Page 53 of Sparrow

I need to make sure both men are out here and accounted for.

After all, if I’m going to start exploring, I don’t want to get caught.

Mars is on the other side of the shop with Dutch, though, staring at a paper and gesticulating like he’s upset about something. I stifle a smile at that; if I know Mars, this means that something hasn’t gone according to the plan he set out, and he’s now dealing with the fallout.

The man hates when things don’t follow the rules he sets for them.

I shift my eyes around the space, looking for my other roommate, and find him bend over a scruffy bike in the corner. The body of the bike is pure, soulless black, but the pipes running up the side are a bright copper. The tires are white walls, which gives the whole thing a classic, vintage feel, and I can see from here the bike looks like it’s been through a war. Every inch is scratched or dented, and I wonder at that.

That man literally works in a body shop. He could fix the bike up in a single day. Pull out the dents, polish out the scratches, and give it a new paint job. Shine those pipes until they glowed and make the bike the envy of every other biker here. I’ve seen what the other men ride, those squat, hulking machines, and they’re nothing like Orion’s classic piece. His looks like it belongs in old Hollywood, under a man with well-gelled hair and a cigarette in his mouth. It could be beautiful.

And instead he leaves it marked up like he’s never bothered.

Then again...

Then again, I amend, I expect that bike is an extension of him, a shouted oath to the world that it might be scruffy and scratched, but it’s more nimble and powerful than anything else in the shop.

And I bet that’s a statement about Orion as much as the bike.

My entire body relaxes at the thought and I smile softly.

Orion wants someone to notice him and care for him regardless of his external faults. But try as I might, I can’t seem to break through those walls he’s put up.

Of course, that doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying.

I throw one more look at Mars to make sure he hasn’t seen me, and that he’s still busy, and then I shut the door, turn, and hustle back into the house.

Time for some snooping.

I walk quickly out of the hallway and through the living room. This is a common area, so it doesn’t really count for anything. Mars has his office on the other side of the kitchen, and that’s where I’m heading. When I arrive, though, I see that it’s the same as the common areas.

Neat.

Faceless.

Precise.

His boots are lined up, his coffee canister is in the same place every morning, and bills are stacked neatly on his desk. All the pens in the holder are the same color. The floors are polished to within an inch of their life.

Even his trash cans are empty.

I frown. I’d expected to find at least some personal information back here but it barely looks like anyone lives in these rooms. They could be right out of a catalogue, but I think a catalogue would at least put a stuffed animal on the couch to make the space look more human.

Mars doesn’t give his rooms any personality at all. And it’s not because he doesn’t have a personality. After all, this is the man who loves cinnamon rolls so much he has standing appointments at the bakery, and bought me an armload of books when I said I wanted one.

No, the lack of clutter is something else.

Then it occurs to me that Mars is the man everyone comes to when they need something. He’s constantly solving other peoples’ problems, and he’s always ready to go to someone at a moment’s notice.

Perhaps the lack of decor isn’t about lack of personality.

It’s about needing to move quickly when someone needs him.

The thought breaks my heart more than a little bit, because no one’s life should depend on how quickly they can get out of the house to save someone else.

I leave his office with my brain full of thoughts and heartbreak and make my way toward Orion’s hallway.

And here I find the complete opposite.