Page 18 of Saving Sparrow (Slow Burns & Tragic Beginnings #2)

Then

Miguel squirmed out of my arms, waking me. “Where do you think you’re going?” I yanked him into my chest, nuzzling into the sweaty hair at his nape.

“You’re hot,” he complained.

“I know,” I sighed. It wasn’t easy being me.

Miguel snorted. “Not that kind of hot, you idiot. I’m burning up.”

I held on tighter when he tried wriggling free.

“Ow.” He winced, batting my hand away from his hip.

I pushed up onto my elbow, lifting his T-shirt. My fingerprints were bruised into his skin. “I’m sorry,” I breathed.

He shifted onto his back, pushing my hair away from my forehead. “Sorry for what?”

“Sorry for needing you so much.” I’d held on to him all night, and when the dreams of losing him made me panic in my sleep, I’d held on tighter.

“Don’t look so sad. I didn’t mind. I like how you hold me like you hold your football.”

“What, like in the center? Using my fingers to create spin?” I curled my fingers in demonstration.

Miguel laughed. “No, like you never want to let go, you idiot.”

“So, I’m not an idiota today, huh?” I ruffled his hair.

“They mean the same thing, you idiota .” He chuckled, and I nuzzled his neck while tickling him. I’d be his idiota , so long as it kept a smile on his face and laughter bursting from his lips.

“Hey, I can’t help that I’m more literal than you.” I didn’t have pretty ways of saying things like Miguel did. I said what was on my mind, good or bad. It often got me into trouble too.

“For example,” I started, “I like your eyes, and it’s not because the sun and stars collided behind your eyelids, turning your eyeballs brown.”

“Okay, first off, that’s not even possible.” Miguel grinned. “And second… why do you like my eyes?”

“Because I love chocolate, duh.” I grabbed his fist before it connected with my shoulder. We laughed and tussled—our usual morning routine.

Miguel preferred to start his day with quiet time and a book, but he often gave in to the man-child in me instead. We rolled until we nearly fell off the bed, and his shirt bunched up, exposing the other set of handprints along his left side. I tensed, staring down at them.

He pressed my palm there, stiffening, but determined to prove his point.

“I like it. You needed me, and I like it.”

I blew out a breath, settling onto my back beside him, thinking about why I’d needed him as my own human stress ball in the first place.

The mood darkened as we stared at the ceiling together.

I replayed everything that happened from the moment Amelia showed up to when Miguel and I finally fell asleep in the early hours of the morning.

“I thought you were going to hit him,” Miguel whispered. “I kind of wish you had.”

“I’m on it.” I sat up. “Let me go shower first, then I’ll—”

“No, don’t.” He jerked upright, shoving me back down on the bed. “He’s probably gone anyway. He never sticks around after you two get into it. You’d think he’d just stay away forever.” Miguel was right. My father didn’t need an excuse to vanish, but he loved when I gave him one anyway.

We went back to staring at the ceiling for a while.

“I should’ve told your mom to run, to get as far away from him as possible.

” My father had been obsessed with my mother.

Controlled her every move. I’d stand outside their locked bedroom door at night listening to them fight, listening to her beg him to let us go.

When he threatened to make her life a living hell if she tried to take me, it wasn’t because he wanted me.

It was just another way for him to hold on to her. He’d only ever seen me as leverage.

“You were just a kid, Quentin.”

“A selfish kid.” I was seven when my mother took off. After that, my father left me for the nanny to deal with. Most days I didn’t see him at all. Glass shattering and the smell of booze in the air were the only occasional signs he was even home.

Then one day he brought Gabriela home. Gabriela was nice and had kind brown eyes.

She told me she had a son my age and asked if it would be okay if he came over sometime to play with me.

She’d crouched down and taken my hands in hers, smiling at me like my mother used to.

My father stood behind her, smiling too. I hadn’t seen him smile in a long time.

“I couldn’t do it,” I whispered.

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

“You’d still have her if I had. If I’d been a brat and made things difficult for them.”

“But then I wouldn’t have you.” He’d said it so low I barely heard him. He didn’t have to say it, though. It lived between us. It was there whenever we hugged or held hands; it was there when our eyes met in the dark. We both felt it, and we both felt guilty about it too.

“I was pissed at always being alone.”

“No, you were sad.”

“Pissed off, sad… they’re all the same.” They got the same reaction from me. “I should’ve scared you away. Beat you up or something.” I didn’t mean it, but I wanted to mean it. I wished I’d been the kind of kid who cared more about innocent people getting hurt than me not being alone anymore.

“Instead, you dragged me to your room as soon as we were introduced to show off your football posters.”

“Yeah,” I breathed. “I couldn’t help myself. You had my favorite color eyes.”

We turned onto our sides, his big brown eyes just as kind as his mother’s.

“I know you love chocolate, but I think you didn’t say anything because you hoped he’d be different, because you wanted a family.” Leave it to Miguel to search for the deeper meaning. I rested my forehead against his, neither confirming nor denying.

“Do you ever wonder where she is?” Miguel asked. “Your mom.”

“All the time,” I admitted before launching into my childhood fantasy. “She’s somewhere off the grid where he can never fucking find her. She’s happy wherever she is. She’s found someone who loves her and treats her right. Like she deserves.”

My father never got over my mother. When he couldn’t find her, he decided to try to mold someone else into her. It didn’t work, though, and Gabriela paid for it.

“I didn’t protect her. I didn’t protect either of them. What if that makes me just like him?” The thought made me sick. I sank my fingers into Miguel’s hair, holding tight when a feeling I didn’t understand began tearing at my heart.

“It doesn’t,” he said, sounding angry. “You’re nothing like him. I’d never let you be.”

“I’m obsessed with you,” I pointed out.

“In a good way,” he countered. “And it goes both ways with us.” His hand was in my hair now, his touch gentler than mine.

“I don’t like you out of my sight. I’m a raging asshole during the school year. Dangerous on the field because I just want to scale the fucking bleachers to get back to you.”

“You don’t hear me complaining, do you?”

I closed my eyes, pressing my forehead tighter against his, wishing I could climb into his skin.

“I hate that his blood runs through my veins, but what I hate even more is that I understand how he felt about my mother.” I’d never said that out loud before.

“I’d take the whole world down if anyone tried to break you and me apart. ”

“You’re nothing like him,” he repeated, like he knew I needed to hear it again. “And I can’t live without you either.”

“Fucking promise me, Guelly.” Promise me both things.

“I swear it. You’re the best person I know, Quentin. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly the poster child for sanity when I’m not with you.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” I said in that cocky tone that never failed to get an eye roll from him.

My father didn’t understand our relationship.

No one did. We’d been called into the school counselor’s office too many times to count, dating back to elementary school.

We didn’t just not play well with others; we refused to play with others, and I’d gotten into more than one fistfight because some moron thought it was wise to call him a nerd.

We didn’t need anything but each other, and it only got worse with age.

I thought about Elliott then. He was the exception to the rule, because of course there always had to be one. I’d never seen Miguel interested in anyone other than me before, but once I’d gotten over my initial jealousy, I realized he’d been right. I was interested in Elliott too.

Elliott was different from anyone I’d ever come across before, and he didn’t feel like a threat to what I had with Miguel.

If anything, he felt like a missing part of it.

Elliott brought out my protective instincts, ones usually reserved for only Miguel.

It didn’t help that Amelia reminded me of my father, nor that Elliott reminded me of my mother and Gabriela. Sweet and afraid.

I was pulled from my thoughts when I realized how quiet Miguel was. He hadn’t called me out for my cocky reply or said anything meant to “humble” me. His eyes were watery when I pulled back to look at him.

“You’re such a crybaby,” I whispered, running my calloused fingertips over his sun-kissed cheek.

He smiled at my running joke. “You love that about me.”

“Damn straight. I get to be the one to make you feel better. My ego loves it. There he goes,” I said when he rolled his eyes.

Miguel blinked his tears away, hesitating before asking, “What if he didn’t do it?”

I shook my head, not wanting that thought to sink in. “He did it. She wouldn’t have left us.”

He nodded, letting me pull him on top of me for a hug.

“I feel like hunting him down right now,” I growled, squeezing him tighter.

“Don’t,” he wheezed, and I loosened my hold. “I don’t want to have to bail you out of jail.”

“Can you imagine how hot my mugshot would be? I’d be the new jail-bae.” I wiggled my brows when he lifted his head to look at me.

“Not funny.” He held out for a few seconds, then smiled, making me feel accomplished for the day. Well, almost.

“What is it?” he asked when I frowned.

“Elliott.” I didn’t have to say any more. The expression on Miguel’s face said he understood.