Page 54 of Saving Sparrow (Slow Burns & Tragic Beginnings #2)

“The ballerina’s supposed to spin, and music is supposed to play,” Miguel said hoarsely. “She loved it the most. It doesn’t work, but I’ll never get rid of it.”

Miguel was sensitive and sentimental—two things I loved most about him. “Why wouldn’t you want Quentin to see this?”

Miguel glanced over his shoulder at the doorway again.

“We’ve got at least ten more minutes,” I assured him. “You know he has to eat the first three sandwiches before getting serious and making some for us.”

Quentin’s daily calorie intake was insane, especially after football or sex.

Miguel took the box from me before lowering to his butt and crossing his legs. I did the same, then shifted to face him. Lifting the velvet padding inside, he pulled a folded sheet of paper free.

“What’s this?” I asked, accepting it once he’d unfolded it.

“I… can’t ,” he stressed.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I’ll read it.” My own eyes flooded with tears as I realized what it was.

“She killed herself.” My whispered words trembled. Miguel closed his eyes, turning his head away from me. “It’s not your fault,” I said, understanding exactly where his thoughts were.

“She wasn’t happy, but I was,” he’d said to me once.

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I tell myself that sometimes,” he said, voice clogged with tears. “But it never sticks. Sometimes I wonder if admitting what happened to her, if saying it out loud would help, or if it would just hurt more to hear it. It’s hard, you know?”

I nodded, but I didn’t know. I had no idea what it was like to love my mother or to wish she hadn’t died. I knew what it meant to love Miguel, though. I knew how lucky his mother was to have him for a son. He was good and selfless, even if he sometimes believed the opposite.

“What made you think about this today?” I handed him the letter back.

“I don’t know. I guess I was lying in bed thinking about not wanting to lose Quentin, and it made me think about how I’d lost her.” He put the letter back before stuffing the box into the drawer again.

“You’d never lose him.” Another layer of guilt wrapped around me.

They could never know how I felt. It would throw our whole dynamic into utter chaos.

Even worse, it would end our friendship.

They’d feel betrayed. They wouldn’t trust me.

And Quentin was too territorial to ever let Miguel remain my friend after knowing I had feelings for him.

It wouldn’t matter that I had feelings for him, too.

No, I could never be the thing that came between them, between us…

I could never be the cause of Miguel ever feeling like this.

“You don’t get it, Ellie.”

“What don’t I get?” Miguel had explained to me how Quentin’s mind worked and the roles they played for each other. Quentin saw himself as the hero. The person who saved and protected us. He thrived on it. One of the things he thought he needed to protect Miguel from was his father.

“He doesn’t know, does he?” I glanced at the drawer, then back at Miguel.

“He doesn’t want to know,” Miguel clarified.

“Yeah, I can see that.” Having confirmation that his father didn’t kill Gabriela wouldn’t be enough to make him not hate Dylan.

Dylan deserved his hate. He hadn’t been kind to Quentin’s mother, and he’d likely pushed Gabriela to do what she did.

But I was sure believing his father could do the worst thing anyone could ever do helped Quentin sleep at night.

“Anyway, it’s not a big deal. I just… guess I’m extra emotional today. Quentin doesn’t call me a crybaby for no reason.”

“You know he’s only joking when he says that, right?”

“He means it,” Miguel said with a soft smile. “But I know he likes it.”

Quentin wasn’t cruel. He never sought to make Miguel feel bad, so if he teased him about something, it was done with love. It was one of the things I loved about Quentin. He only ever wanted us to be happy. To feel safe. He’d sacrifice anything to make that happen.

“Oh.” Miguel shot to his feet. “I found something.” He rushed to the back of the closet, no longer in my sight. He returned holding a hand mirror, emeralds embedded in the handle. “Here. It matches the hair clip I gave you for your birthday last year.”

“Thank you.” Everything from my neck up warmed. I stared into it, seeing the evidence of my attraction to him in my eyes. I laid the mirror face down on the floor in front of me, breathing through my panic.

“Ellie? You okay?”

“Yeah.” I gave a weird chuckle. “I just hate it when I blush.”

“I love it; it makes you look adorable.”

I closed my eyes, positive they were shooting hearts at him now. “Thanks,” I said again, like an idiot. “That was the best birthday I ever had.” The only one I’d ever had or ever had acknowledged.

“We’ll have to top it this year. We’ll have our own place by then.”

Quentin’s summer practice at Wembly would start in July. We planned on leaving Porthmore right after graduation in May.

“This will be the first year I celebrate both your and Quentin’s birthdays.” We’d met after they’d turned eighteen. “I’ll have to start thinking of what to get you now.”

“Nah, we don’t need anything. We’ve got us.”

Us .

I was the one who wanted to cry now, and not because he’d made me feel included, not because he reminded me that I meant something to him and Quentin.

But because he didn’t belong to me, and neither did Quentin.

Not in the way they belonged to each other.

They had something separate, the equivalent of a secret handshake I wasn’t in on.

I didn’t get to scream their names in ecstasy, didn’t get to hear them moan mine with passion.

I didn’t get to tell Quentin his pretty girl wanted more or hear Miguel whisper “ Ellie” right before he came.

I wanted to shout “no” when I really meant “yes.” I wanted to see the fire light their eyes as they orgasmed for me.

Orgasmed inside me. I’d never have any of that, though, and I had to learn to live with it.

“Earth to Elliott,” Miguel said playfully.

“Huh, w-what?” I stammered, snapping out of my fantasy. He’d slipped his glasses back on, looking more like himself again.

“I said, what are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.” I rubbed my hands up and down my thighs, trying to dump my nervous energy.

One of the chandelier bulbs went out, pulling Miguel’s attention upward, exposing his neck.

Without thinking, I traced a finger over the smaller hickey there before moving on to the bigger one next to it. Miguel’s mouth parted in a silent O.

“Sorry.” I yanked my hand away, but he caught it, opening my fist and sliding my palm over his neck. My mouth parted too. I wondered if he could feel my heart thundering through my fingertips, the way I could feel the vein at his neck hammering against my touch.

“How did it feel?” I whispered, because just like sex, I already knew how it looked when Quentin marked his body, already knew how Miguel sounded when it happened.

Last night, Quentin had reminded me of the young, untrained vampire from the movie Red Kiss , prepared to suck Miguel dry.

They’d moved to the bed, Miguel on his back, fisting the sheets as he jerked from Quentin’s powerful thrusts.

His head had been turned my way. If his eyes were open, he would’ve seen me watching from the doorway.

“Too good to explain,” Miguel whispered back, his hard swallow vibrating under my palm.

Movement caught my attention, and I turned to find Quentin standing in the closet doorway scowling down at us.

My blood ran cold, wondering how long he’d been there, wondering what he saw when he looked into my eyes.

I was tempted to pick up the mirror and see for myself, but I was too afraid to be right.

Too afraid to see my feelings written all over my face. I sat up straight, forcing a smile.

Miguel turned at my odd behavior, doing a double-take at seeing Quentin. “H-hey,” he breathed.

Quentin didn’t hear him, it seemed, because he only had eyes for the hand I now fisted in my lap. The hand I’d had on Miguel’s warm skin. A muscle in his cheek twitched as he gritted out, “Lunch is ready.”