Page 36 of Saving Sparrow
Miguel laughed. “No, like you never want to let go, you idiot.”
“So, I’m not anidiotatoday, huh?” I ruffled his hair.
“They mean the same thing, youidiota.” He chuckled, and I nuzzled his neck while tickling him. I’d be hisidiota, so long as it kept a smile on his face and laughter bursting from his lips.
“Hey, I can’t help that I’m more literal than you.” I didn’t have pretty ways of saying things like Miguel did. I said what was on my mind, good or bad. It often got me into trouble too.
“For example,” I started, “I like your eyes, and it’s not because the sun and stars collided behind your eyelids, turning your eyeballs brown.”
“Okay, first off, that’s not even possible.” Miguel grinned. “And second… whydoyou like my eyes?”
“Because I love chocolate, duh.” I grabbed his fist before it connected with my shoulder. We laughed and tussled—our usual morning routine.
Miguel preferred to start his day with quiet time and a book, but he often gave in to the man-child in me instead. We rolled until we nearly fell off the bed, and his shirt bunched up, exposing the other set of handprints along his left side. I tensed, staring down at them.
He pressed my palm there, stiffening, but determined to prove his point.
“I like it. You needed me, and I like it.”
I blew out a breath, settling onto my back beside him, thinking about why I’d needed him as my own human stress ball in the first place. The mood darkened as we stared at the ceiling together. I replayed everything that happened from the moment Amelia showed up to when Miguel and I finally fell asleep in the early hours of the morning.
“I thought you were going to hit him,” Miguel whispered. “I kind of wish you had.”
“I’m on it.” I sat up. “Let me go shower first, then I’ll—”
“No, don’t.” He jerked upright, shoving me back down on the bed. “He’s probably gone anyway. He never sticks around after you two get into it. You’d think he’d just stay away forever.” Miguel was right. My father didn’t need an excuse to vanish, but he loved when I gave him one anyway.
We went back to staring at the ceiling for a while.
“I should’ve told your mom to run, to get as far away from him as possible.” My father had been obsessed with my mother. Controlled her every move. I’d stand outside their locked bedroom door at night listening to them fight, listening to her beg him to let us go. When he threatened to make her life a living hell if she tried to take me, it wasn’tbecause he wanted me. It was just another way for him to hold on to her. He’d only ever seen me as leverage.
“You were just a kid, Quentin.”
“A selfish kid.” I was seven when my mother took off. After that, my father left me for the nanny to deal with. Most days I didn’t see him at all. Glass shattering and the smell of booze in the air were the only occasional signs he was even home.
Then one day he brought Gabriela home. Gabriela was nice and had kind brown eyes. She told me she had a son my age and asked if it would be okay if he came over sometime to play with me. She’d crouched down and taken my hands in hers, smiling at me like my mother used to. My father stood behind her, smiling too. I hadn’t seen him smile in a long time.
“I couldn’t do it,” I whispered.
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“You’d still have her if I had. If I’d been a brat and made things difficult for them.”
“But then I wouldn’t have you.” He’d said it so low I barely heard him. He didn’t have to say it, though. It lived between us. It was there whenever we hugged or held hands; it was there when our eyes met in the dark. We both felt it, and we both felt guilty about it too.
“I was pissed at always being alone.”
“No, you were sad.”
“Pissed off, sad… they’re all the same.” They got the same reaction from me. “I should’ve scared you away. Beat you up or something.” I didn’t mean it, but I wanted to mean it. I wished I’d been the kind of kid who cared more about innocent people getting hurt than me not being alone anymore.
“Instead, you dragged me to your room as soon as we were introduced to show off your football posters.”
“Yeah,” I breathed. “I couldn’t help myself. You had my favorite color eyes.”
We turned onto our sides, his big brown eyes just as kind as his mother’s.
“I know you love chocolate, butIthink you didn’t say anything because you hoped he’d be different, because you wanted a family.” Leave itto Miguel to search for the deeper meaning. I rested my forehead against his, neither confirming nor denying.
