Page 12 of July's Bad Boy: Blaze

"Easy for you to say," he retorts. "Not all of us have a trust fund to fall back on."

I bite back a retort about my very non-existent trust fund. Before I can respond, a voice cuts through the tension.

"When I was a kid here, this town looked out for each other. That's the whole point of a place like this."

The room falls silent as everyone turns to look at Blaze, who's standing by the back wall.

"My mom got sick one winter," he continues. "Couldn't work for months. Every day, someone showed up with dinner, or to chop wood, or just to sit with her so I could go to school. Nobody called it charity. It was just... Mustang Mountain."

I stare at him, momentarily speechless. In all our interactions, I've never heard him speak about his mother or his childhood here with such raw honesty.

"Blaze is right," Ruby says, standing up. "And I've got a cellar full of preserves I'll never eat through alone."

"I've got a greenhouse," offers Mrs. Peterson, our retired biology teacher. "Tomatoes coming out of my ears."

One by one, people start nodding, offering what they can. Even Frank grudgingly mentions he might have some extra venison from last hunting season.

"So we all agree?" Orville says. "We'll set up in the community center tomorrow morning. Bring what you can spare, take what you need."

The motion passes almost unanimously. As people file out, making plans and comparing inventories, I catch Blaze's eye across the room. He gives me a small nod, and I find myself nodding back.

I'm floored and secretly impressed.

Later, I'm in the community center, assembling folding tables for tomorrow's exchange, when a shadow falls across my work.

"Need a hand?" Blaze asks.

"Sure. Thanks for speaking up today."

"Just telling the truth." He starts moving crates. "This town saved my mom and me more times than I can count."

"Yet you couldn't wait to leave," I say before I can stop myself.

"It's complicated."

"Most things are." I say, while focusing on table placement.

We work in companionable silence for a while.

"Why do you fight so hard for this place?" he asks suddenly. "You could be running your business in a bigger town, making real money."

I consider deflecting, but something about the quiet moment feels like it deserves honesty.

"My brother loved this town," I say, the words coming out rusty. "After he died in a car accident three years ago, my parents couldn't stand being here. Too many memories. They moved to Arizona and pretty much checked out."

"I'm sorry," he says softly.

"Mustang Mountain is all I have left," I continue, surprising myself with the admission. "Sometimes I feel like I'm holding it together with duct tape and sheer stubbornness."

"You're doing more than that. This place would have fallen apart these past few days without you."

I look up, startled by the compliment.

"What about you?" I ask. "Why'd you really come back?"

He runs a hand through his hair. "Honestly? I'm not sure. My career hit a wall. The songs stopped coming and my love for the music wasn't there. I thought maybe if I came back to where it all started..."

"And has it helped?"

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