Page 58 of I Love You in French

“Take her on a date?”

Graham thinks about this but then quickly does the move I hate the most right now—he shakes his head.

“Graham, I swear if you don’t stop with that ...” I shake my hands toward him. “That ... stupid shaking-your-head thing.” He raises his eyebrows, and I stop pacing to sink into the couch. I shut my eyes tightly and take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I’m just ...”

“In love?”

I crack open my eyes slightly to see Graham looking at me without judgment. He really is a solid guy. It makes me feel even worse for wanting to punch him a minute ago. I rub my face, disheveling myself even more.

“I don’t know what to do about it. She drives me nuts. Hides my guitar picks. Declares she’ll only marry a Frenchman to the world—I mean, who does that?” My question is rhetorical, so I keep going. “Makes the best muffins I’ve ever had. Kisses like a freaking miracle. Has me so nuts that I’ll end up with coffee stains on me for the rest of my life because I’ll try to keep them off of her.”

“And this was supposed to be fake, or at the very least, you weren’t planning on staying ...” he summarizes. And then he seems to hear what I said only a few seconds ago. “Wait. You kissed her?”

“Yes! I don’t know what the heck I was thinking, but she’s got me so upside down ...” I trail off. My hair feels like it could hit the ceiling it’s been pulled so much.

Graham leans back on the couch and rests his arm on the armrest. Thankfully, because he’s a gentleman, he doesn’t rag me about it or ask for details. “But you haven’t told her the truth?” I fix him with a glare, and he holds up his hands in surrender. “The whole truth.”

I shake my head slightly.

“Why?”

My jaw clenches so tight it will be a miracle if I don’t have to visit a dentist after this conversation. “You know why.”

“No, you know why. I don’t, actually.”

I sigh and pull out my guitar. Nothing seems to calm me like the guitar, apart from Sparrow. But she also drives me wild. So, guitar it is.

“Is she familiar with your father’s brand?”

I shake my head. “It’s not me.”

“But it is a part of who you are. It’s your last name.”

I try to deny it, but he’s right. My heart is beating faster, and I wish there was a way that I could skip all these uncomfortable bits. I wish I could calm the anger brewing within me. And I realize I’m so angry because I let my fear surrounding my parents interrupt my fear of telling Sparrow the full story. I haven’t even given her a choice.

“I left everything behind and moved to LA to have a life so I wouldn’t be defined or controlled by my family. How do I even talk about it? Because she lost both of her parents, and they loved her. My parents are still here, and they hate what I’m doing with my life.”

“That can’t be true.”

I casually strum my guitar, and Graham nods for me to continue.

“It’s true.” That’s all I can get out.

Graham lets out a slow whistle. “I’m sorry, man.”

I put the guitar aside because it’s making me remember the way I played my fingers on Sparrow’s spine, like my favorite chord progression. That woman has invaded my life. I stand and start conducting the air with my hands.

“I still live in LA! I have an apartment. I have a car. I’ve lived around the world ... this is a small town. I have my music to think about ... I’m here to write! She makes me want to leave everything behind ...” I’m now so worked up that I do the best thing I can think of—I take another sip of coffee.

“And you want to tell her,” Graham observes.

“Of course I want to tell her!”

“And it seems like she’s the reason you’re able to write again.” I growl in frustration at how insightful he is and resume pacing. “You still need to tell her.” He’s right, of course. Graham gestures toward my pacing and lifts a brow. “What’s the truth here?”

I groan. “The truth is, I saw her, and everything stopped. It was like all those sentimental movies we’ve seen and called fake have laughed in my face. Our connection was so real it felt like lightning. Even when I’d only seen her on the train, I couldn’t get the image of the woman with the big sweater and the darkest honey-colored hair out of my mind.” I’m wearing out the floor with my movements, and Graham just keeps listening.

“I never thought I’d see her again. And then, BAM! There she was. And when her eyes met mine, my heart danced. I mean, I write love songs—and even I thought it must be a joke. Nothing could be that real. Nothing could be that scripted. But then she said she would only date someone French—for the second time—and I froze.”

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