Page 172 of Saving Sparrow
She shrugged. “You weren’t wearing your I-feel-guilty-for-what-I’m-doing face today. Today you looked pitiful, apologetic.”
“I hate seeing him sad,” I admitted.
“Me too. Sooo,”—She gestured to her face—“you really think my makeup skills are magic?”
“Oh, yeah, of course. Totally. Especially the, er, gold shadow powder and the, umm, lash… scara?”
“Eyeshadowandmascara,” she corrected.
“I was so close.”
She shook her head, smiling. “Poor Elliott. He really does need us. Will you give him my number?”
“Oh, here.” I held Elliott’s phone out, and she saved her info.
“Okay, well, I gotta head back. Alex is waiting for me to work mymagicon her. Guess I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah, guess you will.”
“You know,” she started, walking backwards, “I just thought of this crazy, wacky,insaneidea.”
“What is it?”
She grinned. “Maybe we canallbe friends.” With that, she turned, heading inside.
Miguel
Then
Elliott was still at the bookstore, but Quentin’s location pinged at our apartment building. I headed for the roof when I didn’t find him inside. He turned when the door creaked open, then went back to staring out over the city. I plopped onto the seat nearest to him, and he tugged the chair closer without taking his eyes off the skyline. “I missed you too,” I said.
He grabbed my hair when I leaned in to kiss his cheek, inhaling along my jawline before kissing me. I licked my lips, frowning at the unfamiliar taste.
“What’s that?”
“I needed a drink.” He held up a beer bottle, letting me read the label.
“It’s… non-alcoholic.”
“I’m not fucking up this body with real booze.”
“The nerve of me,” I deadpanned, snatching the bottle and stealing a sip. “Yuck.” I handed it back, taking in the view. “We should come up here more often.”
“We should.” He sounded distracted.
“What are you thinking about?”
He shrugged. “Just stuff.”
I scratched his chin. “I hope you’re thinking about shaving. Beard burn between my ass cheeks is no fun.”
He rubbed his stubbly jaw over my cheeks. I shoved him away, fixing my glasses.
“I’m behaving like him, aren’t I?” He sounded scared.
I was usually the first to swear he was nothing like Dylan, but telling the truth came with loving someone, even when it hurts. “Yeah, you kind of are.”
“Figured.” He picked at the label on the bottle. “Do you think that’s how our mothers felt? The way Elliott feels?”
