Page 61 of I Love You in French

I sniff and cast my eyes onto the blanket I’ve wrapped myself in. The truth of it cuts like a knife. A sharp one. “Yes, there is.”

Lily stays for a little longer before I decide to work through some of my doubts by going to the place I love most: the bakery. I plan to try the French muffin recipe I’ve been perfecting again and methodically meld ingredients so that I can feel a sense of accomplishment in seeing them come together to bring someone else joy. If only there were such a recipe for my heart.

∞∞∞

The air is heavy with something I can’t quite name. While the faint smell of sugar and melted butter waltzes with the scent of roasted coffee, another feeling lingers. My father would’ve said it’s the “fallen soufflés.” The moment you know that the heat of life has created a hole inside that will knock you to your knees as soon as it gets the chance. Sometimes, you think you can outlast it, but there’s a moment when you realize there’s nothing you can do to avoid it.

Another memory floats in of Rafe and me dancing in the corner of this bakery. He had asked me to make a wish and hold onto it. And I did. But what he doesn’t know is that the wish I made was for him. I wished I could let the pain out and trust myself to love him freely. But that wish hasn’t come true, which is why I can’t seem to do the thing I want the most: hold him for as long as he’ll let me. I don’t think I’m very brave after all.

I haven’t answered his messages. I know I need to, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to get past the words that are caught in my throat. They beat against my heart and race through my mind.

After baking a few batches of French muffins, I also make some crème brûlée macarons. The air now smells like cinnamon, butter, and caramelized sugar. I’ve even reorganized the pastry case and arranged all the supplies and ingredients for the morning pastry chef. I should arrange the coffee shipment and organize it for the open mic night tomorrow, but I don’t. It’s too close to the stage, and that would make it someplace he has been recently.

There’s a chill in the air as I look around the empty shop, and the memories flood my brain. The place where Rafe and I first officially met. The stool where he sits and keeps me company in silence (mostly). The feeling when I heard him sing for the first time. The croissant kiss that has ruined me for all other kisses. It hits me that this town is now filled with him. My safe place has become fragmented, and I’m not sure how to move forward.

I want him deeply, but he’s not what I expected. After talking with Lily and baking furiously, I’m only more convinced than ever that we’re not going to work. He’s had enough people close to him try to take his dreams from him, and I won’t be one of them, even if letting him go ruins my chances of living mine. Because, in such a short time, he’s become my dream. But after my father passed, my secret is that I promised myself I wouldn’t ever let another person into my heart who could shatter it. And after feeling how much his kisses would shatter the plans I’ve made for my life . . . well, there’s only so much a woman can take.

It’s a prince or a promise, and I’m a woman of my word.

No matter how much I may want to feel what it would be like to wake up with him next to me. Or to know what his voice sounds like first thing in the morning. Or to switch out his coffee grounds at home so he accidentally drinks decaf. Or to hide his guitar picks so he’s constantly on an Easter egg hunt. Or to think that if I could only give in to my heart, I could walk home to him one day. The thought takes my breath away until I notice my hands are burning. The towel between my hands is wrung dry, and my hands are flaming red. I was so lost in thought I hadn’t noticed.

The overhead bell jingles, and I turn to see Rafe standing in the doorframe as if conjured from my dreams. His hair is glistening from the light rain falling outside. I take him all in, and my eyes burn with the beauty of him. I used to think he was handsome, but now that I know him, he’s so much better than what is visible on the surface.

Rafe looks at me like he needs me. It’s a look that’s going to haunt me. I’m sure of it. It’s a look I’ll remember when I’m older and someone references the one they let get away. He shrugs off his navy sweater and places it on a chair to dry.

The white t-shirt he’s wearing underneath grips his biceps and the planes of his chest. The air feels dry and taut. I lick my lips to try to keep them from sticking. He slowly moves his right hand through his cinnamon hair and shakes his head slightly.

His bottom lip gets stuck to the side of his mouth in a death grip, the emotion humming between us. Finally, he looks up. “I’m leaving,” he says.

My stomach drops. My eyes begin to burn, and I will my hands to stay where they are. I feel the desperation aching in my fingers. I feel the hope in me dying, its wings slowly clipped with each passing moment. If he notices the shift, he doesn’t let on. He walks toward me and away from me at the same time and stands in front of the coffee station.

He reaches for a coffee cup on the drying rack and spins it in his hands. He won’t crush it, but he toys with it like he could. I watch his fingers flex and grip and wish I were that hunk of ceramic right now.

I hear the sounds of the shop, the ice machine, the refrigerators, and none of it matters. The whole shop could crumble, and I wouldn’t have the heart to rebuild it. He’s leaving. And I pushed him away. I want to say don’t, but the word is caught in my throat. This time, my silence is slicing us apart rather than bringing us together.

“When?” I instantly hate how gravelly the word sounds from my mouth.

He doesn’t look at me, but I see his jaw shift. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I gasp. His gaze shoots up in question. I compose my face and lift my chin. I’m too good at pretending to be unaffected, because his shoulders slump slightly, and he resumes spinning the cup.

His brows indicate he’s debating internally, but I see the moment he gives up. His eyes search the ceiling, and it’s maddening. The way he affects me is unfair. I keep trying to convince myself that he’s not what I want. He can’t be what I want.

He lets out a mirthless laugh, spins to the small sink, and places the ruthless ceramic into the basin. I watch him reach for the soap and rag and turn on the water. His muscles are tense and unyielding. He’s now washing the cup he touched, and I can’t help but feel like he’s doing the same with me.

Only, I’m not a cup. And all the years of me being on a shelf and keeping men away from my heart doesn’t magically wash away because Rafe demolished my walls. Because he did. I can admit that. And I don’t think there will ever be enough material to rebuild when he’s gone.

“Why?” I whisper.

Rafe grips the mug in one hand and presses the heel of his hand into his eyes. This is the move he makes when he’s frustrated. This is the move that he makes when he can’t think straight. Since he didn’t dry his hands first, drops of water run down his face, making it look like he’s crying. And when he wipes them and opens those forest eyes toward me, I wonder if the water left on his face actually is some of his own.

“You know why,” he says, defeated. There’s no blame. Just truth. He turns back toward the sink, and I hear a sniff from his direction.

And suddenly, I’m thinking about how, at this time tomorrow, he’ll be gone. I won’t have to worry each time I hear the bell over the door. My heart rate will get a break from the times he brings in his guitar and sings quietly in the corner. I’ll finally be alone to sort through my emotions and fear.

But he sees me.

Which is the only explanation for why I’m suddenly at his back, my hands clasped around his waist and my cheekbone digging into his back. He stills, the water still running. I feel the muscles of his shoulders stiffen against my face, but I don’t dare move.

---