He stroked the top of the box, humming something under his breath. For the first time since he’d walked into my kitchen, I saw him fully alive, the fear burned off by hope.
It felt damn good.
I started the truck, and we headed for the general store, the sound of peeping chicks filling the cab and Jojo’s smile shining so bright I barely needed headlights.
The Black Butte General Store was a time capsule from a decade no one could agree on. The air inside was warm, heavy with the twin scents of wood polish and pickled herring, and the shelves were a fever dream of regional brands and forgotten promotions.
The owner—a thin man with a handlebar mustache and a lopsided gimp—navigated the labyrinth with a four-legged cane that doubled as a pointer for customers.
Jojo took one look at the narrow aisles and immediately started sweating. He fished my handwritten list from his back pocket, then stared at the first item like it was a pop quiz in front of a thousand people. “You want Yukon Gold or russet?” he whispered.
I smirked. “Surprise me.”
He started scanning the produce, careful to touch only the bags he intended to take. For a second, I saw the methodical, almost obsessive way he checked each apple for bruises, lined the cans up by expiration date, and weighed two identical loaves of bread like a tiny, anxious scientist.
The list wasn’t complicated—just coffee, flour, eggs, canned tomatoes, rice, and whatever else Jojo wanted for the kitchen. But every item became a small ordeal: he’d find it, cradle it, then look back at me as if seeking approval.
I trailed behind, arms folded, enjoying the way he kept glancing over his shoulder. It felt domestic, in a weird way. Like shopping together was a thing we’d always done.
When he reached for the coffee, his hand hovered. “You like dark roast?”
“Only way I drink it.”
He brightened, selected the darkest bag, and turned to show me. “This one’s good. Ethiopian. It’s got… uh, notes of blueberry and chocolate.”
I nodded, more out of respect for his passion than the coffee itself. “Get two. You drink more than you think you will.”
He blushed, then grabbed another bag. The cart started to fill, flour and sugar and the little luxuries he’d never have bought for himself. When we hit the baking aisle, I saw him eye the high-end vanilla and a pack of cinnamon sticks.
“Get those, too,” I said.
He hesitated. “They’re expensive.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
He took them, a little stunned. I reached over and plucked a bottle of local honey from the top shelf, set it in the cart. “Gotta keep you sweet,” I said, not even thinking about it.
He flushed deeper, ducked his head, and mumbled something I didn’t catch.
We finished fast after that. I watched him at the counter, loading the conveyor with quick, neat hands. The owner—who everyone called “Harmon” even though the sign said “Gunnarson”—peered at us with open interest.
“You’re the new owner out at the Steele place,” he said, ringing up the coffee. “Saw your granddad’s truck in town last year.”
“Truck’s mine now,” I said.
He nodded. “You got livestock yet?”
“Soon,” I said. “Just setting up for now.”
He eyed the box Jojo set on the counter. “Feed store do you right?”
“More than right,” I said.
Harmon nodded at Jojo. “Saw you at the bakery last winter. They miss you there.”
Jojo shifted his feet. “Didn’t work out.”
“Still, you made good sourdough. I remember.”
