Page 34 of I Love You in French

“It wasn’t a good place for me,” he confesses, and my stomach drops. Rafe turns to face me, both of his hands now holding mine between us. “Sparrow, I—a lot of people have left my life. People I trusted. People I should’ve been able to trust.” The cost of it is written on his forehead and etched around his mouth.

I want to ask him more on the subject, but I’m mesmerized by his touch and the intensity in his gaze. Instead of more questions, maybe all he needs is to be heard.

“I know I mentioned the pumpkin patch, but tonight, how do you feel about pizza?” he asks, slivers of sunlight hitting his stubble and lighting one side of his face like rays of light through tree branches.

I nod and take his hand, his fingers warm as they weave through mine and offset the chill in the air. Perhaps the warmth is also because when we touch this time, I know it’s not for show.

When we end up back at the studio later, Rafe is laughing, a pizza box on his lap, eyes dancing with happiness. He’s been playing songs and making me guess them—it seems I can only remember nineties boy bands tonight. Little does he know I’ve already hidden a guitar pick on the side of the snare drum in the corner when he wasn’t looking.

“Rafe, why are you really here?”

“For my birthday?”

“Your birthday is soon?”

He gives a slight nod. “But I’m supposed to be gone by then.” The air becomes heavy.

“When is it?” Ignoring his comment about leaving, I grab a scrap of abandoned lyrics off the floor and a pencil from near the piano.

“I—uh . . .” He clears his throat. “The fourteenth of November.”

I write down the date and immediately tuck the paper into the pocket of my coat. He’s playing with the edges of the pizza box, like he just can’t help but make music somehow.

“Sparrow, what’s with Jacques?” he asks suddenly. “Do you really like him?”

I hesitate, surprised by his question.

“Because, since you know he’s French, and he seems interested in you, I’m struggling to see why you wouldn’t have just asked him out yourself?”

My shoulders tense at his inquiry. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Then help me understand why it isn’t.” I hear the pleading in his voice, a statement to help me not fly away without him knowing the truth.

“He’s what I’ve been waiting for, I think. I—I know I said I want to be with someone French, but it isn’t for shallow reasons.” I whisper the words. He opens his mouth to speak when my phone buzzes, and I scramble to catch it. “Oh, gosh—look at the time! I’m going to go because I should just go ...” I whisper.

My heart deflates. I gather my things without making eye contact.

“Sparrow, I . . .”

He stands to move toward me, but I give him a grin to ease his worry. “No need to walk me home. I’ll be there in less than a minute.” I make it to the door and peek over my shoulder, the light catching his face as my eyes adjust to the night around me. “Rafe, for what it’s worth, I feel sorry for the ones who’ve left you.”

He looks up to catch my gaze.

“They have no idea what they’re missing.”

Chapter Thirteen

Rafe

I’m walking through crisp air, my mind replaying moments with Sparrow. It smells like maple, cinnamon, and the musky-sweet scent of the red and orange leaves circling my feet. After she left the studio last night, all I could think about was my birthday—and the fact that she wrote it down.

I freeze. For a moment, I feel myself sitting on the wood-grooved cutting room floor in my father’s design studio, watching scraps of discarded fabric hit the floor. If I stand, a view of the Arc de Triomphe can be seen from the balcony. We’re in Paris before going to London. My father is meeting with a famous celebrity on one of the floors above, but I’m under one of the tables, waiting for someone to acknowledge my eighth birthday. It isn’t until the end of the night that my father hands me a sweater from their new line. It is far too big. At bedtime, my mother kisses me on the forehead, tucks me under some blankets, and turns out the light without remembering.

I pass by the Ollie & Sons Toy Shop, and focusing on seeing Sparrow, I almost miss the man sitting in front of the store, rocking away in a chair positioned on the sidewalk. It’s the man I saw before. He’s melded to his chair in a way that tells me this is routine. Though he’s older, I catch the sparkle in his eyes as he motions for me to sit. The truth is, I could use a moment to gather my thoughts. I lower myself into a nearby chair and get to rocking beside him. When I feel the cool air and see the people milling about the street, I think he has the right idea.

“Morning, son.”

It’s weird the effect the sentiment has on me. I freeze slightly and give a small nod.

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