Page 92 of Saving Sparrow
I took several deep breaths, collecting myself. “And Elliott remembersnoneof that?” I asked partly because I found it hard to believe, and selfishly because I wanted reassurance that he didn’t.
“He remembers being scared, and being dragged from his bedroom, but nothing beyond that.” Because he took over from there, I assumed.
“And when he came back?”
“The wound was already healing, the worst of the pain gone. It was hard. Holding on for those few weeks each time while most of it healed. It was hard.”
I willed my pulse to settle, willed my tears away. “Did you ever think about communicating with him? Leaving him a note, maybe?” Elliott had to feel so alone.
There was a moment of hesitation before Sparrow answered. “I thought about it more than once, but I wasn’t sure if it would make things worse for him. If it would make him react poorly. I’d already done damage by telling Amelia too much.”
Any strange behavior exhibited by Elliott wouldn’t have alerted his parents to his mental health struggles. It would’ve only confirmed that something evil lived inside of him. Did I even want to know about when they’d reached the point where they believed he could no longer be saved? What happened to him then?
“How did his parents die?”
“They were tortured to death.”
Guilt consumed Sparrow’s gaze, the spark that normally lit his twinkling blue eyes dulling from the weight of it. He must have been aware that while his existence had been needed, it also made things worse for Elliott. How had he lived with that? How was he living with that knowledge now?
Rage replaced the guilt, giving answers to my unspoken questions. Anger clouded all other emotions. I knew that from the years I spent unraveling Quentin’s emotional landscape.
“I’m done talking. It’s your turn. But first…” He tilted his head. “How did you know my father’s name?”
“Elliott screamed it in his sleep once.” I was surprised at how fast the lie came to me.
Miguel
Then
“So what plays are you guys gonna use for the game?” Elliott asked as he and Quentin strolled into the bedroom.
I shut my textbook and removed my glasses, setting both on the nightstand. I’d never get any studying done now. We technically should’ve all been studying for second-semester exams, but Quentin had talked Elliott into running drills with him.
Quentin sighed theatrically, seeming really torn about whether to give Elliott the info he wanted. “Game plans are all classified, confidential, and top-secret information. I could lose my spot on the team if anyone found out I shared such…” he searched for the words, “suchclassified,confidential, and top-secretinformation.”
I wanted to tell him they all meant the same thing, but Elliott’s wide eyes stopped me. Quentin’s lie made him even more interested in knowing.
“You know I won’t say anything. I’d never.”
“Okay, fine.” Quentin threw his hands in the air, falling dramatically onto the couch. “I’ll tell you.”
Elliott giggled, like legit giggled, as he tossed the football he held into Quentin’s waiting hands. I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help smiling as Quentin dove into all the ways the Panthers were going to kick the Seagulls’ asses in the upcoming game. Thank goodness for Elliott. I no longer had to pretend I cared about the intricate details. Now I just got to enjoy supporting Quentin and cheering from the stands.
While Quentin walked Elliott through their schemes and strategies, I headed to the bathroom for a washcloth, wetting it with soap and warm water.
“That’s pretty intricate,” Elliott said as I knelt in front of him. “Do you think it’ll work?” He smiled at me as I cleaned the eye black off his cheeks. It irritated his skin whenever he left it on too long.
“We’ve been studying their game videos, so we have a pretty good handle on the way they think.” Quentin unleashed his cocky grin. “But the Panthers are good at adapting on the fly. Either way, we’re kicking their asses and taking names.” He winked at me. I chuckled but didn’t swoon like Elliott might have. Elliott was good for Quentin’s ego—or dangerous, depending on how you looked at it.
“Thanks,” Elliott said after I’d finished. “Shower with us?”
It had been over a month since we’d taken our first trio-shower. I could’ve counted on one hand how many times we’d showered without Elliott since.
Quentin and I didn’t always have sex in there, but we didn’t keep our hands off each other either. My relationship with my stepbrother was second nature to Elliott now. He could study through it, sleep through it, and shower through it, too.
He hadn’t gotten off while watching us since that first shower, or at least not in front of us. Nowadays, he barely glanced our way, keeping himself busy while we had sex somewhere in his vicinity.
We’d never stopped to consider whether Elliott watching us turned him on. It never seemed like it. His gaze always felt exploratory, like he watched to work through whatever had been drilled into him as a kid. We didn’t even know what his sexual orientation was.
