Page 47 of I Love You in French

“There she is,” she whispers.

This new confidence has me pacing back and forth, really seeing, for the first time, my entire wardrobe sans the homecoming dress still hanging in my closet because I refuse to ever part with it. My father decided I needed a dress that went with my eyes, so he chose a mocha color, and I’ve never forgotten how happy he was that I wanted his opinion, never mind that I actually followed through with it. I was like an awkward teenage chocolate truffle, but my father’s expression of pure love was worth it all.

My eyes catch on a pair of black tights with tiny black hearts printed on them. Like a constellation forming, I focus on my black ankle boots, my black skirt, and a cream-colored blouse with the style of sleeves that are loosely fitting but cling in a cuff at the wrists.

This is my outfit.

“Got it!” I whisper-yell into the phone and hear the warped sound of Lily’s cheer. This is what it means to have best friends. We wait, comfortable in the closeness and process, until one of us can see clearly. And even if we don’t agree, she’ll show me she’s rooting for me just the same.

“Tell me everything,” is all she says before hanging up the phone. I run into my tiny bathroom, past the shelves with a Chip mug from Beauty and the Beast. I reach inside and pull out my gold necklace, from which dangles an image of the rose in a bell glass from the same film and featuring little petals that rise from the bottom of the necklace as if they just fell. My father gifted it to me when I was around thirteen years old, and it’s what I wear for courage. Most people don’t recognize the symbol. It’s elegant and not a jewelry piece for kids. I put it on and get dressed, only glancing at myself in the mirror long enough to notice the dark circles under my eyes and the way my ribcage seems to want to cave in under the heaviness I feel inside.

∞∞∞

Jacques picks me up at my place, and we take his fancy, European car toward the Downtown area of Portsmouth. He looks stylish, and his modeling skills are in full effect as I sit across from him at an upscale restaurant. It’s an Italian-fusion place, and while it smells incredible in here, the moment we walked through the door, all I could think about was the pizza Rafe and I shared at his studio. I will myself to focus. But it’s so hard when I feel so out of place. Unsettled. Unsure. These are the words that are floating through my mind as I dip some homemade bread into a plate of olive oil and salt.

Although Jacques has been perfectly polite, I feel like I need to be a different version of myself. Like somehow, if he saw the one who questions everything at midnight each night and has a stack of cards (already stamped) by her fridge and still forgets to send them, he wouldn’t be able to comprehend it. He’s only seen business-owner me—the slightly flustered me. Not the one who would hide a guitar pick in a stuffed raccoon just to see Rafe’s reaction. Or the one who owns candles and sometimes never lights them but collects them simply because I like the look of them.

I’m studying his face now—the symmetrical perfection of it, and it’s grating on me that his eyebrows are perfect. Whose eyebrows are perfect? I think it’s a ridiculous thing to be distracted by until I remember the scar through Rafe’s eyebrow. I grin to myself and clearly am distracted since Jacques has to call my name.

“Ça va?” I find him looking at me hesitantly. I’m not sure how many times he’s called my name, but I missed it at least once if his expression is any indication.

“Mm-hmm ...” I manage. “Ça va, merci.” The piece of bread I was dipping is completely soaked. It’s a vessel lost at sea in the middle of the plate. I poke at it and then push the plate to the side. No point in trying to rescue it and getting oil all over the table.

“So, Jacques, tell me about what you do?” I take a sip of wine and will myself to breathe. His accented-English is stunning. Musical. I’ve never understood why American movies feature French characters with the worst accents I’ve ever heard. It’s abominable, really, to butcher the language in such a way. Why not just hire people who are actually French? I find it all so alarming. There’s a cassette tape of my mother reading me a bedtime story. It’s about a girl who lives in a tree and wishes that she could be a bird so that she can fly away. My mother said that’s why she named me Sparrow. So that I always know I never have to be grounded. But hearing her voice, the melody of it all as she switched between English and French, has forever changed how I hear the language.

I snap back into the present and listen as Jacques talks about how he got into business and about all the places his work takes him, but my mind drifts to Rafe when he was in LA, and I wonder how many times he’s sung in Paris. I have to shake myself out of this because here—right in front of me—is a real-life Frenchman who is smart, interesting (to someone, I’m sure), and downright handsome. I can’t sabotage this.

His phone chimes. “Excusez moi.”

I nod and really take him in while he’s focused on something on his phone. The way his face is all European—you know the type; you look at them and immediately know somehow that they’re not American. If he’s amused or annoyed with the cultural differences between us, I can’t tell. It’s then I decide to give it a chance. A real chance.

It’s at this moment he puts his phone on silent and hides it away inside his suit jacket. Because, of course, he’s wearing a perfectly tailored outfit.

“Sparrow, I’m so glad you came here with me tonight,” he states while the fancy food is brought to our table. I thought I had ordered a simple pasta dish, but looking at it, I severely underestimated how elaborately pasta could be made.

“My mother was French,” is all I manage to get out. And my focus is now on the chunks of tomato in the sauce. I hate chunks of tomato in a sauce. Blend it or make it a margarita pizza where one knows what one is getting, but for the love of all that is good, don’t make tomato sauce chunky. In town, Lorenzo knows how I like it. I start to move the pieces around the plate to find a bite I’d be comfortable with and am not having much luck.

He notices me playing with my food but has the courtesy not to say anything. So, I ask him about Paris, and his eyes flicker with excitement.

“Oh, when we’re in Paris, I just have to take you to this place my mother loves. It’s a fashion house called Durand, and it’s magnifique.”

I nod and get back to picking at my plate. I mean, is it kind of strange he’s already talking about us traveling together? Sure. But his confidence is one of the things I am attracted to.

“And I’ll take you to the gardens, of course. And shopping on the Champs-Élysées. Do you like fast cars?”

I look up and try to process what he was saying. Because that’s not the Paris that I had in mind at all. I think of sitting in Montmartre and having an artist sketch my portrait along with the others on the street. I think of crowded cafés and walking over bridges that hover above the Seine. I think of standing under the Eiffel Tower just so I can be right in the middle of it. I take a sip of wine and leave his question hovering in the air. This wine is ...good. He’s ... good.

Jacques is still politely waiting for my answer, and I grin. Maybe what he and I can have is good, and I just won’t know until I keep trying. Maybe he can open up a different world to me that I hadn’t really considered yet. I fix a piece of my hair and put my hand down a little too forcefully. It nicks the abandoned bread and olive oil situation, and the piece of bread that I thought was gone forever manages to fly off the plate and catapult a few drops of olive oil toward Jacques. It’s a direct hit.

And he smiles. He actually smiles. I look around the restaurant, but no one seems to care that I’ve just gotten food on a former model.

“Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry,” I mutter as I stand to ...what? Try to wipe it off him? I’m not sure what I’m doing anymore and move to sit back down but then think better of it since he can’t see the mess near his shoulder. I hop and drag my chair over toward him, and he’s laughing again.

“Wanted us to be closer, yes?” He chuckles, and I let a grin break through. Maybe he will be okay with the clumsy parts of me. Grabbing a clean napkin, I dip it in water and attempt to help the situation, but all I’m really doing is getting a better sense of the cologne he wears. He captures my hand and slowly brings it to his mouth instead of letting me continue. A soft kiss lands on the edge of my knuckles, and I swallow. It’s a movie moment, to be sure. But I’d be lying if I said there were sparks. Where are the sparks?

I clear my throat and try to push back, but the chair gets stuck on the carpet, and my life flashes before my eyes. I let out a little squeak and stand quickly, taking my chair with me.

“Miss, do you need assistance?” The waiter is next to me, clearly concerned for my welfare.

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