Page 20 of Courageous Hearts

“Yeah,” I mutter, nodding, even as I can feel my cheeks lighting.

Dee pats one softly before turning to get back to work, and I pop the cherry from my drink into my mouth, pulling off the stem.

It’s true that I didn’t experience an abundance of kindness growing up. My dad certainly wasn’t complimentary, and the only nice words he had to say were ones like, “Thanks for gettin’ me a smoke.”

It’s hard, I think, accepting kind words when you’ve been in the dark for so long. It hurts, like a sunburn. Until it doesn’t anymore. Until all that’s left is warmth.

I’m in my head, thinking about Dee’s words and fiddling with that leftover stem—trying to tie it into a knot with my tongue—when there’s a crash beside me. Jolting, I look over in alarm and catch sight of Jameson righting a stool knocked onto the ground.

“All right?” I ask.

He nods rapidly, hands braced on top of the stool, eyes flicking away from my mouth. “Yeah,” he rasps out a little breathlessly before standing to his full height and combing his fingers through his hair. He turns halfway around, pauses, and then completes his circle before walking away.

“O-kay,” I say with a frown.

After finishing my Shirley Temple, I push off from the bar and get ready for work. It’s some time later, once the doors have opened and the night is in full swing, that I resolutely make my way back to Dee. She comes over when I flag her down, tilting her head a bit. “Need something?”

“Just this,” I say, waving her closer.

Dee leans over the bar, and I meet her halfway, giving my friend a hug.

It’s not easy for me, sharing my thoughts and feelings. Sharing pieces of myself. But these people, Dee especially, deserve it. I’m trying to do better.

“Thank you,” I tell her, hoping my sincerity comes through loud and clear. “I don’t say it enough, but thank you.”

“For what?” she asks softly, drawing back when I let her go.

“For bein’ part of the family I found here. For remindin’ me of my worth.”

Dee’s expression softens before a bright smile graces her face. “You’re constantly astounding me, Bo. I love you. You know that, right?”

“Yes,” I say firmly. “I do. I love you, too.”

The ticket machine behind Dee whirs, spitting out drink orders, and she notches her thumb over her shoulder. “I gotta get those. Talk more later?”

“O’course.” I turn to go, but pivot back quickly. “Hey, do me a favor?” Glancing down the bar, I find Jameson in front of a line of martini glasses, finishing the cocktails off with olives. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, forearms exposed, and my mouth dries slightly as I drink in the sight. “Invite Jameson to my ‘surprise’ birthday party?”

Dee’s answering grin is full of mirth. “You got it.”

My friend walks off, and for the briefest of moments, Jameson looks my way. He smiles crookedly, setting his dimple free and my heart pounding, and I can’t help but wonder why that smile feels a little bit like a burn across my skin, too.

“So, you like drawin’?” I ask Damian.

He shrugs slightly, his wide shoulders causing his backpack to hitch upwards. We’re walking toward one of the picnic tables behind his school, off near the soccer field. He’s been quiet so far, but I don’t blame him. We just met.

“I never was very good at it, myself,” I say, plopping onto the bench seat once we reach the table. School just got out, so most of the kids are getting onto buses or leaving via foot. It’s fairly quiet back here, but Damian’s mom isn’t far off. Seeing as it’s my first meeting as Damian’s Big, she’s supervising.

Damian doesn’t respond, but he does take a seat next to me, sliding his backpack off. He’s big for fifteen. Tall and broad, and from the little I gleaned from my phone call with his mom, he’ll be playing football this year.

“D’you have a favorite class?” I ask, trying a different tactic.

Another shrug.

“I hated school,” I admit. Damian doesn’t look directly at me, but he does tilt his head a little, so I think I have his attention. “Where I grew up, everybody knew everybody. The town was tiny, so in some ways, it felt like this close-knit community, right? But I never fit in. Or, at least, it didn’t feel like it.”

“Were you bullied?” he asks, so quietly I barely hear the question.

“No, I was a bully.”

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