Page 11 of Courageous Hearts

“No, I’m not. I’m nonbinary,” I answer. “I’m not a man or a woman.”

“You can’t be neither,” he says in exasperation. “That don’t make sense. What would I even call you?”

“Bo!” I say, voice rising in volume. “You call me Bo.”

“And what about Bobby, huh? What about the boy I grew up with?”

“He didn’t exist,” I practically shout. “That boy was a goddamn mirage. A mask I wore ’cause our pa made me too damn afraid to be myself. I hated that boy. Hated him. Bobby is dead and buried, Diesel, and he’s never comin’ back.”

We’re both quiet for a long moment, and I draw in a shuddering breath. I don’t know why I let Diesel get to me. Why I entertain this go-around again and again with my brother. He’s never going to understand. He doesn’t even try.

“We used to be so close,” he finally says, voice drawn tight. “We used to believe in the same things.”

I never believed in those things.

I don’t say it out loud, knowing there’s no point.

“I’m tryin’ to look past the whole gay thing,” he goes on, and I plunk my head back against the metal shelving behind me. “But you gotta meet me halfway here.”

“No, I don’t gotta,” I say. “And I’m not gay. Because I’m not a man. I’m queer, Diesel. I’ve told you this a million times.”

He makes a sound of exasperation. “Goddamn it, Bobby, I—”

I hang up, and with a scream of frustration, I chuck my phone across the room. It thuds against a crate of booze before dropping to the ground with a clatter, and then the tears come. I hang my head back, not even bothering to stem the flow, and that’s when the door opens with a click.

Inhaling sharply, I swipe hastily under my eyes, but by the expression on Jameson’s face, I can tell I’ve been caught.

“Fuck,” I mutter, sitting forward and resting my elbows on my knees.

Jameson steps into the room slowly, letting the door close behind him. The din of the bar cuts off once again, plunging us into silence. I can sense Jameson’s hesitation, like he’s unsure whether or not to draw attention to the fact that he caught me crying. But it doesn’t last long before he’s walking forward, his shiny black wingtip shoes stopping a foot in front of me.

“Do you want me to ask?” he says gently.

I look up, surprised by that question. Do I? The fact that he’s not asking outright why I’m crying inside a storage closet at work bleeds some of the tension from me, and I find that I do want to tell him. At least a little bit.

“My brother,” I say quietly. “Our conversations never end well.”

Jameson hums. “I have one of those.”

“Do y’all get along?” I ask.

Jameson’s lips quirk up, and I’m unsure why until I realize my Texas is still slipping through. Talking to Diesel has that effect on me.

“For the most part,” he says, leaning against the shelf across the way and crossing his arms. “We fight sometimes, but we’re close. You’re not close with yours?”

“No. Not anymore.”

He nods before turning around and skimming the shelves. I’m not sure what he’s looking for until he crosses the room and grabs a new box of tissues. I hold out my hand when he comes back, a little embarrassed but mostly grateful that I’ll be able to wipe away the mascara I’m sure is pooling underneath my eyes.

But Jameson doesn’t hand the box over. Instead, he crouches down in front of me and pulls a tissue free. With careful, gentle movements, he clears the moisture from my face, and my breath stutters to a stop. I hold it, caught completely off-guard by the unexpected tenderness of the act.

When Jameson stops blotting away my tears, his gaze meets mine. Dark brown, kind, without a shred of judgment. A lock of his hair is falling over his forehead, as if rebelling from the rest, and I like it—that little bit of defiance. That hint of going against the grain.

Jameson gives me a little smile before standing up, and the moment he’s not directly in front of me, I pull in a much-needed breath of air. I get a whiff of something that reminds me of the ocean, but then Jameson is stepping away, taking the smell with him, and I almost wonder if I imagined it.

Discreetly as I can, I look him over. He doesn’t seem remotely perturbed. Maybe Jameson is the type of guy who’s simply comfortable in any situation, but I don’t know many others who would have wiped away my tears, completely unbothered by them in the first place.

I can’t help but recall our conversation earlier in the day, too. How Jameson was so concerned about calling me a man. How, as soon as I corrected him, he accepted my gender identity effortlessly.

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