Page 14 of Saving Sparrow (Slow Burns & Tragic Beginnings #2)

Then

We spilled into the bedroom, soaking wet from the rain. Quentin began stripping out of his clothes on the way to the bathroom. “Anyone want to join me?” he asked as he pulled the wet fabric over his head.

“I was on the sidelines,” I said, peeling my own shirt off. “You and Elliott were the ones running around getting sweaty.”

It had been another week of spending our days with Elliott. There was no more quality time with just us two while Quentin raged about it somewhere. The three of us were inseparable.

Quentin looked at Elliott from the bathroom doorway, a teasing grin on his face.

“I’ll use the bathroom down the hall,” Elliott said predictably. Quentin’s laugh could be heard even after he’d closed the door.

I rummaged through the clean laundry basket for something to wear while Elliott grabbed something from the closet, then padded down the hall. I was sitting on the couch reading when he and Quentin both appeared at the same time.

Elliott wore a knee-length red dress. He’d undone the braid he’d worn to run drills with Quentin, leaving his hair hanging in wet, loose waves.

“Bold choice,” Quentin said in that unfiltered way of his.

Elliott flushed, sitting on the fluffy rug in front of the couch and tucking his feet under him.

I loved that he felt comfortable enough to slip into my mother’s things.

I noticed he only wore the new stuff, and I wondered if that was in respect to my sentimentality, or if the idea of wearing something she’d worn creeped him out. Either way, I appreciated it.

“Can I ask you something?” I set my book aside as Quentin knelt behind Elliott, a hairbrush in hand.

We were on day four of this routine. They did football stuff, showered, then Quentin brushed the tangles from Elliott’s hair while I read aloud.

It was cute seeing Quentin soften for Elliott in a way he never did for me, and even cuter seeing Elliott take interest in Quentin’s second favorite thing—football.

Neither made me feel jealous, which I took as a good sign.

It felt like I was gaining something rather than losing Quentin.

“Something like what?” Elliott wasn’t a fan of questions, at least not the intrusive kind.

I phrased it three different ways in my head before speaking. “Why do you like to dress like that?”

He couldn’t see Quentin, but I didn’t miss the interest in his gaze as he sectioned Elliott’s hair. We’d both been wondering.

Elliott rubbed the silk fabric between his fingers.

“It’s soft and comfortable, and it feels that way against my skin.

” His lips thinned as he seemed to struggle to find something more to say.

“It feels like I should be in it. I mean, I’m a guy, but this feels like me too.

I don’t know.” He sounded frustrated with himself. “I just like it.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I like it too.”

Elliott gave me a half-smile.

I tried to hold my next question in, but it came out anyway.

“Did you pray before putting it on?” When he didn’t answer right away, I tried again.

“Why do you do that?” I knew he prayed; he always did before changing into something more “comfortable.” We could hear the mumbled words drifting through the closet door.

Quentin stopped brushing his hair, and the moment became awkward as we both waited for Elliott to reply.

“Part force of habit,” he eventually said.

“And the other part?” I prompted softly.

Elliott bunched the skirt of the dress between his fists, staring down at it. “I want to be different. I want to want different things.”

“Does it ever work? Praying?” Quentin asked as he came around to sit on the couch with me.

Elliott gazed down at the dress again. “No.”

“Well, I’m glad,” Quentin said, “because we like you the way you are. Maybe you can even find something comfortable to run drills in tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “There’s some cotton stuff in there. You can wear shorts underneath.”

“Outside?” He seemed terrified by the idea.

“No one’s gonna see you,” Quentin said. “I mean, we saw you the last time, but no one else will see you. We’ll tell Olga to take the day off, and you and I can do simple stuff. No routes. Offensive plays only, and I’ll let you be the quarterback this time.”

“I don’t think so.” Elliott fidgeted with the dress, and I subtly nudged Quentin’s leg when he opened his mouth to try to change his mind.

“Well, if you ever want to, you can,” Quentin said.

“Thanks.”

I read while Quentin finished up with Elliott’s hair. He nearly stroked out after finally mastering the French braid, only to have it unravel because he hadn’t secured the ends.

“This is way too much hair,” Quentin complained. “I want the last thirty minutes of my life back.”

Elliott chuckled, and Quentin and I looked at each other. We’d never heard him laugh before. Elliott’s amusement faded when he noticed my shocked expression, and I thought for sure he’d bolt.

We sat there like idiots, quiet, not knowing what to do next. It was just a laugh, no big deal, right? Then why did it feel like he’d accidentally shared something he hadn’t planned to?

Quentin was still kneeling behind him. He began working on the braid again, returning the energy in the room to something sort of normal.

Elliott closed his eyes, like maybe Quentin’s fingers running through his hair was exactly what he needed. “My mother loved my long hair,” he whispered as if revealing something sacred.

“What about your dad?” I asked carefully, heart pounding.

“I don’t think he cared either way. Not until he caught me hiding in my closet”—He flicked his gaze up to me—“wearing my mother’s clothes.”

“What did he do?” The question came from Quentin this time.

“He started shaving it off after that. They wanted me to be a boy.”

“But you are a boy. Your hair, or what you wear, has nothing to do with that.” Quentin sounded upset on his behalf, and he looked like he was ready to track down Elliott’s dead parents and give them a piece of his mind.

“Yeah,” Elliott said, but he didn’t sound so sure. He steepled his fingers together in his lap, and although his lips didn’t move like they usually did, I got the feeling he was praying. Maybe without even realizing it.

“How’d you manage to grow it out again?” I asked once that faraway look left his eyes. He never told us when his parents died, but I got the impression it wasn’t that long ago. Not long enough for his hair to have grown more than a foot long since.

“He gave up on it one day. Gave up on trying to fix me.”

“That’s a good thing, right?” Quentin said encouragingly.

Elliott’s gaze grew distant again, his forehead creasing like he was fighting to remember something. A lone tear spilled down his cheek. “I don’t think it was.”

Elliott hadn’t shared anything too personal again, but he did become more relaxed over the course of the next few weeks.

He no longer tensed when Quentin made his obnoxious shower jokes, and he’d even picked up trash-talking while rolling around in the grass with Quentin.

He liked football. He hadn’t been pretending.

Elliott’s aunt was rarely home, leaving him alone for days and weeks at a time.

She and my stepdad were alike in that way.

I wondered if it was ignorant neglect on her part, or if she actively avoided him the way Dylan avoided us.

After all, she went from having no kids to being responsible for a teenage boy overnight.

I was sure that hadn’t been on her bucket list.

We offered to spend nights at his house when he refused to sleep over at ours.

He shot us down, swearing again he didn’t mind being alone.

I thought it was a nice way of him saying he needed space after having been smothered by us during the day.

Quentin didn’t understand or like it. Truth was, I didn’t either, but unlike Quentin, I knew not to push.

They ran drills every day while I chose to read or sunbathe by the pool instead. Every now and then, I’d catch Quentin staring at me, grinning. Elliott fit; he was our missing piece, only we were too na?ve to fully understand what that meant.

“No puedo respirar, cabron,” I forced out as my torso smashed into the padding of the lounge chair. I’d dozed off, and Quentin decided it would be funny to flop his muscled body on top of me. He chuckled, rolling off onto the grass, allowing me to sit up.

Elliott jogged over, out of breath, the football under his arm. “You can’t breathe,” he translated before dropping onto the edge of the lounger.

“You speak Spanish too?” Quentin asked, shock and betrayal in his tone.

“I’ve been teaching myself a little,” he murmured shyly before turning away. I smiled. He’d been teaching himself for me.

“New rules.” Quentin pulled off his sweaty shirt. “No more speaking Spanish until I learn it too.”

I rolled my eyes. “Is there a reason you almost crushed me to death?”

“Oh yeah. Elliott’s coming with us to practice.”

“Really?” I turned to Elliott. He’d never traveled beyond the woods and the backyard with us.

“Really,” he replied, tossing the ball in the air and catching it.

“Who knows?” Quentin started. “Maybe he’ll try out for the team this fall.” His tone was playful, but Elliott answered anyway.

“I’d rather just play here with you.”

Quentin did what he always did when feeling happy or sad or angry or any other emotion he couldn’t figure out. He tackled Elliott to the ground, laughing and rolling around with him.

Quentin brought out the kid in Elliott. It had nothing to do with football itself. They could’ve been running relay races, hula hooping, or playing Simon Says. Elliott liked to play, as if he’d never been allowed to before.

Quentin jumped to his feet before racing to the edge of the yard and disappearing behind a shrub. Elliott and I exchanged worried glances. Before we could make a run for the house, Quentin reappeared with a loaded Super Soaker.