Page 11 of I Love You in French

And suddenly, I very much want to know the meaning behind every expression that crosses her face.

∞∞∞

When I walked into this charming French café in search of coffee and croissants this morning, my plan was not to sit at a barstool, trying my best to not appear like I’m loitering. Now I’m writing in the notebook I carry around in my pocket, trying to pretend like I’m working, but really, I’m listening for the cheerful song of her voice, which I’ve already memorized. I’m usually one who avoids people. And it’s not because I think more of myself than I need to, but in my line of work—and because of my family—being chased by women (and all people, really) comes with the territory. I knew this the minute I stepped in front of a microphone. Actually, I knew this the minute my father began caring about his image too much.

My family doesn’t approve of me or what I do, and it’s been a point of contention for most of my life. They think I’ll never be a good enough lyricist and musician to justify leaving the family business and legacy. They think my passion is a waste of time. But I want to make a name for myself on my own. After countless conversations where my parents sat me down for an intervention, and after years of being sent away through boarding school, university, and my own need for distance, I recognized that their dreams for me feel suffocating.

Lyrics and music have taken up space in my mind, rent free, since I was a boy. They are how I’ve processed everything in my life. They are how I know I’m alive. Fighting to find the right words to match the right notes so that I could convey what I was feeling became my obsession. As soon as I could write, I found scraps of paper and wrote out thoughts that could become songs. And as soon as I could read music, I added notes above the words like my own secret code. But it was only when I discovered that I found just as much joy in writing songs for other singers as I did in performing them on my own that I knew I was onto something.

I’ve been working to break into the industry for years, and a few years ago, I released my music with my—then—girlfriend. Not wanting to be in the spotlight at the time, I wrote the music and lyrics, and she sang the tracks. I trusted her with everything. I wish I had realized back then that she was more interested in the music than I was. And when fame started knocking on her door, she decided to take a different path, along with all the songs I had written. While I had thought we were sharing royalties and that the songs belonged to me, it turned out she made a deal to keep the rights—and the royalties.

Could I have sued her? Probably, yes. Did I have it in me to take her to court to fight for songs that were all about her anyway? No, I didn’t. I had already given her full access to my life. Plus, my parents’ warning that there would be consequences if our name got dragged through court for music and not fashion hadn’t been lost on me.

It took months before creating didn’t feel like shards of glass poking through my heart. Writing lyrics has been sporadic since. The words just aren’t there. So, to keep myself distracted from the struggle of creating new music, I’ve worn myself out trying to find any other avenues open to a working musician.

There’s too much at stake for me to do otherwise. Proving myself isn’t even about pride; it’s about making something of my life that matters. Something that makes people feel seen and not small. After the breakup, when it didn’t hurt as much, I went back to see the comments on some of the music I’d written. Discovering that I could write words that others likened to a life preserver made me want to do that for others, even if I couldn’t do it for myself.

I feel the need to be great—maybe because my parents don’t think I can be. I’m not accepted by them, and somehow, that’s bled into me not accepting myself. Not really. Oh, I know how to appear confident, and since music makes me happy, I can give a performance based on the memories of my past creativity. But a part of me always keeps a distance now. I wait for people to change me. To take the credit from me. To tell me what’s wrong with me and what I’m missing. What I could do to be better. And why do these thoughts sound like what the people closest to me have always said?

I shift on the stool, distracted from my thoughts by the woman who’s now piping filling into macarons. She’s brought out a tray so customers can see them being freshly assembled. She sells them even as she stacks them neatly into a macaron tray. The contented smile that plays on her face as she concentrates on the tiny shells has me reeling. I haven’t felt this way since the last song I wrote.

I’ve been feeling like if another personal piece of my life leaks out—which is the essence of art after all—I won’t be able to recover. My dreams are calling me to move forward, but I’m shutting down. I’m choking on all the things I haven’t been able to say. And I don’t know how to fix it.

That’s why I’m in Birch Borough—for a change of scenery and something to make me feel like I haven’t lost sight of myself after the last few years.

The New England way of life will take some adjustment after living in the City of Angels. To say it’s been a culture shock is an understatement. Two days ago, I was looking at the ocean in Hermosa Beach on the pier (yes, the same one featured in La La Land, come to think of it). It was a clear day, and one of my favorite views in the world was before me: the ocean with the mountains in view. But I was burnt out creatively. I wasn’t writing. And even the ocean couldn’t ease the nagging feeling in my chest. When my friend called and said I should stay with him in his new place for a while, I jumped at the chance. It’s even better that he got me a gig already—one that should cover the plane ticket.

I’m not a starving artist. I do quite well for myself, considering my family has basically disowned me, but I like to keep in the green each month. And unexpected trips across the country aren’t normally in the budget these days.

Following my train in from Boston, I dropped off my luggage at my friend’s house and crashed—hard. This morning, I went in search of decent coffee. I was jet lagged (still am), hungry, smelled butter, coffee, and the comfort that those things are for me, and here I am. It may be a small town, but I never thought I’d see this woman again. Does she live here? What’s her story? And why do I even care?

Given the blush on her cheeks when we met, I can’t be the only one feeling something between us. I swear I even heard her friend, Lily, say something about me to the effect of, “If he were French, you’d leave everything, and I’d never see you again.” And there’s the problem. If I had a dating rule, it would be: Don’t let love leave you empty. All the external stuff? It means nothing when you’re alone at night and find yourself wondering if the people who say they love you actually believe it themselves.

I may have lingered out of fascination for this woman, but Sparrow moved to the back a few minutes ago and hasn’t returned. I hope she’s not hiding, especially from me. I recognize that she’s probably trying to search for the answer to questions like: What to do if a guy has a sticker that’s not his name on his guitar case.

Do I even want her to know who I really am? Because if I can’t share all of myself with her, then what am I even doing here? My parents’ nagging voices telling me their name is the only thing I possess worth anything freezes me inside. Could my stay in Birch Borough be a fresh chance for people to see just ...me?

The sound of my phone buzzing on the counter startles me back into the present. I see who’s calling and ignore it. When it starts ringing again, I take the chance of leaving my stuff at the counter and head outside. Better to get this over with as soon as possible. I shiver slightly at the temperature difference between here and what I’ve been used to in LA.

Still, the warmth of the sun hitting my eyes is a sharp contrast to the voice I hear on the other end of the line.

“Son.”

I wince. Nothing like the sound of someone who should support you tearing you down instead simply by the tone of his voice. I already regret answering. I move toward the side of the building, just in case I slip and my native “Frenchness” breaks out. If I’m honest with myself—and I must be—I’m recently worn from pushing it down after all these years.

“Dad.”

There’s a pause on the line before I hear him clear his throat. The habit must run in the family. “Your mother wants you to come to dinner next Friday.”

I’m stunned. I’m never invited to dinner anymore. There must be a catch. I look across the way to a store called Ollie & Sons Toy Shop, where an older man with a sunny smile is helping a little boy learn how to use a yo-yo. It’s a nice distraction from what’s happening in my mind.

“No, thank you,” I manage.

“This isn’t a game.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I’ve already had your social footprint erased with us. I can easily remove your footprint from your retirement fund too.”

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