Page 78 of Courageous Hearts

“Are you okay?” I ask. “Did something happen?”

“Kinda. We, uh, talked. And…said goodbye,” they say, choking over the last word.

My chest squeezes tight. “Baby, I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s what I wanted,” they rush on, even though it sounds like they’re crying. “I needed to cut things off between us if he couldn’t…”

“Respect who you are?” I put in, knowing enough from what Bo themself has told me.

“Yeah. He’s not… He’s homophobic. That hasn’t changed.”

“Still, I’m so sorry,” I say gently. I can’t even imagine what Bo is feeling. My brother and I fight sometimes, true, but he still loves me unconditionally. He still supports me, even if he grumbles about my choices at times.

Bo has never had that. Our familial situations don’t even compare. I can try to put myself in their shoes, but I won’t ever know firsthand what it feels like for them to make that sort of decision. To prioritize their mental health and well-being over a toxic relationship. I can tell it hurts them. That it wasn’t an easy decision to make.

Bo doesn’t respond, but the soft, hitched breaths on the other end of the line tell me they’re still crying. Fuck.

“Do you need me there? I can—”

“No,” Bo says right away. “I’ll be fine. I’m just… I just wanted to hear your voice. It helps.”

My gut pinches, uncertainty flaring. They don’t sound fine. I want to be there for them. I want to—

“Tell me ’bout your mornin’?” Bo asks, voice pleading.

I inhale shakily, holding the phone away from my ear for a moment so Bo won’t hear the way I’m struggling, too. Device back at my cheek, I head toward the bar. “Okay, but let me clock in first. We can chat while I get the bar ready.”

“Mkay,” Bo says quietly. They don’t sound like they’re actively crying anymore, and for that, I’m grateful.

As I key my employee code into the time clock app on the tablet behind the bar, my mind whirs, the beginnings of a plan forming.

“Mom?” I call out, stepping into my childhood home.

“Jameson?” she calls back. A moment later, my mom comes through the back door, a coffee cup in her hand. She gives me a surprised look. “What are you doing here”—she glances at the clock, her expression turning even more gently amused—“at seven in the morning?”

I puff out a breath, waving to the kitchen. “Can we talk?”

My mom’s eyebrows rise, but she nods, leading the way into the room and pulling out a chair at the table. “Coffee’s in the pot if you want any.”

“Thanks, but no,” I reply. “I…”

Don’t even know what to say.

I feel jittery. Amped up. A little bit wild, like a boat rolling at high sea.

“Jameson, what is going on?” my mom asks, her tone concerned.

“Bo is in Texas right now. And when I talked to them yesterday, they were really upset.”

“Okay,” my mom says slowly, waiting for me to go on.

“I offered to come down, but they brushed me off and said they’re fine.”

“But they’re not fine,” my mom infers.

I shake my head. “No.”

“And you want to go anyways,” she correctly guesses.

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