Page 71 of Saving Sparrow (Slow Burns & Tragic Beginnings #2)

Now

We had spent the next six nights sleeping together on Sparrow’s makeshift bed, using the cold as an excuse to decrease any amount of space between us. A soft grazing of our knees or a featherlight touch of our toes became a firm pressing together of limbs and fingers that intertwined.

Each night had started the same. We’d prepare and eat dinner at the kitchen island, then separate at the stairs, whispering good night to each other.

I’d shower, then lie in bed staring at the ceiling until insomnia grew bored with me.

I’d wake up in the middle of the night to the armchair by my bed, and a book lying open on the nightstand.

I’d then creep down the hall, ignoring the locked bedrooms I passed—hoping Sparrow wasn’t inside any of them. I’d reach the archway of the workout room, and he’d already be sitting up, waiting, the moon bathing him in its glow.

He’d draw the blankets back on my spot, allowing me to settle in before burying us up to the chest. Sparrow would then take the liberty of placing my hand on his cheek, holding it there while gently stroking his thumb over the fluttering vein at my wrist.

I’d fall asleep to him reciting chapters from Tales of the Pavilion Sea . He knew every beautiful word by heart.

We stopped pretending last night. After devouring a delicious meal of Sancocho, Sparrow had taken my hand and whispered, “Let’s go to bed.”

He wouldn’t even let me go upstairs for my things, instead lending me something of his to sleep in. We took turns showering in the bathroom he used, and afterward, he read to me while I braided his damp hair.

During the day, we read together, did chores together, and decorated for our upcoming Christmas celebration.

Sparrow’s parents didn’t celebrate holidays, so there weren’t many decorations in the shed.

What we did find had been there long before he and Elliott arrived here, so much of it no longer worked.

String lights, the talking wreath, the tree train set, and even the Merry Christmas banner had shriveled up and faded.

Sparrow created a banner by hand, using a sheet of paper for each big balloon letter he drew. We taped them over the mantel, covering the crucifix stain.

The trees on the property were all bare from the winter or dead, so I made a shabby wreath using twigs and pine from one of the trees out in the woods. Sparrow followed me there with his shotgun drawn, protecting our backs.

“Who, or what, would be crazy enough to be prancing around in this weather—besides us?” I’d asked.

“I’m not taking any chances with you,” he’d replied, keeping his gun and gaze trained on our surroundings.

Sparrow was my protector now, too. I hadn’t had one of those in a while, had almost forgotten what it felt like to have someone shield me in that way, to know nothing would get to me without going through him first. His words made me feel less alone; they made it okay for me to be weak, for me to allow someone else to be strong for me.

A little more shame and guilt trickled into my heart because of it, but not enough to keep the smile off my face.

We used ribbon, paperclips, and a few safety pins as ornament hangers. We hooked them to buttons, baby pine cones, and origami birds before hanging them from our lopsided tree—nearly toppling it in the process.

Every now and then, Sparrow would catch me lost in my thoughts, sometimes while staring at him.

Each time I assured him I was okay—and for the most part, I was.

Existing with him in this new way kept me distracted.

It made me forget about the stakes, about my reason for being here, and about all the reasons I didn’t want to leave.

“For the most part” didn’t mean all the time, though. Sometimes, I’d go back to the night I met The Good One. That’s what I’d called the mother in the bedroom upstairs because I didn’t know her real name. She was the mother Sparrow and Elliott should’ve had.

“Don’t touch my baby! Stay away from my baby! I’ll kill ya! I’ll cut ya to pieces!”

I couldn’t shake those words from my mind.

I’d never seen or heard such raw, unadulterated fear.

The words were screamed from the top of her lungs, ripped from the depths of her…

And I knew she meant them. If that gun had been loaded, she would’ve emptied it into me, and if I’d taken one step toward her and her baby, she would’ve torn me to pieces with her bare hands.

Something else niggled at me in between thoughts of her and living in denial with Sparrow. Something Joshua said to me.

“Can you tell me where your parents are?” I’d asked him. “Maybe I can call them, so you don’t have to be here alone.”

“They’re in the basement,” he’d whispered. “I don’t like it down there.”

Sparrow approaching snapped me from my thoughts and recollections of the last six nights. He rarely made a sound when he walked, but his aura shifted the molecules in the air, sometimes making it impossible to breathe.

I shoved his poorly wrapped gift under the tree before spinning around, using my body to block the center of the coffee table.

His steps slowed as he entered the living room with his hands behind his back, eyeing me curiously. “What are you up to?”

“Oh, nothing.” I shrugged. “Just, you know, checking on the decorations.”

“Is that all you were doing?” He closed in on me, trying to peek over my shoulder. “Is that another gift?” He sounded so cheerful and cute; his bright, toothy smile never ceased to make my heart flutter.

“It is, and you’ll promise me right now you won’t try to open this one.” I’d caught him red-handed yesterday, trying to pull the cheap tape back on his other gift.

“Busted!” I’d shouted at his back. He’d whirled around, sucking in a startled breath and dropping the gift.

He immediately scowled, but then turned repentant when I told him how important it was that we be surprised.

This time, I triple-taped the notebook paper we were using as wrapping paper to the small box.

“You only have to wait two more days, Sparrow,” I reminded him with a chuckle when he gave me a petulant look.

“I suppose I can wait two more very long whole days.”

We stood there facing each other as if we were both waiting for the other one to leave. I crossed my arms over my chest, rocking back on my heels, preparing to wait him out.

“I said I would wait,” he sniped, grouchy as ever.

“Is that cute, grumpy frown supposed to scare me?”

He sighed. “I need some privacy. I have something to put under the tree.”

“Oh.” I dropped my arms, trying to see what he held behind him. “What is it?”

Sparrow stepped back. “In two days, remember? Your rules, not mine,” he said when I glared at him.

“Right,” I murmured, having to eat my own words and not enjoying the taste of them.

I perked up when a mischievous idea came to me.

“I’ll, um, get started on lunch and leave you to it.

” I ignored his doubtful stare, kicking myself for sounding way too chipper as I slipped into the foyer.

I took a couple of loud steps toward the kitchen, then quietly doubled back to the living room.

“I know you’re still there,” Sparrow called out just as I’d pressed my body against the entryway wall. I smiled, hurrying away.

I was stacking the dishes in the sink after lunch, preparing to wash them, when Sparrow sidled up next to me. “I know, I know,” I said before he could speak. “Cups first, plates last.”

“I was actually going to suggest we get some reading done and clean up later.”

“Say what?” The glass cup slipped from my hands and into the sink, but thankfully, it didn’t break. I felt his forehead and cheeks to be sure he wasn’t suffering from a fever.

“Very funny,” he drawled, pulling my hand away. He opened his mouth to say something else, but then looked at the sink full of dishes. “Then again, maybe—”

“Let’s go.” I dragged him by the hand from the kitchen, through the halls, and into the reading room.

Sparrow got a fire going while I browsed the bookcases for something new to read. I went with The Galaxies Are Upon Us, skipping the cold couch and settling onto the floor in front of the fire.

Sparrow predictably grabbed Tales of the Pavilion Sea , but instead of sitting on the couch, or one of the swivel chairs, or even beside me… He sat behind me, tentatively pressing his back to mine.

My body went tight, shock causing me to drop the book in my lap.

“Is this alright?” Sparrow asked, his voice a dangerous whisper.

I stared into the fire, replaying all the times Elliott and I had sat like this while reading. Grief, overwhelming grief, slammed into my heart and soul, and I brought my hand to my mouth.

“Miguel,” Sparrow breathed, “are you okay?” The pressure on my back eased.

“Um, yeah,” I rasped, my hand moving to my throat as I swallowed down the lump there. “I’m fine. Stay… please.”

Sparrow leaned back again, but he couldn’t relax; neither of us could. I was a creature of touch, of love and affection. I needed it to survive, and having Sparrow give me this… this gift reminded me of that. I miss this . I miss so much more .

Pain and longing and need clawed at me, and a small seed of hope began to inflate my chest, taking up more room than my denial. Maybe I can let myself have this. Maybe I can have what I lost again. Maybe it isn’t lost at all.

I exhaled, my body loosening up, allowing Sparrow to relax too. I watched the flames flicker for a while, listening to him turn the pages of his book, mumbling certain passages out loud. He had a habit of doing that sometimes. I found it endearing.

Eventually, I brought a trembling hand back to my lips, tracing the small smile there before diving back into The Galaxies Are Upon Us .

We spent hours reading and keeping warm by the fire. Then Sparrow surprised me for the second time that day. He made us sandwiches for dinner with the leftover chicken and baked bread from last night—and then suggested we eat them in the reading room.