Page 43 of I Love You in French

I shake my head. “You’ve probably heard of his designer name. But that’s why I just go by Rafe. It’s why I’ve traveled so much. Why I’ve lived in a few different cities. If I wanted a chance at my own art, my own life, and to make a name for myself on my terms, it had to be completely on my own. My father made that clear as well.”

Sparrow grimaces slightly. “I’m sorry.” She pauses for a moment, shuffling the fringe resting on her forehead. She faces me with a look that would level any man. “There was a woman too, wasn’t there? Her influence is all over your music.”

I don’t want to ruin the image of the band she loves so much, so I simply whisper, “It was in Paris.”

She nods almost imperceptibly, and then her brow furrows. “French?” she mumbles.

“I thought we loved each other. Really, she only wanted the fame, the lights ... another guitarist I knew. And she wanted my songs. I thought I was in love with her.”

“Thought? You didn’t really love her?”

“Thought. Being in love and loving someone are very different things.”

“Yes, I suppose that could be true.”

I hold my breath, my mind racing with what she could be implying. “Could be? Have you not ever been in love?”

She closes her eyes for longer than a blink and then shakes her head. I can’t believe it. This woman is taking my heart piece by piece. I want her to fall in love with me just so I know she can shake her head yes, and I could be the reason.

“I was heartbroken at the time, but now I realize I was mourning something that wasn’t alive in the first place.” She hums, so I continue. “I’ve traveled around the world. I’ve lived in Paris. When I was thirteen, I was sent to boarding school.”

“In America?”

“Yes. In America. It was one that had a prestigious art program. My parents thought I was studying design. I was not.”

“Music?”

I nod. “Music. It’s the only thing that has ever made sense for me.” Until now, I almost say, but I don’t. She grips my hand a little tighter. I must figure out the science between this connection because I swear she knows what I’m thinking most of the time, which is dangerous and strangely comforting. “I do not have good memories of my parents, Sparrow. People think it’s glamorous to be at all the parties. To have a name that people know. I just felt like I was drowning.”

“Did they hurt you?” she whispers.

“Not physically.” It’s the most I can say without going into all the details of how much they’ve cut me internally over the years. “But I’m a disappointment to them.”

“That can’t be true.”

“It is,” I say roughly. Not from anger but from emotion. “As long as I pursue music, I’m cut off from them. I’m not allowed to pose with them in any pictures unless they arrange it for a photo op. My inheritance is being held hostage. And they have decided that unless I apologize, marry someone they think is worthy of our name, and join the business, then I’m not worth their time.”

Sparrow sits up, and her movement somehow pulls us closer. We’re inches apart, and I hold my breath as one of her gloved hands moves toward one side of my face. She’s cupping my jaw so sweetly, so tenderly, I feel another piece of my heart shift. No one has ever touched me like this. I’ve been with women, but having Sparrow beside me, I can see how clearly they were all imposters—trying to be the real thing to me but never actually seeing me. She sees me.

“Listen to me and listen well.” I nod, the intensity in her eyes new and blinding. “You are not a disappointment. You are creative. You are kind. You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life—and not because of your looks—because of who you are. You actually see people. You’re so funny. You care deeply. You give so much of yourself. You pour out your heart through your music, and you make it so that others can feel something too. We haven’t known each other long ...” she says.

I shake my head because I feel the emotion behind my eyes.

She removes her gloved hand from my face, and rather than letting go of me, she pulls off her glove with her teeth and lets it fall to the grass beneath our feet. “Gosh, I’m just so happy you exist.” And then her warm hand is wiping at the corner of one of my eyes. I must be crying.

She’s looking at me as if her look alone could convince me that a lifetime of not being enough for the people I wanted to love me the most could be erased. She looks at me like I haven’t yet dreamed what’s possible for me. The roots of what my parents have sown grow deep, but she’s shining the truth over the shadows. I’m not sure how to hold on to her words, but she makes me want to believe. I didn’t think someone could love me, yet she is making me think there’s a possibility I was wrong.

We don’t speak for a while after that, other than to point out amusing people and circumstances happening around us. For someone who has had so much pain, she sees the world in such an interesting and amusing way. She never makes fun of people, but she does see the humor when people are so very ... human.

We spend the rest of the day in Boston, her hand never leaving mine. We stroll the walkways in Boston Common. We window shop and wander as far as the North End, where we eat lunch in Faneuil Hall and walk through Christopher Columbus Waterfront Park to catch a glimpse of Boston Harbor. We end up at a coffee shop before catching the T so we can make it to South Station for our train back home.

Something shifted for Sparrow and me today. And there were moments as we explored Boston when I knew I’d remember this as one of the best days I’d ever have. I wanted to take a Polaroid of it, to use my old-fashioned camera that actually prints pictures so that I could hold on to it and have a stack to hide in my guitar case for inspiration.

I know that what I’m holding is fragile. It’s the crunching of leaves between my fingers; it’s the colors on the trees already changing. As much as I want to hold on to the woman within my arms, the urge to put what she needs above what I want is haunting. I know what I need to do when we return to town. She deserves someone who can stay, and I don’t yet know if I have it in me to be in one place without running again.

It’s when we’re riding back on our train car to Birch Borough, as the quiet seeps in and the lights contrast with the darkness outside the windows, that I let myself daydream a little more, even if I know that I’ll wake up to reality soon. Sparrow is leaning against my chest, her peace easing through me. She fell asleep about five minutes ago, her breathing calm and even, and I’ve been trying desperately to will my whole body to remember this feeling. The one where I’m allowed to be a place of safety for her, and she’s a place of safety for me.

I let my finger trace the soft skin of her forehead lightly, brushing a piece of her dark, honeyed hair to the side. “Sparrow, I’m in love with you,” I whisper into the still air, only the steady sound of her breathing and the train on the tracks beneath us as we move through the New England night.

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