Page 84 of Courageous Hearts

Jameson

When Bo pulls into a parking lot in front of a school, my eyebrows wing up. “This was your favorite place?” I ask.

They chuckle. “Not exactly. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Curiosity piqued, I follow Bo out of the vehicle. The sky started to darken on our way here, and now heavy clouds sit above us, casting the area in a bleary gray.

Bo walks past what looks like an auditorium or gym, the particular section of school higher than the rest of the small, one-level brick building. They lead me to a football field that’s surrounded by dingy metal bleachers.

“Did y’know I used to play football?” they say conversationally, walking straight across the field.

“You did?” I ask in surprise. Not because I don’t think Bo could play football, but because they’ve never shown an interest in anything remotely sports-related.

But they nod. “It was our only sport. I hated it.”

“Then why’d you play?” I ask.

Bo leads me past a bank of trees on the outskirts of the field, and I look around, confused about why we’re walking so far away from the school.

“Because my brother did. I did everythin’ the same as him so I could blend in better. ’Cause I knew I was different.”

“Bo,” I say softly.

They shake their head, so I close my mouth.

“I wasn’t a nice kid back then,” they say. “I was mean. A bully. Will and I got into fights all the time.”

I have trouble comprehending that my sweet Bo was ever a bully, but I don’t doubt what they’re saying is the truth. Why would they possibly lie? It makes my heart ache to hear them talk about their past with such obvious regret in their voice.

But one part of what they’re saying shocks me the most. “Will?” I ask. “The guy who was talking you up for an hour on our way into town?”

Bo huffs a laugh. “Mhm. We were not friends back then. Not even close. He hated me.”

“I doubt that very much,” I reply.

They shrug. “I was terrible to him. Sometimes I don’t even know why he’s forgiven me.”

“Probably because he sees what’s in your heart,” I say gently. Bo comes to a stop, and I face them, squeezing their hands in my own. “What changed back then?”

They puff out a breath, leaning close, so I wrap them in my arms. They melt the way they always do.

“Will saved me,” Bo says ever so quietly. “I never told him that.”

“What do you mean?”

When Bo doesn’t answer, I give them a little tug toward the ground. We sit, Bo facing me, and I bracket my legs around the outside of their body like a hug.

“What happened?” I prompt.

“Near the end of my sophomore year, right out on that football field we just passed, Will punched Diesel in the nose. Broke it,” they say with a chuckle. “And Will said somethin’ I’ll never forget.”

Bo swallows, licking their lips, looking off in that direction even though we can’t see the field anymore because of the trees.

“He said he felt sorry for my brother ’cause Diesel couldn’t see past his sad, shitty world of black-and-white. That he couldn’t see how amazin’ it was to live in a world of so much color. I knew how I was actin’ back then was wrong. I did. I knew I was hurtin’ people, same as Diesel. But for the first time, I realized I was also hurtin’ myself.”

Bo looks at me, the blue of their eyes dark and troubled, like the storm-lined sky.

“I realized I was diminishin’ the person I am,” they say, face creased in something akin to agony. “I would come out here”—they point to the only thing nearby, a building about a hundred feet away—“and it was the one place in all of Plum Valley where I could be myself.”

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