Page 9 of Courageous Hearts

“Texas,” he answers, proving my suspicions correct. He doesn’t meet my eye, though, and as he fidgets with the rim of his glass, I wonder if I unintentionally hit a nerve.

“Sorry for prying,” I say.

But Bo shakes his head, meeting my gaze at last. God, those eyes are just so blue. They remind me of the horizon over Lake Michigan on a sunny day. Of endless clear sky.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I’m Bo, by the way.”

“Jameson,” I respond, holding out my hand. “Nice to meet you, man.”

Bo accepts my handshake, his palm big and warm against my own, but his lips pinch tight. “Nice to meet you, too. But, uh, I’m not a man.”

It takes me a second—an embarrassingly long second—to process those words, but once I do, my mouth drops open. “I’m sorry!” I hasten to tell them, feeling horrible about my slip. I didn’t realize.

Bo gives me a small smile. “It’s all right. You didn’t know. My pronouns are they/them,” they say easily, as if it’s something they’ve done a million times before. I imagine that might be the case.

“Okay. Right,” I say with a nod, planting that information firmly into my head. They/them. “I really am sorry.”

“It’s all right,” they say again.

Still, I feel terrible about it. I spoke carelessly, not having considered that Bo might be nonbinary. I hate to say it, but being cis—and straight—might have something to do with that mindset. My gender has never been a question for me. I understand, on a base level, what it means to be genderqueer. But I can’t understand it personally, and it didn’t occur to me, until just now, that I should maybe reframe my thinking when it comes to the gender of strangers—that I shouldn’t make assumptions based on how someone looks.

Scrubbing my hand down my face, I eye Bo, who’s watching me a little curiously. “I’m sorry for misgendering you,” I say again, even though they’ve already told me it’s fine. “I didn’t realize, but it’s no excuse—”

“Jameson,” Bo says, cutting me off. Those blue eyes are gentle as they appraise me. “You didn’t know. Now you do. I don’t blame you for callin’ me a man when, for all intents and purposes, that’s what I look like.”

Yeah, but that doesn’t seem fair, does it? That Bo expects to be misgendered based on their appearance because our society, for so very long, has operated under the assumptions that there are men and there are women, and that’s that. God, what must that be like on a daily basis for someone who’s nonbinary? I can’t even imagine.

“Can we start over?” I ask, determined to do better from now on.

Bo blinks, looking perplexed. “Huh?”

I hold out my hand. “Hi there. I’m Jameson Wright. He/him. I love the beach, and I hate pickles. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Mr. Wright?” Bo asks in surprise.

I cock my head. “Yeah, that’s me. Why?”

A slow smile spreads over their face, and then they clasp my palm. “No reason. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Jameson. I’m Bo. They/them. I’m neutral on beaches, but I do love pickles.”

I bark out a laugh, and Bo grins, the first genuine one I’ve seen from them. They let go of my hand slowly, eyes pinging down to the bar top as color spreads across their cheeks.

Are they…shy?

“I should get on stage,” Bo says, glancing at the clock behind the bar. “Practice is almost over.”

“Yeah, of course,” I say, dragging my eyes away from those flushed cheeks. “Sorry for keeping you.”

Bo huffs a little laugh. “Not your fault. See ya ’round, Jameson.”

“Yeah. You, too,” I reply, watching as Bo walks away from the bar. They’re wearing tight workout pants I couldn’t see before, and with a mild amount of confused mortification, my eyes drop straight to their ass. Blinking quickly, I force my gaze away, and with a grunt, I get back to work.

Picking up the long-forgotten tablet, I refocus on the inventory I need to finish before the bar opens. But, for some reason, my attention keeps turning to the stage, lingering on a certain dark-haired, blue-eyed coworker with a Southern drawl and blush-red cheeks.

And more than once, I wonder why it’s so damn hard to look away.

Chapter 4

Bo

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