Page 107 of Saving Sparrow
I’d felt a different kind of shame that night. The shame that came with betraying a friendship, with wanting something that wasn’t mine, something that belonged to someone I loved.
To prove to myself I could move past it, that I could put whatever feelings I’d felt at that party behind me, I took a shower with them. The worst idea I’d ever come up with.
For the first time, watching them made me feel like I was too big for my skin. For the first time, I wanted what they had. For the first time… I wanted them. I had no control over my orgasm that night. It barreled down on me all on its own.
I should’ve stopped showering with them after that, but I didn’t. Should’ve stopped sleeping in between them, should’ve stopped hugging them, letting them be affectionate toward me. I couldn’t, though. They were all I had, they were everything I’dneverhad, and they were everything I needed to survive. I needed it all because I couldn’t go on if I had to stop loving them.
Besides, they would have noticed if I’d started distancing myself. They needed me just as much as I needed them. They missed me whenever I left a room, and they were sad whenever I needed even a few minutes alone. We were addicted to our bond. We were needy, clingy, conjoined, and preferred zero space between us when we were together. Just like Quentin and I had zero space between us right now.
I realized that to keep my changing feelings under the radar, I had to stay exactly the same. One skipped kiss goodnight would’ve been suspicious. One less “I don’t want to leave you” before separating for our last period class would’ve made things obvious. Deciding not to be their audience of one as they tore each other apart night after night would’ve given me away immediately. It would’ve been accepted because they never made me do anything I didn’t want to, but they would’veknown.
Myone rule was never to let them knowhowthey affected me. I kept that for myself. Quick trips through the woods, bathroom breaks after watching them maul each other during movie nights, pretending to study or sleep when their making out led to more… I made them believe I’d gotten so used to them having sex that it had lost some of the shock and excitement. It hadn’t, though, and getting away with this for so long wasn’t easy.
But last night… Last night I—
“All done,” Quentin said, cutting into my spiraling thoughts.
I ran a hand down the long braid as he moved to the other side of the island. He downed the rest of his water while I took the opportunity to stare at the scratch marks along his ribcage. They peeked through the wide arm holes on his muscle-tee.
My head filled with flashes of him shoving into Miguel, of them sliding across the floor from the force, and of Miguel digging into Quentin’s skin like he needed something to hold on to.
Quentin slammed the empty bottle on top of the island, startling me. “You okay?” he asked, frowning.
“Um, yeah. Just hungry.”
“You wanna make the sandwiches while I check on Miguel?”
Miguel had been too tired to come outside with us. He’d groaned, rolled over, and yanked the covers over his head when I’d asked him to.
“I’ll go. Your sandwiches are better than mine.” Quentin couldn’t disagree with that, although the way he glanced toward the staircase said he wanted to. “I’ll let you know if he’s not okay.”
He nodded, turning toward the fridge. “Miss you already, pretty girl,” he called as I left the kitchen.
The bed was rumpled but empty. Steam filled the bathroom when I poked my head in, but Miguel wasn’t in there either. Light shone from beneath the closet door, so I headed across the room.
“Hey,” I said softly, opening the door. Miguel sucked in a breath, craning his head around from his kneeling position. His eyes were red, his cheeks wet.
He blew out a relieved breath. “I thought you were Quentin.” He turned back to the bottom drawer he knelt in front of, hiding something under the stack of clothes there.
“Would that have been so bad?” I lowered to my knees beside him. “If I were Quentin?”
“It would’ve been terrible.” His tone said he meant every word.
“Why? And why are you crying? Are you hurt?” After last night, I wasn’t sure how he’d made it out of bed.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.” I slid a palm over his cheek. Miguel’s mouth parted, his wide eyes flickering over my face.
“What’s wrong?” I wasn’t asking about his tears this time. I pulled my hand away quickly, terrified I’d given something away with that touch. Touching him wasn’t unusual, but my feelings had drastically intensified since yesterday. I was paranoid he somehow knew that.
“That… felt good,” he said, forehead creasing.
“Doesn’t it always feel good?” Their touch always felt amazing to me.
“Yeah, but…” He exhaled again. “Never mind.”
I wanted to push, but didn’t. Finding out why he’d been crying, and why he didn’t want Quentin finding him in here, seemed more important.
