Page 15 of Courageous Hearts

I catch Bo’s smile before they say, “I like anythin’ Adele.”

They start to sing along quietly, almost like they can’t help it, and once again, I’m amazed by their voice. Even whisper-soft, it’s something else. Raspier at the lower register. Effortlessly strong at the high.

I clear my throat. “You’re a really good singer.”

Bo looks a little startled by the compliment. “Think so?”

“You don’t?” I ask back. They don’t reply, but their cheeks brighten slightly. “You do, but you don’t like admitting it.”

Bo licks their lips, looking out the window, and I can’t quite get over how much different Bo is in person compared to how they act up on stage. They’re more reserved when they’re not performing. I wonder which Bo is the real version. Maybe they both are.

Accepting Bo’s silence, I follow the GPS toward their place. They don’t live far from me, actually. Just a ten-minute drive without traffic. But, of course, there’s traffic.

I sneak another peek at Bo at a red light. Their dark hair is a little messy, hanging in front of their eye, and they’re not wearing makeup like they were last night before I found them in the storage room crying. They look good both ways, but I wasn’t lying to Bo that the makeup suits them. They seem so confident in it, like they’re shining from the inside out.

Bo’s clothes are a little rumpled, and they forwent the tights for the ride home, just tugging on those short shorts of theirs over long, smooth legs. Apparently, they shave. Forcing my gaze upwards, I eye the loose blouse. It’s a little open at the collar, a peek of Bo’s chest visible. Creamy, light skin. Strong, flat muscle.

A horn honks behind me, and I whip my head forward, stepping on the gas. I can feel Bo’s gaze on the side of my head, but I ignore it.

“So, uh, not to sound rude,” Bo says, “but how in the heck do you afford your place?”

“Huh?” I ask around a laugh, the question taking me off guard.

“That two-story brownstone in Lincoln Park on a bartendin’ budget? Not what I was expectin’. My entire place is the size of your bedroom.”

“My bedroom’s not that big.”

“Exactly,” Bo stresses.

I chuckle again, flicking on my blinker before turning right. “It was actually my grandfather’s. He left it to me and my brother in his will, but since Grant and Sophia, his wife, wanted to live in a bigger place in the suburbs—you know, something with a yard for kids—I kept the brownstone on the caveat that Grant let me pay part of his mortgage. It’s only fair.”

Bo hums. “Well, I like it. Your place.”

“Thanks,” I say, glad to hear so. I’m proud of the work I’ve put into my home. I spent nearly a year sprucing it up, repainting and decorating and making it feel like mine. Now I just need someone to share it with.

As we approach the front of Bo’s apartment, they grab their balled-up tights off the floor. “You’re gonna have to drop me and go. Don’t even park.”

“Right,” I say, huffing a laugh as I pull to a stop on the busy street. “See you at work, then?”

Bo shoots me a little smile over their shoulder. “You bet. Thanks for the ride, Jamie,” they say softly, the nickname rolling off their tongue like the most natural thing.

Against my will, I flash to this morning. To the memory of Bo tangled in my sheets, asking me if I’d ever shared my bed with anyone other than a woman. How they said it then, too. Jamie—the “a” all long and drawn out around that accent of theirs, like they were savoring it. Like they were dragging the vowel through molasses.

I’ve heard it before—that nickname given to me by a few of the women I’ve been with. A careless endearment. A flirty throwaway, at best.

From Bo, it feels like anything but.

And then my thoughts drift to last night. To my utter shock as Bo so brazenly yet casually dropped their clothing. All of it, save the lacy, red brief-style underwear. To the sight of them, masculine yet feminine in the light of the moon. Strong lines. Graceful movements. Full, round ass.

When there’s another honk behind me, I snap back to reality only to realize Bo is already out of the car. They’re standing at their door, head cocked, shooing me away. With a final wave, I pull away from their apartment, more confused than ever.

“Mom?” I call out, letting myself into my childhood home. My mom doesn’t reply, but I follow the sound of music and the smell of Italian herbs to the kitchen, and that’s where I find Dominica Wright, all five foot three of her.

My mom’s face spreads into a smile when she sees me. Although now in her sixties, she hasn’t aged much from the memories I have of her as a child. Or maybe my recollection simply isn’t as bright as it used to be. Regardless, she looks good, dressed like usual in casual clothes. Her face is devoid of makeup, and her hair is pulled back into a short ponytail. There’s a little more gray threaded through the brown than there used to be, but she’s never tried to hide it.

As I step into the kitchen, my mom sets down the shears she’d been using to prune a pot of rosemary, and I walk right over so she can wrap me in her tiny arms.

“Jameson,” she says happily. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

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