Page 17 of Saving Sparrow
I rolled my eyes at him, surprised they hadn’t gotten stuck at the back of my head at this point.
“I skipped the shower to hurry home, though. I called and texted you.”
I looked around but didn’t spot my phone.
“You always have your phone near you when I’m not around,” Quentin said softly.
“Don’t be jealous. It’s probably in the kitchen. Our hands were full of food.”
“Did your pockets stop working?” He glanced at Elliott, then frowned down at me. “You gave him one of your mother’s dresses?”
“I’ll let you wear one of her dresses too.” I swallowed my laugh when he frowned harder.
“They won’t fit.”
“I wasn’t serious.” I chuckled. “You can be so cute sometimes.” I threw my arms around him again, hugging him just as tight as he’d hugged me a second ago. It didn’t take much to make him happy again. A little affection always did the trick.
“Come shower with me,” he said a little too loudly.
I pinched his mouth shut, eyes flying to Elliott. He’d rolled onto his back, blinking up at us drowsily. He wore that curious expression again. I realized I was still wrapped around Quentin. I dropped my arms, sliding back from the edge of the couch.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty.” Quentin gave him a playful wink. Had he heard Quentin ask me to shower with him? Was that what woke him?
Quentin, always the one to speak without thinking or being self-conscious, asked, “Wanna come shower with us too?”
Elliott scrambled back into the arm of the couch.
“Quentin,” I gasped, shoving his shoulder.
“What? Too soon?”
“Yes.” I laughed at his innocent expression. Quentin could be a brute and a bit clueless about the in-between emotions—all the stuff between anger and happiness. Like confusion, shyness, and fear, to name a few. He also sucked at understanding the importance of personal space. I couldn’t blame him for that one. It wasn’t something we practiced with one another. I found it endearing, but Elliott would need to warm up to his antics.
We never had playdates as kids or peer groups as teenagers. We interacted with other people only when necessary. It was more important for Quentin because he played football, but his teammates were used to him doing his job on the field and being antisocial when off.
I had a higher emotional IQ than Quentin, but I think that came from how voraciously I read and how diverse the topics and genres I read were.
Quentin read only when he had to. He preferred roughhousing and other physical pursuits. He observed people only long enough to determine whether they were a threat to our relationship.
“Sorry,” he murmured to Elliott, his smile as soft as his green gaze. “My toxic trait is thinking I’m funny when I’m really just being obnoxious.”
Maybe his puppy-dog eyes worked on Elliott, too, because his shoulders lowered as he whispered, “It’s okay.”
“Er, that dress looks pretty on you,” Quentin said, taking a stab at saying something less inappropriate.
“Thanks.” Elliott blushed, smoothing a hand over the ruched bodice.
“You look pretty.” Clearly, Quentin didn’t know when to quit. I inwardly groaned when he followed that up with, “I mean not like a pretty girl or anything. Wait,areyou a girl? I mean, what are your pronouns?”
“Would you stop it? You’re overwhelming him.” I turned to Elliott. “Wait, whatareyour pronouns?” I hadn’t thought to ask.
“What do you mean?” Elliott looked between us.
“You know,” Quentin started, “he/him, she/her, they/them, she/them…”
“I’m a boy.” Elliott sounded panicked.
“That’s fine,” I assured him. “Whatever you see yourself as is fine.”
