The Taste of Summer Rain

The rain had started just as Mia reached the edge of the orchard. It wasn’t the soft kind that made you want to dance — it was the sudden, heavy summer kind that smelled like earth and memory. She pulled the hood of her jacket up and ran toward the small wooden shed by the hill.

She almost didn’t notice the light inside until she reached the door.

Someone was already there.

When she pushed it open, dripping and breathless, she froze.

“Sorry,” she said quickly. “Didn’t think anyone still used this place.”

The man inside turned, startled. He was sitting on a crate, a sketchbook in his lap. His hair was damp, curling slightly at the edges, and his eyes — she remembered those eyes before she even fully saw them.

“Mia?” he said, disbelief softening into a smile. “It’s really you.”

“Eli,” she whispered.

For a moment, the sound of rain filled the space between them. The years fell away like dust shaken from an old book.

“Wow,” he said after a moment, standing up. “It’s been…”

“Eight years,” she said automatically. “Since graduation.”

He chuckled. “You always did have a better memory for numbers.”

She smiled faintly. “And you always forgot the important ones.”

“That’s true,” he said. “Except your birthday. Never forgot that.”

Her chest tightened. She stepped further into the shed, the scent of damp wood mixing with the sweetness of rain-soaked apples outside.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I’m visiting my parents,” she said. “Came to see the orchard. I didn’t know anyone still came here.”

“I’ve been sketching the trees,” he said, flipping the notebook closed. “Trying to capture the way they look after rain.”

“Still painting?” she asked.

“Trying to,” he said. “These days, I teach art at the community center.”

She nodded. “That suits you.”

“And you?” he asked. “Still running halfway across the world?”

She laughed softly. “Not halfway. Just Rome. I work with a design firm there now.”

“Rome,” he repeated, like the word itself was a kind of distance. “You always said you’d end up somewhere with ruins and sunlight.”

“I guess I did,” she said. “Though I miss the rain sometimes.”

He looked at her, smiling faintly. “Still poetic.”

“Still observant,” she countered.

They shared a small laugh, one that echoed just a little too long in the small space.

The rain thickened outside, drumming against the roof. The shed smelled like pine, old varnish, and the faint trace of turpentine — the kind of smell that clung to Eli’s shirts back when he used to paint on the back porch, barefoot, while she read next to him.

Mia sat on the edge of a wooden crate. “Do you ever think about that summer?”

“All the time,” he said quietly. “Especially when it rains.”

She looked at him. His eyes hadn’t changed — that same thoughtful gray, always searching for something beyond what he could see.

“I kept one of your paintings,” she said.

He blinked. “You did?”

“The one of the field behind the barn. The night sky.”

“That was my worst one,” he said, laughing. “The colors ran. I was furious.”

“Maybe that’s why I liked it,” she said. “It wasn’t perfect.”

He smiled softly. “Neither were we.”

“No,” she agreed. “We weren’t.”

Silence. The rain slowed, turning from heavy drops to a fine mist. Outside, the orchard shimmered, each leaf jeweled with water.

“Why did we stop talking, Eli?” she asked finally.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You left. I thought if I held on too tight, I’d make it harder for you to go.”

“So you let me go completely,” she said.

He looked down. “Yeah.”

She studied him — the curve of his jaw, the faint paint stains near his wrist, the quiet steadiness that had always been his nature. “Do you ever regret it?”

“Every time it rains,” he said simply.

She looked away, her heart thudding. “I almost called you once. In Rome. It was raining that night too.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t know what I’d say.”

He smiled faintly. “You could’ve just said hi.”

She laughed softly. “Would that have been enough?”

“Probably not,” he admitted. “But it would’ve been something.”

The rain had nearly stopped. A ray of light pushed through the clouds, spilling into the shed through a crack in the roof, catching the dust in golden motion. Mia looked at him through it — the years between them shimmering like heat.

“Do you still think about what could’ve been?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” he said. “But I try not to live in the ‘what ifs.’ They’re heavy.”

“Do you want to know mine?” she asked.

He nodded.

“I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d asked you to come with me,” she said. “To Rome.”

Eli’s smile was wistful. “I would’ve said no.”

“I know.”

“But I would’ve painted the idea of it every day,” he added. “You, in sunlight. You, near fountains. You, where the sky was too blue to belong to anyone.”

Her throat tightened. “You still talk like that.”

“Only when it’s you,” he said softly.

She looked away quickly, pretending to study a shelf full of forgotten tools. “You’re terrible at making it easy.”

He laughed quietly. “I was never supposed to.”

For a moment, all she heard was the creak of the wood, the wind through the trees. The storm had passed, leaving the world smelling new again.

She stood. “I should get back before the road floods.”

“Of course,” he said, setting his sketchbook down. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

They stepped outside together. The air was warm and clean, the orchard glowing under a pale sun. Drops of water slid from the branches as they walked.

“Do you remember that night we watched the fireflies down by the creek?” she asked suddenly.

He smiled. “You said they looked like stars that got lost.”

“And you said maybe we were just fireflies too,” she said. “Trying to find our way home.”

He chuckled. “That sounds like something I’d say.”

“You were ridiculous,” she said fondly.

“And you loved it,” he said.

She smiled without looking at him. “I did.”

They reached the edge of the road. Her car was parked beneath a tree, wet but gleaming in the sunlight.

“So,” he said. “Back to Rome?”

“For now,” she said. “But I’ll be around a few more days.”

He nodded, hesitating. “Would you… maybe like to see the studio? It’s small, but there’s good light. I have coffee that tastes like burnt hope.”

She laughed. “That’s an awful sales pitch.”

“It’s honest,” he said.

She thought for a moment, then smiled. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” he said.

They stood there, looking at each other, the space between them charged with all the things they hadn’t said. The smell of wet grass and apples hung in the air.

“Eli,” she said finally.

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad it rained.”

He smiled. “Me too.”

She stepped forward, just enough to press her lips softly against his cheek — a kiss that wasn’t a promise, but a beginning.

When she pulled back, their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed suspended — like the moment before the first drop of rain falls.

“See you tomorrow,” she said.

“See you,” he whispered.

She got in the car, started the engine, and drove away. Eli stood there, watching the dust rise behind her wheels until the sound faded into the hum of cicadas.

He looked up at the sky, where the last of the rainclouds were breaking apart. Then he smiled, quietly to himself.

The light was perfect. Maybe he’d paint it — not as a memory, but as something still happening. Something alive.