Page 45 of I Love You in French

“His eyes are brown.”

“So?”

“So, the forest is brown?” His eyebrows furrow, but it’s a little too whimsical to be taken seriously.

I put down a tray of chaussons aux pommes, or French apple turnovers, a little too forcefully. I realize in that moment that I can either run away (which won’t work because Lily’s shift hasn’t started yet, and I need my pastry chef to keep working on a wedding order in the back), pretend that I’m not talking nonsense (which won’t work because I totally am), or own it. I choose none of the options by changing the subject.

The overhead bell rings, and in walks Jacques. I’m expecting a standoff, given the way I’ve seen Rafe giving him looks whenever we’re about town. Instead, he nods at him and moves out of the way to sit at his usual spot at the counter. He doesn’t order anything.

I look at Jacques, confusion on my face. Something is definitely different about today.

“Sparrow, I . . . ” Jacques starts.

We’re interrupted now by Gladys, who’s coming in hot. Of all the moments for her to stop by, of course it would be now. I swear I saw her bang a uey (a u-turn, in New England language) on her way to the flower shop. It’s not even her usual time for coming into the store. And the way she’s heading toward Rafe, like a kid with a chocolate bar within reach, I’m certain it’s for him.

Rafe braces for impact, but like a barnacle, Gladys attaches to him. I’d warn him, but despite her meddling and complete lack of awareness at times, she really does mean well and has a heart of gold. I’m just hoping she doesn’t break out the messages she sent me of Rafe at his show. I shudder.

“What can I get you, Gladys?” I give her a warning glance, but she ignores me, instead keeping her focus on Rafe.

“What are your intentions with our girl?” she demands.

Thankfully, Rafe has the good sense not to laugh. I set about making a decaf pour-over and add a handful of madeleines to a plate—some toffee, some coffee—and try my best to listen.

“I promise they’re honorable,” Rafe says, his jaw tight, gaze set. He’s looking her right in the eye, and even I believe him. Not that I doubted.

Gladys rises up on her tiptoes as if she can threaten him with her intensity. I lean back a bit because it’s working on me, at least. Except, Rafe doesn’t move. He’s committed. And instead of trying to run, or scoffing, or acknowledging how absurd this is, he has the audacity to grin.

“Ms. Gladys,” he begins. “I know how much Sparrow must mean to you—and to this town—because it’s clear that if she has people coming to check up on my intentions, she’s dear to you. And I respect that. And I respect her. And while I have a suspicion that she may have stolen another guitar pick of mine the other night ...” He glances over at me on that part before returning his attention back to Gladys. “I can assure you that this short time with Sparrow has already been the best I’ve ever had with a woman. And not because of anything physical, but because she has as much heart as she does beauty. It’s in how she moves. It’s in when I make her nervous, and she overfills a coffee cup. It’s when she’s so passionate about her work that she doesn’t realize she’s covered in flour. It’s in the way she smells of caramelized sugar and dreams. It’s also in the way there’s a piece of hair that falls over her eyes, no matter how much she pulls it back, and all I want to do is tell her to leave it right where it is because it’s perfect. I know I can’t be the one she chooses in the end because, the truth is, I’m not sure I deserve her. But anyone would be an idiot not to try.”

“Well,” Gladys says, wiping her eyes. She lowers her heels back to the ground and grips the counter, much like I’m doing while I stare at this man—this wonderful man who just gave the most beautiful speech I’ve ever heard. She reaches out and lightly takes Rafe’s hand before picking up her coffee and madeleines and walking away.

I reach for him too, except now he’s standing. He walks over to Jacques, not making eye contact with me, though I’m begging him to.

“Rafe,” I whisper.

I see him swallow, his hand extending to shake Jacques’.

“Be good to her,” Rafe says, his jaw clenched.

“Rafe!”

He doesn’t stop until he’s at the door. The grin marking his face is forced. The waves of his hair fall in an arc over his forehead. He nods, and then he’s gone, putting on his coat as he walks away, the sun marking his steps.

“Sparrow,” Jacques continues while I’m reeling from the interaction that just unfolded. “Rafe told me it was a mistake.”

I lean onto the counter, my heartbeat thumping in my ears. “A mistake?”

“Yes.” He nods. “I thought you two were dating, but he told me you were just friends. He says he knows you need someone to be here for you.”

“Friends. Someone here,” I repeat, my fingers going numb.

“I do really want to know you more, Sparrow.”

“I—I’m sorry, Jacques. I just ...” I begin as he pulls a piece of folded paper from his jacket pocket and hands it to me.

Opening it slowly, I note the smudges of ink in the corners and the creases of notes that must’ve been written over the paper I’m holding now before it got to these words: I still believe you’re brave. And I’ll keep singing for you, Sugar.

I clear my throat and fold the paper, tucking it into the pocket of my apron before lifting my eyes to Jacques.

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