Page 53 of Saving Sparrow (Slow Burns & Tragic Beginnings #2)

Then

Quentin and I ran into the house, sweaty from the two-man flag football game we’d just played in the backyard.

“I let you win,” he panted, tossing me a bottle of water from the fridge.

“You did not,” I scoffed, knowing he absolutely did. I hadn’t made it easy for him, though.

I used the hem of my T-shirt to dry my face, letting it drop back into place when Quentin gave me a weird look. “What?” I asked, feeling self-conscious.

“Nothing.” He shook his head like he was trying to clear it. He’d been looking at my stomach, and now I wondered if the four-pack I’d developed wasn’t so cool after all.

“Maybe I can lift weights with you later,” I said, hoping to work my way up to a six-pack eventually, like his.

“Yeah, maybe.” He didn’t sound excited about the idea. “Why didn’t you come back last night?”

“Why didn’t you hunt me down like you promised?”

Quentin dropped his gaze to his bottle of water. “We were busy. Lost track of time. I was on my way to get you this morning.”

But I was already here, beating him to it. “Busy having sex?” I asked. “Too busy having sex to remember me?”

“No,” he said abruptly, his eyes meeting mine. “It wasn’t like that.”

“I know,” I whispered, because I hated the guilty look on his face. Hated that I’d put it there.

The truth was, I did come back last night, but he and Miguel were too “busy” to notice. I’d slept in the room across the hall, waking up first, pretending I’d just walked in when Quentin came barreling into the hall.

He set his water on the island, coming up behind me to fix my braid.

It had come partially loose when he broke the rules and tackled me.

My heartbeat quickened the moment he forced me to the grass, and it had nothing to do with the rush from the game.

Something had changed inside of me, and even now it was hard to have him this close to me.

Not because I hated it, but because I loved it in a way I shouldn’t, different from how I’d loved his nearness before.

“What did you do last night?” he asked, his breath warm against my neck.

Should I have told him the truth? Should I have admitted to tearing through the woods so I could touch myself without them knowing? We were friends, and there was a time when I would have told him that—I think—if I’d started doing it before my feelings changed.

“Studied mostly.” I’d done my best to seem casual while we spoke about sex. Again, we were friends, and who better to ask about the things that were on my mind constantly? It wasn’t like I had anyone else I could’ve gone to.

In the beginning, watching them had been about validation, a reminder that I was good whenever the voice in my head said otherwise.

It had been about getting comfortable with the thing that had only ever caused me shame.

It hadn’t been about wanting it for myself or wanting them in that way.

At least not before. And whenever I did get hard, I’d just concentrate on making it go away.

But the more comfortable, validated, and unashamed I became in my heart and mind, the more other parts of me started to want things, and the harder it became to wish those wants away.

I still remembered the moment something changed in me.

The night we went to Darren’s party after the game.

It wasn’t unusual to see Miguel dance. There wasn’t a song he wouldn’t sway to, no beat he wouldn’t pump his hips to.

He’d done it that night to make Quentin jealous, I knew that, but the way he’d moved affected me in a way it hadn’t before.

Instead of seeing him dancing, I imagined him moving on top of Quentin.

I pictured the way he moaned, the way he cried for Quentin to stop while spreading his legs wider.

For the first time, I wanted to know what that felt like.

I wanted to know what they would feel like inside of me.

It was all I could think about after that.

Inside of me…

Inside of me…

Inside of me…

I’d felt a different kind of shame that night. The shame that came with betraying a friendship, with wanting something that wasn’t mine, something that belonged to someone I loved.

To prove to myself I could move past it, that I could put whatever feelings I’d felt at that party behind me, I took a shower with them. The worst idea I’d ever come up with.

For the first time, watching them made me feel like I was too big for my skin. For the first time, I wanted what they had. For the first time… I wanted them. I had no control over my orgasm that night. It barreled down on me all on its own.

I should’ve stopped showering with them after that, but I didn’t.

Should’ve stopped sleeping in between them, should’ve stopped hugging them, letting them be affectionate toward me.

I couldn’t, though. They were all I had, they were everything I’d never had, and they were everything I needed to survive.

I needed it all because I couldn’t go on if I had to stop loving them.

Besides, they would have noticed if I’d started distancing myself.

They needed me just as much as I needed them.

They missed me whenever I left a room, and they were sad whenever I needed even a few minutes alone.

We were addicted to our bond. We were needy, clingy, conjoined, and preferred zero space between us when we were together.

Just like Quentin and I had zero space between us right now.

I realized that to keep my changing feelings under the radar, I had to stay exactly the same.

One skipped kiss goodnight would’ve been suspicious.

One less “I don’t want to leave you” before separating for our last period class would’ve made things obvious.

Deciding not to be their audience of one as they tore each other apart night after night would’ve given me away immediately.

It would’ve been accepted because they never made me do anything I didn’t want to, but they would’ve known.

My one rule was never to let them know how they affected me.

I kept that for myself. Quick trips through the woods, bathroom breaks after watching them maul each other during movie nights, pretending to study or sleep when their making out led to more…

I made them believe I’d gotten so used to them having sex that it had lost some of the shock and excitement.

It hadn’t, though, and getting away with this for so long wasn’t easy.

But last night… Last night I—

“All done,” Quentin said, cutting into my spiraling thoughts.

I ran a hand down the long braid as he moved to the other side of the island. He downed the rest of his water while I took the opportunity to stare at the scratch marks along his ribcage. They peeked through the wide arm holes on his muscle-tee.

My head filled with flashes of him shoving into Miguel, of them sliding across the floor from the force, and of Miguel digging into Quentin’s skin like he needed something to hold on to.

Quentin slammed the empty bottle on top of the island, startling me. “You okay?” he asked, frowning.

“Um, yeah. Just hungry.”

“You wanna make the sandwiches while I check on Miguel?”

Miguel had been too tired to come outside with us. He’d groaned, rolled over, and yanked the covers over his head when I’d asked him to.

“I’ll go. Your sandwiches are better than mine.” Quentin couldn’t disagree with that, although the way he glanced toward the staircase said he wanted to. “I’ll let you know if he’s not okay.”

He nodded, turning toward the fridge. “Miss you already, pretty girl,” he called as I left the kitchen.

The bed was rumpled but empty. Steam filled the bathroom when I poked my head in, but Miguel wasn’t in there either. Light shone from beneath the closet door, so I headed across the room.

“Hey,” I said softly, opening the door. Miguel sucked in a breath, craning his head around from his kneeling position. His eyes were red, his cheeks wet.

He blew out a relieved breath. “I thought you were Quentin.” He turned back to the bottom drawer he knelt in front of, hiding something under the stack of clothes there.

“Would that have been so bad?” I lowered to my knees beside him. “If I were Quentin?”

“It would’ve been terrible.” His tone said he meant every word.

“Why? And why are you crying? Are you hurt?” After last night, I wasn’t sure how he’d made it out of bed.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” I slid a palm over his cheek. Miguel’s mouth parted, his wide eyes flickering over my face.

“What’s wrong?” I wasn’t asking about his tears this time. I pulled my hand away quickly, terrified I’d given something away with that touch. Touching him wasn’t unusual, but my feelings had drastically intensified since yesterday. I was paranoid he somehow knew that.

“That… felt good,” he said, forehead creasing.

“Doesn’t it always feel good?” Their touch always felt amazing to me.

“Yeah, but…” He exhaled again. “Never mind.”

I wanted to push, but didn’t. Finding out why he’d been crying, and why he didn’t want Quentin finding him in here, seemed more important.

“What are you hiding?” My question made me feel guilty because I was hiding so much, and not just my ever-changing feelings for them.

“I can’t tell you.” He sounded pained, but it didn’t seem physical.

“Sure you can. You can tell me anything.”

“You don’t understand.” He sniffled, hands gripping the drawer handles.

“Then help me. Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”

He glanced at the closet doorway.

“Quentin’s making sandwiches; it’s just you and me.”

“I-I can’t say it.”

“Then show me,” I said, looking at the drawer he seemed ready to close.

Miguel ran his bottom lip through his teeth, then jutted his chin forward, silently giving me permission to have a look.

Reaching for the side of the drawer I’d seen him burrowing under, I folded back the stack of shirts there. “Is that…” I withdrew the ornate silver box, opening the lid. “It’s a jewelry box.” I brushed a finger over the ballerina inside. “It’s your mother’s,” I whispered.