Page 35 of Sparrow

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

No man has ever talked to me like that before, and my laughter immediately dies, leaving behind an ache I don’t understand.

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

And I don’t try to find one as I walk slowly after him and into the bookstore.

An hour later we walk back toward the garage, my arms laden with bags of books, clothes, and cookies.

And I feel like I’m carrying bags full of happiness rather than goods that would have been even more available in New York.

I’ve met so many people I can’t remember all of them, and spent a stupid amount of Mars’ money. I mean to pay him back as soon as I get money from my dad, of course, though he’s said time and again that I don’t have to.

And it’s not like this is the first time anyone has bought me things.

But it is the first time they haven’t made me feel guilty about it. It’s the first time it’s felt like a gift, and something he’s giving freely, without any expectation of being repaid.

It’s the first time it’s felt like someone wanted to give me things.

It’s left me caught between flying and walking, heart singing and skipping in my chest while my brain tells me I can’t trust this and that I shouldn’t get used to it. That I need to be looking for the trap here rather than just taking Mars at his word.

That this can’t possibly be true.

My heart’s song is so loud, though, so joyous, that the voice in my brain is having trouble breaking through, and I’m not helping it. Because I like being this happy.

I like this floating, skipping, dancing feeling of being in Hawke’s Wood and feeling like I might actually belong here.

Though the shadow of New York is still hanging over me, along with the hulking presence of my father.

“My father would lose his shit if he saw you spending this much money on me,” I note, speaking before I can think better of it.

Mars grunts, and for a moment I don’t think he’s going to answer. Then he does.

“Your father loses his shit over a lot of things that are none of his business.”

Wait, what?

“He doesn’t like you much either,” I say. “Always told me you couldn’t be trusted. That your family isn’t safe.”

This time he actually chuckles. “He’s not wrong.”

This surprises me. I expected him to try to defend himself. Tell me why my father was wrong about that, too. At least try to speak up for his family.

Instead, he says, “My family is loyal. We fight for what’s right, and for each other. Some people find that dangerous, I guess. Especially if they’re not the ones we’re fighting for.”

That’s... incredibly insightful.

It’s also not the statement of a sunny, carefree man who doesn’t take life too seriously–which is who I thought he was when I was younger.

It’s the statement of a man who has secrets and danger running through his veins, but keeps them all hidden because he’s too busy taking care of other people to let his own vulnerabilities see the light of day.

Arden

I’ve been around a lot of men and organizations in my life. I’ve seen a lot of deals go down and a lot of deals go wrong, and the men who’ve rushed out of my father’s office when something hasn’t gone the way they wanted–or when their lives are in danger.

And I’ve always thought that every genre of thing has a specific energy to it. Kids come with sunshine and rainbows, as long as they’re being good, while meetings of ladies over tea can feel intense, but also shallow. Nothing of importance happens over tea. The men who meet with my father feel like angry dogs, the men who do his dirty work feel like lumbering, dangerous bears.

I’ve never spent much time in a garage before, but I’m starting to recognize the energy of the place, and the moment we walk back in, I realize that the energy here is off.