Page 19 of Saving Sparrow (Slow Burns & Tragic Beginnings #2)

“Let’s go find him.” Miguel’s text alert went off as soon as he’d spoken those words. He crawled over to his nightstand, grinning down at whatever he saw before holding the phone out to me. It was a photo of a goldfinch perched on a tree branch. Elliott had sent it.

“I know exactly where he is,” I said with excitement. We darted into the bathroom, doing the bare minimum before rushing out in search of our friend.

We raced through the woods, shoving low-hanging branches out of our way. I picked up speed, determined to beat Miguel, laughing as he let loose a bunch of words in Spanish. “Hey, that wasn’t nice,” I called back, knowing at least one of those words meant “bastard.”

Up ahead, Elliott waited under the curved oak tree from the photo, plucking the petals of a wildflower. He looked up as we barreled his way. Eyes widening, he tossed the stem aside in preparation for me lifting him into my arms and spinning with him.

Miguel slowed a few yards back, walking the rest of the way to us. “He can’t breathe, Quentin.”

“Oh.” I settled Elliott onto his feet, straightening his T-shirt. His face was flushed, but he smiled up at me.

“You texted,” Miguel said, pushing his glasses higher.

“I listened to your message. Twice. Ellie?” He gave Miguel a wry look.

“Yeah.” Miguel chuckled. “You like it?”

He kicked the dirt at his feet with a shy smile. “Yeah, I do.”

I was confused at first, but then remembered Miguel calling him Ellie while leaving the voicemail last night.

“It felt nice having someone worry about me.”

“If it were up to me, we would’ve broken in and gotten you the hell out of there,” I said. Miguel scowled at me. “What? You know you wanted to.”

He turned back to Elliott. “Are you alright? Did she make you go to therapy?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t say anything.”

We waited for more, but he didn’t say anything else. It was hard getting information from Elliott, and once he decided he’d said enough, getting more became impossible.

“You know you can say anything you want to us, right?” I realized how hypocritical that was, considering Miguel and I had our own secrets. “Is Cruella still home?” I glanced in the direction of his house.

“Who?” Elliott asked at the same time Miguel shoved my shoulder for saying it.

“Um, Amelia.”

“No, she left again.”

“How long will she be gone?” Miguel asked.

Elliott shrugged. “She didn’t say.”

“My dad came home last night, but he left again too.” He’d left a note on the patio door.

“Come on,” Miguel said. “I’ll read by the pool while you two play in the grass or whatever.” He said the last part as if he didn’t get the appeal before heading for the house. I made funny faces behind his back just to make Elliott smile. It worked, and when I held his hand, he let me.

“Will you show me some new plays?”

“Fuck yeah, I will.” We picked up our pace, catching up to Miguel.

Elliott and I dragged some equipment around back from the garage while Miguel changed into his trunks and curled up by the pool with a book.

“Let me do it.” I stepped in behind Elliott, braiding his long hair. I even had an elastic tie to twist around the end. I kept one on my wrist at all times now. I took in my handiwork. “I’m like a professional now.”

“You’re alright.” Elliott grinned before flipping me the ball. I caught it easily.

“Did Miguel warn you not to compliment me?”

“He might have mentioned something about the size of your head.” He laughed when I glared over at Miguel, who was too busy reading to notice.

I gripped the ball between my thighs so I could remove my T-shirt. I noticed Elliott staring, so I made my pecs dance. “Scared all this hotness is gonna distract you, pretty girl?”

“You wish.” Elliott set off for the middle of the yard. He looked like he belonged on a runway, not running drills and yards with me. I liked that about him, though. A dude who could rock a dress and catch a ball.

We did this for fun, so I was careful not to generate too much power before launching the ball. Elliott jogged backward a bit, catching it mid-field before charging for the touchdown. Since we were playing a two-man game, it was also my job to stop him.

He zigzagged, feinting left and right, narrowly avoiding my grasp before making it past the makeshift goal line we’d created. Elliott slammed the ball to the grass, throwing his hands in the air and claiming victory. Miguel chuckled from his lounge chair.

“Again,” I demanded, my competitiveness kicking in. I made us wear our helmets this time, and I rigged the field with stepovers and tackle dummies.

“Again,” I said half an hour later, after he’d made it past me for the fifth time. We were sweaty, the waistband of my sweatpants soaked through, his T-shirt clinging to his chest.

I’d studied his tells, so this time when he feinted right twice, I was ready for his dart left. He’d almost made it past me, but I caught the end of his shirt. The cotton tore apart when he kept running.

We were parallel to the pool area, and he had to run past Miguel to get to the goal line. I knew the moment Miguel’s book crashed to the ground that he’d seen what I had. Elliott spun toward us, gripping the remnants of his shirt to him, but it was too late.

He dropped the ball, desperately trying to adjust his torn shirt as I advanced. From the corner of my eye, I spotted Miguel approaching too. “Your back… Who did that to you?” I demanded.

“How’d you get that?” Miguel’s question wasn’t accusatory like mine.

Elliott backed away, hyperventilating and mumbling one of his prayers. His gaze bounced from us to the woods leading to his house.

“Wait!” Miguel called out, but Elliott had already sprinted away from us. I chased after him.

The patio doors were wide open when I broke through the trees into Elliott’s backyard, but he was nowhere in sight. I turned at the sound of Miguel’s footfalls, waiting for him to appear.

“Should we go inside?” he asked, panting.

“Fuck yeah.” I took off again. We bounded up the stone staircase, bursting through the open glass doors like we fucking owned the place. The house was quiet and cold, everything sterile and white, no family portraits hanging anywhere.

If it was anything like our house, the bedrooms were all upstairs, so we went in search of the staircase.

Miguel hurried to keep up with my long strides as we checked room after room looking for Elliott. We found him in the bedroom at the end of the hall. It matched the rest of the house, seeming so unlike him.

He stepped out of the closet as he pulled a new T-shirt over his head. He froze when he saw us.

“Hey,” Miguel said.

“Get out.” His bottom lip quivered.

“We just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” Miguel said.

“I’m fine,” he bit out, clearly not.

“How’d you get that scar on your back?” I tried not to sound angry because I wasn’t angry with him.

I was probably overreacting anyway. Maybe he’d been in a car crash or some other kind of accident.

Maybe no one had intentionally hurt him.

Then I remembered the look on his face when he realized we’d seen the scar, and I knew that wasn’t true.

Someone had hurt him, and it looked like they’d tried to carve out his spinal cord.

“I don’t know.”

“Did Amelia—”

“No.” He shut me down right away.

“Then who?” Miguel asked.

“I don’t remember!” Elliott grabbed the sides of his head like it hurt.

“Hey,” Miguel said softly, taking a step toward him. Elliott took two steps away. “What did your parents say about it? How did they say you got it?”

“I-I fell down the porch steps and landed on a rake.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Miguel said.

“That’s what happened.”

“I thought you didn’t remember?” I added.

“That’s what I was told!” Elliott dropped his hands, his eyes wild and watery.

“You’re okay at football, but you’re a terrible liar, pretty girl,” I whispered jokingly.

Elliott huffed, then frowned at me, his hands going to his hips.

“What?” I asked innocently.

“I think I’m more than just okay, and you know it.” He released a breath, scanning the ceiling and walls as though the answers were written there, as if it weren’t the first time he’d tried to find them.

“I… I don’t know, okay? I don’t want to talk about before .”

“Before what?” I wanted to charge at him, to tackle him and hold him tight. Miguel’s hand on my forearm kept me in place.

“Before…” His forehead creased as he thought about his answer, as he tried to think of a specific point in time.

Maybe a point when things went from bad to good.

It killed me that he couldn’t think of one, that all his “ befores ” might have been bad.

“Before meeting you,” he said hopelessly. “Both of you.”

I took the six strides to get to him but stopped myself before throwing my arms around him and squeezing. Miguel liked my roughness, but Elliott was different. If I wanted to be his friend, I’d need to learn how to care for him in the way he needed.

He liked it when I brushed and braided his hair, and when I called him “pretty girl.” He’d had enough roughness in his life, if that scar was anything to go by.

And he’d had enough of not being able to be himself.

That was obvious to see by looking around the bedroom that didn’t match his personality, and from seeing the way he lit up after slipping into one of the dresses he liked—even if he felt the need to pray beforehand.

No amount of praying would change who he was, though, especially when he didn’t need changing.

I thought about the first time I’d seen him relaxed, the first time he didn’t look nervous and afraid. It was the day he’d napped in our bed. The day Miguel and I lay on either side of him, napping too. He’d slept like he knew he was safe there with us.

Kicking my shoes off, I climbed onto his bed before reaching out for him. Miguel watched us patiently from several feet away. Patience had always been his superpower, and I decided it would be mine too. At least for today.