Page 61 of Saving Sparrow
“Wait,” he said. “What happened when you got home from the first day of school?”
My palms grew sweaty, causing one end of the bandage to peel up. “What makes you think something happened?”
“Because you meticulously recounted every second of your time together but then chose to skip over that particular part. Why? What happened?” he demanded, as if assuming the worst. As though he thought we’d hurt Elliott during that time gap. He was right, we had, and I hoped telling him about it didn’t cost me.
“We had this oversized patio chair. It was like a bed, really. It could be reclined into one. On rainy days, the three of us would cuddle up on it, under the protection of the patio roof.”
Sparrow’s frown deepened like he didn’t get what about that would make me hesitant to share it. But this part was only meant to demonstrate how close we were to each other. To explain the type of proximity we craved, to show how addicted we were to being under one another’s skin. I told him this because I hoped he’d appreciate how Quentin and I felt when we thought we’d ruined everything.
“Thunderstorms made Elliott nervous. They felt violent to him; they made him flinch. Quentin and I got to feel like superheroes by protecting him from them. After a while, the loud, rumbling sounds excited him,because he knew we’d be there to hold him tighter. He knew we wouldn’t let anything happen to him.” I smiled, the move making my face hurt.
“He was one of us, a part of us, and we felt sick whenever he was out of our sight for too long. He ended up going through the woods after we got home from school.” I stopped to explain to him what that meant.
“He ended up spending the night there too—at least that was what we thought he’d do.” I exhaled, pressing down on my leg to keep it still. “But Elliott came back, and we thought we’d lost him for good.”
“What did you do?” Sparrow asked, his grim expression telling me he’d revoke his unspoken apology if my answer didn’t please him. “Why did you think you’d lost him?”
“Because he got a glimpse of who Quentin and I truly were to each other,” I whispered, “and it scared him.”
Miguel
Then
“Why’d you stop me from going after him?” Quentin had been pacing the sitting area for the last hour while I attempted to read in bed. I hadn’t gotten past the first page. I kept replaying the scared look on Elliott’s face when Delaney had him cornered by his locker.
“He said he wanted to be alone. Elliott isn’t like us, not really.”
“Heislike us,” he insisted. “He likes being here, likes being with us, being our friend.”
“I just mean sometimes he needs time alone to think.” I wondered if I’d said that in English when Quentin gave me a confused look.
“He could think in here with us,” he said stubbornly. Quentin had no concept of needing personal space. If I were upset, he’d be in my face, crowding me until I gave in and told him what was wrong. That worked with me because I liked that. I liked that he couldn’t function until he knew what bothered me, until he fixed it. But Elliott wouldn’t let him fix his problem, at least not right now. Quentin didn’t know how to handle that. It made him feel useless.
He patted his pockets, likely looking for his phone. He’d left it on his nightstand before storming off to pace. “Did he send another text?”
I looked at my phone. It hadn’t left my side since Elliott ran off when we got home from school. “No.” Dropping the phone on the bed, I set my book aside and headed to the window. I stared beyond the pool to the darkened woods, dragging my bottom lip between my teeth.
“You shouldn’t have stopped me from telling him we were coming, whether he wanted us to or not.”
“He said he was fine, Quentin.”
“Well, what if he’s not?”
I’d been thinking the same thing, and my silence must have confirmed that. “I’m going over there.” Quentin charged over to me, grabbing the T-shirt he’d tossed onto his side of the bed earlier.
“Quentin,” I reasoned, “part of being friends is accepting what the other person needs.”
He scoffed. “Did you read that in one of your books?”
I glared at him. “Let’s give him until morning. Then we’ll show up on his doorstep.”
“Fine,” he grumbled. “I’ll set my alarm for four a.m.”
“Quentin,” I groaned, exasperated.
“What? You said morning. Technically, I could storm that place after midnight if I wanted to.”
I didn’t have the energy to debate with him, and honestly, I was worried too. I just knew how to hide it better. One of us had to be the sane one. If I weren’t the calm one, there’d have been no limit to Quentin’s madness.
