Page 14 of Saving Sparrow
“I can’t. Hanging out wasn’t in my plans today.”
“Then what were you doing here?” Quentin asked. He was right. We’d caught Elliott near our backyard. He’d obviously come to see us, even if he hadn’t planned on getting caught.
“I can stay and hang out with you if you don’t feel like being around other people.”Other people besides us.Quentin and I looked at eachother, engaging in a silent conversation. I never missed his practices or his games, and it was a given that I’d be there with him on prospect day. Aside from the occasional class we didn’t have together, we rarely left each other’s sides.
“Quentin won’t be long. He’ll come straight back,” I said, still looking at my stepbrother. “Right?” I needed the confirmation for myself because it felt like my heart was being ripped to shreds by the idea of willfully choosing to be without him for a few hours.
“Right.” He sounded disappointed too, but the fact he’d leave me alone with someone else said a lot. He’d agreed that Elliott could use some friends the day we woke up to find him missing from our bed, and he’d offeredourfriendship to him a minute ago. But allowing me to choose Elliott over him without putting up a fight was something different.
Quentin’s phone rang. “Shit, I gotta go for real.” He wore the same look he did when we had to separate for a class, like he didn’t know how he’d make it until the bell rang.
“We’ll be here when you get back,” I promised. Quentin nodded, hugging me before sprinting away.
“Please don’t take your dad’s convertible,” I called after him.
“You know I will,” he shouted back.
He’d take it because it was off-limits. Quentin was attracted to anything that would piss my stepfather off. His fixation on making Dylan’s life a living hell might’ve been warranted, but I worried all that anger wasn’t good for him. Hypocritical since I had my own anger to deal with, but Quentin and I expressed ourselves differently. I tried my best to avoid and ignore Dylan, whereas Quentin did the opposite.
If I had my license, then maybe I could drive sometimes and choose one of the cars Dylan couldn’t care less about. I had no interest in driving, though, because Quentin loved having me dependent on him. I secretly loved it too, so I took any opportunity to give up control to him.
Elliott watched him round the side of the house with a strange look on his face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, guessing at the possibilities. It was the same curious look we got in school—minus the disgust.
“Nothing,”he said.
Already missing Quentin, I waited until the purr of the engine faded into the distance before speaking again.
“Unfortunately, I’m not the fun one. I mostly read.” We were less than a dozen feet apart, but with Quentin gone, I felt the need to be close to someone. Elliott didn’t flinch or back away when I moved closer to him.
“What else do you do?” he asked. I tilted my head, confused. “You said youmostlyread. Is there something else you do when not reading?”
Instinctively, my gaze drifted to the spot Quentin had vacated. “Not really.”
Elliott nodded, his stance relaxing as he slipped his hands into his back pockets. The gesture looked unnatural on him. Almost like he was playing at being cool, doing what he thought he should be doing. “You can be yourself with us.”
“Myself?”
“Yeah. Shy and a little awkward. Come on.” I gestured for him to follow me. “We’ll grab something to eat from the kitchen. Then I’ll show you my leather-bound Tolkien collection.”
I made us a couple sandwiches—about the only thing Quentin and I made well. A vacuum started up somewhere, startling Elliott. “That’s just Olga. The housekeeper.” I snagged a couple bottles of water. “Let’s eat in my room. It’s off-limits to anyone but us.”
Quentin and I did our own cleaning, and if someone needed us, they called. My stepfather was rarely home, but his bedroom was on the opposite side of the house. He stayed clear of us as much as possible. Seeing us triggered his guilt, and Quentin didn’t hesitate to lean into it.
Elliott took the chair in the sitting area, placing his plate on the broad arm before biting into his sandwich. I sat on the couch, trying not to laugh when a glob of mayonnaise left a long streak down his shirt. I handed him my napkin.
He poured water onto the napkin before attacking the stain, then frowned when it only made things worse.
“I’ll get you something clean to put on when we’re done.” Pointing to the corner of my mouth, I said, “You’ve got a little mayo right here.”
Elliott flushed, reaching up to wipe it away. Not knowing what to do with it, he licked his finger clean. I smiled around a bite of roast beef, and Elliott flushed harder.
“You don’t have to be shy with us.”
“I’m not,” he shot back, clearly irritated by my second evaluation of him.
“Sorry.” I didn’t want to upset him.
