Page 15 of July's Bad Boy: Blaze

"Novel concept, I know."

She laughs, and I find myself wanting to hear the sound again.

"Seriously, Blaze. Thank you. This helps a lot."

"It was nothing." I shrug, uncomfortable with her gratitude.

"It wasn't nothing." Her voice is soft but firm. "Most people talk about helping. You just did it."

We drive back to the Merc in comfortable silence. The town is coming alive, people heading to the community center setting up for the first garden and pantry swap. Tables appear along along the street in front of the center, with boxes of produce stacked alongside homemade jams and pickles.

Grace parks the truck and jumps out. "Looks like we ran out of roon inside. I need to help set up. You're welcome to--"

"I'll give you a hand," I say before she can finish.

She looks surprised but nods and points to the box stacked by the back door of the Merc. "Great. Those boxes need to go to the main table."

Soon I'm hauling crates of vegetables, setting up folding chairs, and helping organize the swap system. People eye me curiously, but no one seems particularly hostile. A few even thank me.

"Heard you fixed Grace's truck," Jensen says, appearing at my elbow as I arrange tomatoes by size. "That was thoughtful."

"Just being useful."

"Mmm-hmm." He pats my arm. "You keep telling yourself that."

Throughout the morning, Grace and I work in tandem. We develop an unexpected rhythm. While she organizes, I execute. When our hands accidentally brush as we both reach for the same box, neither of us jerks away. Progress, I suppose.

During a lull, Grace leans against a table beside me. "My brother would have loved this," she says quietly. "He always believed Mustang Mountain could be more than just a dot on the map."

"Tell me about him," I say, surprising myself with my interest.

She does. Stories about a kid who organized neighborhood cleanups, who believed in community before he knew the word for it. Who grew up to be a man who saw the good in people, even when they couldn't see it themselves.

"He sounds like someone I would have liked to know," I say when she finishes.

"He would have liked you," she says, then adds with a small smile, "Eventually."

I almost tell her then how empty my life in the city had become. How I moved through days that blurred together, surrounded by people but never connecting. How Mustang Mountain, for all its frustrations, feels more real than anything I've experienced in years.

But I don't. Some truths are still too raw to voice.

The swap is in full swing when Grace's phone rings. Her expression shifts as she listens.

"Everything okay?" I ask when she hangs up.

"Mrs. Ellison up on Ridge Road is running low on supplies. She's eighty-two and can't make it down the mountain." Grace glances at the darkening sky. "I should make a delivery run."

I follow her gaze to the gathering clouds. "Weather's turning."

"She needs her medication."

"I'll go with you."

Grace shakes her head. "You don't have to--"

"I know." I meet her eyes. "But two people make the work faster."

Twenty minutes later, we're winding up mountain roads as the sky darkens ominously. The delivery itself goes smoothly. Mrs. Ellison is delighted to see Grace and regards me with amused suspicion. We're back in the truck within fifteen minutes, groceries and medication delivered.

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