Page 33 of I Love You in French

“You like him.”

It’s a statement, not a question. I hesitate.

“And don’t have the audacity to try to make it less than it is.” She huffs and takes a sip from her Thermos, which from the smell of it, may be a little more than hot chocolate. Brow furrowed, I manage to break my watch on Rafe and turn to look at the woman I’ve known my whole life. Her eyes are dancing as the lights come on around us. “Why are you fighting it so much?”

I swallow and play with the edge of the blanket. “Why do you think I’m fighting it?”

“Because, child, you’re back here instead of being right in the front, showing those groupie wannabes that there’s no competition.”

I peek toward the stage and cringe. There are several single women, some just out of college, I’d guess, and some quite a bit older than me, swaying to the music and trying to get Rafe to look their way. I take some satisfaction (okay, a lot) that he’s not.

“Take it from me, Rory. Life is too short to be waiting in the wings, hoping one day you’ll be ready for love. Because love isn’t something you’re ready for. It’s something that finds you. So don’t miss it when it does, yeah?”

I swallow and think of all the ways I’ve missed having someone older than me really speaking into my life. Sure, I have people who look out for me, but wisdom and greetings are not the same thing. I nod lightly to her because I can’t lie and tell her I don’t have feelings, and I also can’t promise that I can carry through on the feelings Rafe might have for me.

“Good,” is all she says before looking back to Rafe’s band in the stand.

“Thank you, everyone. For this final song ...” Rafe’s speaking voice cuts through the brisk air as the crowd starts to lovingly shoot the idea down. Apparently, they don’t want him to leave either. “I want to dedicate this to someone who has changed how I see the world in a very short time.”

My heart beats faster in my chest. There’s no way he could be talking about me, yet my body knows he is.

“This person has become someone very special to me.” He clears his throat, and I feel tears sting my eyes. “And they don’t even know how sweet they really are.” Leaning closer to the mic, eyes focused on the ground, he whispers, “This one’s for you, Sugar.”

And then I am carried away by a melody wrapped in lyrics with talk of birds taking flight, and hearts becoming homes, and cities of lights not comparing to the love they’re finding through the night. It’s only when the crowd cheers and starts to pack up their things or disperse that I realize I have tears streaming down my face.

Gladys has the decency not to comment on my emotional state and waits patiently while I stand and help pack up her chair.

“Thank you,” I tell her before giving her a hug that’s been long overdue. She pats my back gently and winks at me when she catches someone’s eye behind me. But I already know who it is. My body told me a few seconds ago by the increase in energy through my veins and the sudden charge in the air.

“Thanks for taking care of my girl,” he says quietly. My girl.

“You’re welcome,” Gladys replies as I turn to face him.

Rafe’s hands are in his pockets, and if not for his confident posture, his expression would tell me he’s nervous. He wants to know what I think of his performance. And this thought has me feeling far cozier than I expected.

A teenage girl interrupts us, asking for photos and a selfie. Before we know it, the last clusters of people want signatures and photos and are just dying to know who the song is about. Rafe doesn’t tell them, but he does give me a wink. It’s only when we’re (almost) alone, nearly a half hour later, and the only people left in the vicinity are our town’s cleaning committee, that I get the chance to tell him what I’ve wanted to tell him all night.

“Rafe, you were ...” And that’s all I manage to say. Nothing else comes out.

Instead of teasing me, he pulls me to his side and wraps his arm around my shoulder. He leans down to kiss my temple and takes a deep breath. It’s comforting more than sensual, but my body is buzzing just the same.

“Wait!” I yell. “You wrote with Histoire?”

Tension crosses his face. “I did.” A pause. “Do you ... know of them?”

I take a step back, as hard as it is move away from his embrace, to look him fully in the face. “Do I know them? Do I know them? Rafe, they have my favorite songs of all time. The music. The lyrics. The way they speak to the soul ...” I pause to see that my words have thoroughly unsettled him. His looks are changing like a viewfinder from delighted to processing to unsure.

“How do you possibly know them?” he whispers.

I rock back on my heels. “Oh! My father. When we found out he was sick, we’d sometimes listen to French radio. He said it reminded him of my mother ... and there was this one song he couldn’t get out of his head. Lily helped us track it down, and it was Histoire! Their music made the hard days less hard.” I hesitate. “Do you think you could let them know? Not about me ... but just that their music helps people heal?”

With a smile and a slight look of relief, Rafe nods. “I’ll tell them.”

“Sparrow, I lived in Paris for a while,” he says, the words rushing out between us. A look of what can only be described as pain flashes through his forest eyes. As shocked as I am to hear his confession, within a few breaths, the information settles and starts to make sense.

“The CDG sticker,” I whisper. “On your guitar case.”

He nods as we slowly make our way away along the river and toward the shops, his fingers holding mine a little more tightly than before.

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