel of a shotgun at his chest.

“What did you just say?”

She mistook his reaction handedly. “Why else would you be here for her birthday? Why else would it have taken five years for you to muster up the courage to propose to her?”

“Wait, wait, wait, Honey—”

“No,” She stood abruptly, then said a bit louder, “You’ve made me wait long enough. ‘M done waitin’ on you. I can’t believe you made me wait five years for this. And the sad thing is, I still don’t know what’s worse—the time I wasted wishin’ for you to come back or the time I wish I still had to hope you were comin’ back for me.”

His lips fractured into a quiet frown. Honey Bee—his Honey Bee—had beat him to it. He could easily remedy her sorrow, her anguish, but she still wouldn’t let him.

“Oh, Honey Bee—”

“What do I gotta do for you to finally understand, Roam? How could you walk in on me sittin’ here, feelin’ sorry for myself, readin’ these stupid love songs I wrote about you and still not get it?”

She hunched forward to crumple a few weathered pages in her hands.

“‘Where to Roam,’ this one’s called.”

She shoved the sheet against his chest, and he caught it before it could flutter to his feet. He glanced down at the first line—Where he roams, that’s where I wanna roam—accompanied by a ladder of music notes scribbled in dainty cursive. He would’ve read on had she not spoken again, had she not given him another.

“‘Gator Guitar Pick.’”

He read that one too. Wonder if he’s still got it, that Gator Guitar Pick—

“‘Firefly Jukebox.’” What to do, he’s gone again—

“‘Bonfire Blues.’” Woodsy eyes, that Roman “Roam” Armstrong—

“‘Cherry Pie.’” His favorite pie’s Cherry—

Roman couldn’t take much more of this. “Honey, you’ve gotta stop this—”

“I mean, you wanna read all seventy-four?”

“I just want you to look at me, Honey Bee.”

She, in a moment of weakness, looked at him with those sweetheart, saltwater eyes. She could not refuse the twist and turn of her mouth into a frown, fissured like a broken heart. He stepped closer to her, and passed her love songs to the edge of the bed so he could cradle her face in his hands. His thumbs caught her fallen, white-star tears just in time.

“I need you to wait. Just one more time. For one last moment. Will you do that for me?”

He watched her swallow, thick and slow like a spoonful of honey. She parted her lips, with a fluttering blink.

But before she could say anything, the whine and slam of the back door followed by a downpour of footsteps quickly approached them. Honey stepped back, in an abrupt instance that ripped his heart from its roots. By the time she turned around, Cherry stood by the bedroom door.

“What’s going on here?” She asked.

Honey spoke before he could even find his next breath, before he could look Cherry directly in the eyes and confess that he had loved her sister all his life.

“Roman just told me you’re gettin’ married. I was just about to run out to get more gin. Then I’ll meet you two back at the party.”

She stepped toward her, hugged her sister close, then whispered softly, in her little Honey-Bee way. “‘M so happy for you.”

Before she could escape through the bedroom door, she glanced back at him—that Honey Bee Bennett miracle of a woman, who could make her honey mustard as smoky and spicy as her songs, who could hike to the summit of Rough Rider’s Peak walking backwards, who could skip a stone across Halibut Creek the same amount of times as a lap around the world, who could assemble a candy necklace faster and sweeter than anyone else in all of Rock Candy, who could wrangle a rope around the hook of the crescent room, buckle it to the back of her truck, and haul it all the way through to the next night if she wanted, who could bring Roman back to Rock Candy Valley for the first time in five years, who may have been willing to wait, one last time, for her woodsy-eyed Roman “Roam” Armstrong.

But she had nothing to say.

She was gone.

Cherry said to him the moment she left, in a voice tuned like the start of a love song, “It’s about time you asked me, Roman Armstrong. You ain’t even gotta get down on one knee. The answer’s always been yes.”

Roman sat in his truck, bracing himself for the ride back from Rock Candy Valley.

It was the only city that patted you on the back as you drove in. It was also the only city that said nothing as you left, reserving its quietest, flattest road for migrant visitors and lone-riders and dust devils. He did not anticipate that he would leave so soon, that he would leave at all.

But, before he started the car, he pressed at the chest of his glove compartment to open it.

He gazed upon a stack of unsent love letters, all labeled Honey Bee, oiled in honeysuckle and tied together by coarse twine. Stuck in the thick of it was a rare photograph of her dancing by the lakeside bonfire, lassoing her hat as she did it, taken at the start of the first and only summer it took for him to fall in love with her. By its side lay the alligator-skin guitar pick she gave to him the night he lost his old, chipped wooden one.

He shut it soon after.

She’s sweet, He hummed, the entire truck-ride back home.

Sweeter’n honey and bees.

Sweeter’n you and me.