Page 23 of I Love You in French

“Well, has she thrown chocolate at you?”

I’m both confused and intrigued. “No.”

“Then you’re fine.” As Sparrow looks about the space, a wistful look crosses her face that I want to chase. “In high school, my friends and I would come here. There are really four of us—Lily and me and then two others I suspect you haven’t been in town long enough to meet yet.”

I shake my head.

“We would come here and sit in a booth and chat about, you know, our crushes at the time, and our parents—well, in my case at the time, parent—and we’d plan our movie nights and sleepovers. It was the best.”

I’ve seen pictures in her café of her parents but just realized there is only one of both parents with Sparrow. The rest were of her and her father alone. “Have you always lived here?”

She nods. “Mm-hmm ... my parents started the café and bakery right after I was born ... my namesake, of course. Berets can be cliché, but my father bought me one for my third birthday. There’s a picture of me in it somewhere ... Anyway, that’s how it got its name, and I couldn’t ever leave it. And I’m okay with that. Some people need to go off and be in the world, and I respect them for it. I mean, look at you; you’ve just come from LA!”

If only she knew all the places I’ve been, calling them home but never feeling at home.

“I love where I live. And except for wanting to visit Paris—which is where my mother was from—I have no desire to live anywhere but here.”

We’re interrupted again by Lucy, and I order an omelet and fries (I insist it’s far better this way than with hash browns), and Sparrow orders the same. I’m not used to eating with someone in a way that makes me feel nervous and also like I’ve put on a comfortable sweater. I know what it’s like to travel with a band, but I’m usually the lone man out. I’ve never realized how much that bothers me until I notice how nice it is to sit across from someone who wants to be here with me and isn’t trying to only talk to me about key changes or chord charts. Someone who’s content with the moment. As Sparrow gazes around the diner, her eyes crinkled in the corners like maybe she’s enjoying herself too, I realize how much I could get used to this.

∞∞∞

“Absolutely not,” I mutter.

“Oh, I agree,” she says matter-of-factly as her eyes meet mine over her steaming cup of coffee. Lucy refilled our coffees a minute ago after clearing our plates, and now I’m trying to find reasons for this night not to end. “I may be partly French, but I cannot bring myself to eat a snail.”

I smile at her rambling ways and try to think of something else to get her talking. It turns out she’s not as shy as I thought she was. I think she just needs to know someone wants to listen.

“Here, lovebirds,” Lucy sings as the biggest sundae ever, with bits of warm apple pie melting the vanilla ice cream through the chilled glass and a swirl of whipped cream and cinnamon, is placed between us on the table. Sparrow’s mouth has formed a slight O, a blush nestled on her cheeks. “On the house,” Lucy says and winks while walking away, all before I can remind her that we never ordered dessert. With the smell of cinnamon and apples swirling around us, I don’t seem to mind. It immediately reminds me of Chaussons aux Pommes, the apple turnovers I grew up eating.

Sparrow shrugs as she reaches for a spoon. She digs in for a bite, a spoon full of melting ice cream and pie hanging mid-air as the bell jingles. The look of shock on her face is enough to tell me who it is, even before I hear the French accent.

“Bonsoir!” Well, it was a good evening. All I want to tell him is, “Au revoir.”

I try not to let my emotions show as I attempt to catch Sparrow’s eye. Her mouth is still slightly parted, the sundae forgotten, but she seems calm. Kind of.

“Uh—Jacques,” she says. Without overthinking it, I stand and do a hovering move over the table to swerve next to Sparrow. Except, she still hasn’t moved, so part of my backside is not on the bench. I look at Sparrow, but she’s focused ahead, her eyes still tracking Jacques.

He walks our way with a scarf around his neck that makes him look so very ... French. His face looks delighted as he takes in my right leg awkwardly extended from the booth. He’s studying me closely, and I’m praying fervently that he doesn’t out me. I hope he doesn’t ask my last name. Or see a bit of my father in me. It’s only then that Sparrow seems to notice my new location and the situation we’ve found ourselves in.

“Oh!” she whispers. A pink blush creeps up her neck, and I grin as she slides closer to the window, her hand still holding the spoon of (dripping) ice cream.

“Hi, Jacques,” I say, my fake media smile plastered to my face.

He nods briefly but then looks to Sparrow. They begin chatting about something to do with the bakery and croissants, and I notice the woman he was with at my show—Vivienne, was it?—creep up behind him. She’s looking at me like we’re not in a public place, and since I don’t want to give her any wrong ideas, I take the opportunity to study Jacques myself. To try to figure out why Sparrow wants him so badly. It takes me five seconds to realize that I will never understand her attraction to him. He infuriates me. And so does his date with her unsettling attention on me.

A slight burning feeling is happening on my left side, and before I can register what’s happening, Sparrow’s hand is on my shoulder. She’s close enough that I can smell her scent wrapping around me and the warmth of her fingers through my shirt. I clear my throat and decide that if she’s going to be close to me, I’m going to enjoy every moment. I do my best to let my body relax and slide my hand up her back, stopping at the nape of her neck. I begin playing with her hair, which I’ve wanted to do for the past hour, and smirk when I feel her hand grip my shoulder a little tighter. I don’t miss the way her voice cracks a bit as I wrap a tendril of her hair around my finger, wrap it, release it, and then do it again. This is my new favorite game.

“You should meet us at the art gallery,” Jacques says while glancing at his date, who’s still smirking at me, before focusing more attention on Sparrow. I suddenly want to pull a Thor and send my coffee mug to the floor. Except, I wouldn’t be yelling, “Another!” as other less-savory words circle my mind. I don’t know what to do with this new feeling of wanting someone to myself.

“Darling, do you want to go to an art show?” Her voice breaks me from my thoughts, and I turn to look between her and Jacques (and decidedly not Vivienne). Sparrow’s mannerisms are full of amusement, but her eyes tell me she really wants to know. And all I’m stuck on is that she just called me darling.

“Right now, anywhere you are is where I want to be,” I manage. And I mean it. Dropping my arm from her neck to the curve of her waist, I pull Sparrow a little closer to me and feel her ribcage expand with her breath.

“Gallery. It’s a gallery,” Jacques corrects.

She grins, and I return the gesture until we’re just two grinning people crammed on one side of a booth, making Jacques and his own date uncomfortable while they stand at an awkward distance. He mutters his goodbyes and some directions to a place I won’t remember, leading Vivienne slowly away from us, and my body refuses to move. We’re still leaning toward each other, her eyes searching mine for a clue as to what’s happening. But instead of letting her in on anything, since I can’t define what I’m doing either, I reach for the spoon with the abandoned sundae.

I get a new bite’s worth on the spoon and hold it in front of her face. Her eyes never leave mine. I remove my arm from her waist and feel myself smile when she lets out a little sigh. I cup my hand under the waiting spoon and hover it near her red-painted mouth.

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