Page 12 of I Love You in French

I know what he’s saying. He’s already disowned me (mostly), and he’s ready to make it more official. I wish it didn’t bother me that my father constantly finds the need to give me warnings and threats, but it does. Of course it does. So, I do what I always do. I disassociate, and somehow, I grow taller.

“One of these days, I’m just going to stop answering. If you’re mad at anyone, it needs to be yourself.”

My breathing is shallow as my father again ignores whatever he didn’t want to hear.

“Pffff,” he slips in a familiar sound of frustration. “And speak French. This is not who we raised you to be.”

I clench my jaw. My parents didn’t really raise me at all. Still, my father likes to tell me what to do. He’s not speaking French, and I know why. He’s somewhere in America and doesn’t want to exclude whoever is in the room. Amazing how he’s more considerate with strangers than he’s ever been with me. Unfortunately for him, I’ve made it my mission to scrub some memories—and much of my heritage—from my life. It’s killed me little by little, but I’ve done it.

“No.”

“Your mother has found someone suitable for you. Again. Well, I haven’t met her, but she agreed to tolerate your little hobby—”

“Listen to me clearly,” I interrupt. “The person I’ll be with next will love me for me. Not because of my family, or my connections, or my talent—even though you don’t agree that I have any.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line. I check the phone to make sure we’re still connected and twitch as the time keeps ticking.

“I expect that you’ll be on a plane sometime tomorrow. I’ll even be generous enough to get you a ticket.”

“Again, no.”

He sighs audibly. “Give me a reason. If you’re going to disappoint your mother once more, I need to have a reason. A valid one.”

I look around the streets and find nothing that would be an acceptable reason to convince my father to let this go. I don’t even know why I’m trying. Rubbing a hand down my face, I turn back to look at the bakery and see Sparrow has emerged in the front of the store again and is laughing with Lily over something behind the counter.

“I think I have one.”

Ihang up and hope that I’m right.

∞∞∞

After coping with the call from my father with three more Americanos and a few macarons, I’m jittery enough to know that I may have made a mistake in leaving LA for this place—for no other reason than I’ve gotten way over my head by meeting Sparrow, and I know it. I’ve never had this much caffeine and sugar in one sitting, but my head was spinning, and my heart still felt heavy. Like some miracle, after my second Americano, I opened my notebook a few hours ago and started writing.

And now, the lyrics just keep flowing. I can’t stop. The main themes seem to be honey and meeting someone on a train. If I didn’t know any better, I would think it is because of a certain bakery/café owner (at least, I think she owns it). Lord knows my father usually drains inspiration, so it isn’t coming from my earlier call with him.

The counter vibrates, and it takes me a second to register that it’s my phone and not the coffee talking. I grin at the caller ID. The name on the screen started as a joke when we met while waiting in line at a restaurant in LA, and an actress told him he was handsome enough to be the lead in a Hallmark movie. I laughed, he was horrified, and we became instant friends. Turned out he was a lawyer. A good one. And I’m grateful to have him whenever I question just how much my parents could legally take from me.

Hallmark Hot G: Pizza tonight?

While that sounds perfect, I send the shrugging emoji just for kicks and tap my foot against the counter. He’ll be annoyed, but I think it’s time I shift my friend’s comfort levels. He’s gotten too rigid over the past few years.

Lily has started stocking the coffee bar behind me, and I wait until she’s filled all the canisters and cream containers before I subtly try to get her attention. In the limited time I’ve been observing the dynamics here, it’s clear that she may be the key to getting to know Sparrow.

“I like this place,” I manage. “It reminds me of Paris a bit.” She doesn’t turn toward me, but I see her stiffen and then get back to cleaning and tidying up like she never heard me speak. A moment later, I feel her channel a different energy, and as Sparrow grabs a tray and moves to the back, Lily is next to me in a heartbeat.

“Keep writing,” she whispers.

I glance around, trying to figure out why I’m suddenly in a spy movie, when her rag hits my knuckles.

“Ow!” I yell.

“I said . . . Keep. Writing.”

“Okay, okay,” I say and do as she instructed, although it’s really only scribbles at this point.

“You’ve been to Paris?”

I nod quickly. “Quite a bit. I lived there for a while, actually.”

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