Page 21 of Breaking You Open

Chapter 6

Louis

I’ve barely set footout of the shower after a late-night session at the gym when the doorbell rings. I have no habit of getting visitors, so I assume it’s Ravi disturbing me again for some godforsaken reason before I remember he’s got the shift at Moe’s Den tonight.

Running a towel through my wet hair, I open the door shirtless, prepared to turn down whatever idiot who’s on the other side.

It’s not Ravi. It’s not even Maurice.

It’s the boy. The boy I hoped I’d never see again.

He looks pitiful, soaked like a stray cat, the long strands of his hair plastered to his face, which in turn is pale and wet from the rain.

I look past him and into the rain-soaked darkness. Is this some sort of trick? Eric Fletcher and his pals looking to take revenge for my “unfair” treatment of him this morning, perhaps? Wouldn’t be the first time. Eyes narrowed, I remind myself of the stash of weapons hidden away in my apartment. Cupboard, kitchen drawer, bedroom. Cupboard, kitchen drawer, bedroom.

Sparrow looks up at me, eyes wide and bright and way too trusting. “I-I didn’t know where else to go.”

All my previous suspicions seep out of me. He sounds like something truly awful has happened. As if his chest has been split open and he now doesn’t know how to stitch himself back together.

“Are you hurt?” I ask, even though the obvious answer is yes. There’s something more than rain trickling down his face. There’s…blood. From a cut on his cheek. Right at his cheekbone.

“I…” He goes pale, as if he’s about to faint.

I step aside and let him into the hallway. He freezes for a moment, and only when I grumble a “come in” does he move and step into the hallway ahead of me.

“Shoes off,” I say, glancing at his muddy Converse. Did he walk all the way here? It must be at least an hour from campus, maybe longer. “You drink tea, kid?” I ask him as I move into the kitchen. Hell, how do I do this? I’m the last person people come to when they want consolation; rather, they run as far away from me as possible when they’re weak.

“Not really,” Sparrow says.

“Well, you’re going to drink some now. And then you’re going to tell me why you’re here. Go on.” I gesture toward the kitchen table.

Sparrow’s naked feet pad over the floor, and he sits with his knees up, arms wrapped around his legs.

I sigh and rub my temples. How do I do this? What do I say? “Uh…You need me to call someone? Your parents?”

His mouth twitches into something like a smile as he fidgets with the wet fabric of his hoodie. Christ, he wasn’t even wearing a jacket in this weather.

“My parents are dead,” he says.

Well, then. First thing we have in common.

I fetch a sweater from my closet and throw it his way. “Here.”

He reacts too late, and it lands on the floor, but he quickly picks it up and wrestles out of his pitiful, wet hoodie.

No fucking way. He’s still wearing my shirt. The shirt he’s drowning in. The shirt I bunched up in my hands and guided over his outstretched arms.

Noticing what I’ve noticed, he flicks his gaze up to me, cheeks a deep shade of pink. Christ, he’s cute.

I try to ignore that fact as I serve him a cup of tea and get one for myself. I sit on the opposite chair and try not to stare him down; he seems skittish enough as it is, but for some reason, I find it hard to keep my eyes off him.

“So.” I nod at his wounded cheek. “You gonna tell me who did this to you?”

“It was my…” He looks down at his piping hot cup of tea, eyebrows drawn tight. “My ex. He’s here. He followed me. He b-broke into my room, and…” Clenching his jaw, he looks away.

“And what?” It’s strange—usually when I want to get information out of someone, I know exactly what to do to force it out of them. But Sparrow seems to respond better to kindness and praise than intimidation, like when he was kneeling in front of me and practically melting in my lap when I called him a good boy…I take a deep breath and try for a reassuring tone rather than a demanding one. “It’s okay. You can tell me.”

His lower lip starts to tremble, but he meets my gaze once again. “He-He tried to take me back. But I can’t go back.”

---