Chapter 4
“ H i,” I whisper from my spot on the window seat when Bo appears. It’s late. Behind me, the front yard is nearly pitch black, but seeing him makes me light up like a sunshiny day.
“Hey,” he says low, striding across the living room in a heather gray Norman’s Guitars T-shirt and black track pants. The confident way he moves reminds me of my dad taking the stage. He has that same swagger. “Was everyone asleep when you came downstairs?” he asks when he reaches me.
“The light was still on inside my parents’ room, but I tiptoed past it. They often stay up late when they’re both home, but they don’t usually come downstairs.” My gaze drifts to Bo’s shirt. “Cool tee. Have you been to Norman’s shop?”
“Yeah.” He glances away. “Once, when I was six, my dad took me. He bought my first guitar there.” He rubs the back of his neck.
“What kind?” I ask and lean forward.
“An Epiphone.” His eyes shine. “It’s mahogany with a sunburst pattern.”
“That sounds beautiful.” The guitar and the time spent with his dad. “That must be a good memory.”
He nods, but for some reason, darkness shadows his features.
“So you play the guitar?” I press, curious for information. “Just like your dad?”
“I play.” He shrugs. “But not as well as he does. Not yet.” His gaze narrows. “How ’bout you? Do you sing like your dad does?”
“I don’t sing well, and I don’t play anything.” I drop my chin and twist the belt on my robe. I wish I had talent like Harmony, wish I had at least one thing in common with my parents. But it became pretty apparent that I don’t when I discovered books and started binge reading and they gave me funny looks.
“But you like to read.” Bo drops down beside me on the cushion in the window seat. “That’s cool.”
“I guess,” I mutter. He’s the only one my age who thinks that.
“It is cool.” He bumps his knee against mine. His fresh, clean, and woodsy scent floods my senses. “And you draw.” He aims his gaze at my journal. My heart races at his proximity. “What else did you write on that page besides those stars?”
“Just a few words and a poem.” My cheeks get warm.
“Will you read it to me?” he asks softly, capturing and holding my gaze.
“Sure.” I open my journal, drop my gaze, and begin reading.
“The night curtains my fears
The stars light the way
Curiosity is the spark
Hopes are flames
Dreams are a compass
Who will I be? What will I do? Where will I go?
How can I be brave and bold and fearless
When I don’t know how?”
He doesn’t say anything when I’m done. Feeling vulnerable after cracking open my chest and revealing my heart to him, I glance away. I’m grateful for my long hair. Falling forward, it shields my expression.
“That’s brilliant.” He draws the golden curtain back. The pads of his fingers are rough as they skim the sensitive shell of my ear. As his gaze meets mine, warmth fills me. I realize he doesn’t just see me; he seems to like what he sees. “You describe how we’re all looking for somewhere to belong and someone to understand us.”
“Are you looking for someone?” I hold my breath. I wonder if he’s feeling safe, secure, and seen with me like I do with him.
“I’m not anymore,” he replies, his eyes steady on mine.
“Bo,” I breathe. I feel like I found my someone the moment Bo Jackson appeared.
“Are you finished with your book?” He drops his gaze.
“Not yet.” I swallow to moisten my throat. Containing the warmth of the sun inside me is wonderful, but I’m afraid it will get cold fast without Bo around.
“Would you read to me?” he asks, lifting his head.
I nod and start reading. I just met Bo, but I already know I’d do nearly anything for him. It’s surprising but then not. There’s understanding between us and more. He doesn’t think I’m odd. He likes that I read. He seems to like me. I believe he’d do almost anything for me too.