Page 25 of Saving Sparrow
“He’s not. He only thinks he is. His feelings are hurt.” I glanced over at Elliott, our gazes holding as he read between the lines.
“I… don’t understand him,” he replied, looking from the photo I still held to the bookcase packed with books, as if pointing out what he and I had in common.
“Maybe you could try,” I said softly, flattening a palm to the window, hoping Quentin could sense me.
I was still watching Quentin after Elliott went into the closet to change, and even after he’d returned and whispered goodbye.
“Hey,” I said, turning to him. He paused right outside the bedroom door. “See you tomorrow.”
Elliott took a step away without confirming, then stopped. I waited for him to say whatever was on his mind. “I know what it feels like,” he said. “To have no one who cares about me.”
I hadn’t realized I’d said that thought out loud. I was about to tell him we cared about him, but he disappeared down the hall.
I sank onto the bed, staring down at my mother, consumed with my thoughts of her and Elliott. After a while, Quentin’s frustration morphed into loud laughter.
Frowning, I set the photograph down, going back to the window. Quentin had set up agility hurdles and a ladder, taking Elliott through one of his drills. Elliott’s moves were awkward, and he kept knocking over the hurdles. Quentin found this hysterical, and Elliott’s timid smile said he might have found it funny too.
Pushing the window open, I poked my head out, hoping to hear them better. Quentin stopped laughing and patiently helped Elliott get through the drill successfully after a number of flops.
He jogged over to the football lying in the grass next, miming for Elliott to catch his throw. I laughed quietly when Elliott fumbled the ball. Quentin was standing pretty close, the toss gentle. Even I could’ve caught that.
They kept at it, and Quentin backed further away with each successful catch, calling Elliott a fast learner.
“Ow,” Elliott bit out a short while later, holding his wrist and pulling his hand into his chest. I ducked back into the room, darting for the door.
Quentin was already hurrying Elliott inside by the time I charged downstairs. I slowed my steps, pressing my back against the wall that led to the kitchen.
“Sit here,” Quentin said. Elliott was climbing onto one of the island stools when I peeked around the corner. “Can I see it?”
Elliott watched him, slowly presenting his wrist. Quentin touched it softly, wincing when Elliott groaned in pain.
“Can you move it?”
Elliott did so. “Yeah.”
“Does it hurt here?” Quentin pressed on the inside of his wrist.
Elliott shook his head. “No.”
“Well, that means it isn’t fractured.”
I wasn’t sure who had died and made him a doctor, but Elliott didn’t argue.
“Exactly how fast can you toss a ball?”
“Pretty damn fast,” Quentin said. “I’m sorry.” His voice lowered. “Miguel gets on my case about being too rough. I don’t always mean to be. Sometimes it’s hard to cut it off when I leave the field.”
“It’s okay,” Elliott said. “I’ve been told you’re harmless.”
“Is Miguel spreading lies again?”
Elliott grinned, and Quentin smiled from ear to ear as he turned toward the refrigerator.
“You don’t have to do that,” Elliott said when Quentin placed an ice pack over his wrist.
“You and Miguel have books. Let me have this.”Let me take care of you, was what he didn’t say.
Quentin became preoccupied with the task, moving the pack on and off Elliott’s wrist, presumably to check if the swelling had gone down or gotten worse. This allowed Elliott to watch him without being noticed. His gaze was soft on Quentin.
