Page 29 of Breaking You Open

“Seems like there’s a lot of things you don’t know,” I say in jest, but Sparrow appears to take it as an insult. He presses his lips into a tight line and folds his feet up to the seat again. “Didn’t I tell you to sit up straight?”

Sparrow makes a frustrated noise and kicks his legs back down. He seems annoyed, and I find I kind of like annoying him, but I like seeing his fascinated stare even more. I guess that’s why I tell him.

“I was seventeen. With my boyfriend at the time, in my bedroom. That day, my dad happened to come home from work early for once.”

“He was bad? Your father?”

“Bad? Yes, my father was bad, all right. What’s that saying?” I flash a wolfish, joyless grin. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“But you’re not bad,” Sparrow says, and his words hit my chest with a weird pang.

He’s known me all of, what, a couple of days? He barely knows anything about me, and besides, he’s a gullible kid who wouldn’t recognize danger if it slapped him in the face.

“Louis?” Sparrow asks, and his knuckles brush over my thigh. Doesn’t seem like he’s conscious of it, but his touch makes my dick twitch with interest.

“Anyway,” I grunt, shifting away from him. “He busted into my bedroom and found us there.”

“What happened?”

“What do you think happened? He threw my boyfriend out and beat the living shit out of me. He never laid hands on me again though. He took his anger out on my mom instead, as was his preference. Blamed her for making me the way I was.” I go quiet for a moment, remembering his booming voice from downstairs.Happy now?You’ve turned him into a sissy little faggot. It’s time I teach him what it means to be a man.

That weekend, he took me out into the woods with his hunting rifle over the shoulder and a flask in his pocket. We spotted a deer and a few rabbits, all of which my father scared away with the shots he missed. He blasted the rifle into the sky, roaring with his frustration, while I stood and watched. “Let me try, Dad,” I said, and when he handed me the rifle and I shot a rabbit on the first try, his eyes lit up as if he’d never seen me before.

He saw I could be ruthless. He saw I could be efficient. And he was right.

Turning away from Sparrow’s concerned gaze, I put the TV back on. This time, there are wolves hunting what looks like a caribou. As the pack closes in on their prey, Sparrow starts biting his nails, his whole body buzzing with dread and excitement. He lets out little squeaks of “no!” and “hurry!” each time the wolves nip at the caribou’s heels, and when they finally tear into its hind leg, he whines and hides his face in his hands.

We watch another episode. And another. Sparrow never seems to get enough, and likewise, I find myself unable to get enough of his enthusiasm. He’s so focused on what he’s watching, so affected by it. Next to him, I feel like a stone statue, and I wonder what it’s like to absorb the world and cradle it so close to your heart as Sparrow does.

It must be nice, I guess. Myself, I feel numb most of the time. Numb or angry.

Sometime around the fourth episode, Sparrow’s eyes begin to droop, and he lies down on the couch with his head next to my thighs. It’s not the most comfortable couch, to be fair; I haven’t bothered to get any decorative pillows, and the pillow used by Sparrow when he’s sleeping is stuffed into a compartment inside the seat.

He looks up at me with sweet, sleepy eyes, as if asking for permission.

I sigh and say, “Fine.”

Carefully, slowly, he rests his head on my lap. Heart pounding, I clench my hands into fists by my sides. After a while, I lift a hand and slide my fingers into his hair, just resting them there by his temple. His body shifts as his breathing grows heavier, and I stare straight ahead at the TV, getting nothing from what’s happening on the screen, focused only on my hand sliding into Sparrow’s hair, and his small body resting lightly against mine.

We stay like this for the rest of the episode. When the credits roll and the countdown starts for the next episode, I reach for the remote and turn the TV off. Sparrow stirs but doesn’t wake up, so I nudge him gently. When his eyes still don’t open, I scoop him up and lift him into the bedroom.

There, I tuck him into the covers, and I have to stop myself from kissing his forehead good night. I also have to stop myself from crawling into bed next to him. Instead, I retreat into the living room and make the sofa bed for myself, and when I fall asleep, I think of his sweet little mouth slightly parted as he sleeps and the mumbled words I might have imagined when I pulled back from him.Thank you.

I fall into a restless sleep, the residual ache in my heart my only companion, as it should be, as it’s always been, night after night after night.

Chapter 9

Sparrow

“Do you really haveto go?” I whine, wringing my hands into my oversize sweater.

“It’s work,” Louis says. “Of course I have to go.”

“What was the bar called again?”

“Moe’s. Moe’s Den.”

I have a hard time imagining Louis serving beers and washing glasses. Seems like he would hate it, and he doesn’t look all that happy as he’s getting ready to leave. I can’t believe I’m going to have to spend the whole evening alone.

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