Page 64 of I Love You in French

“Anytime. And I’m rooting for you, for what it’s worth. I hope you get your girl.” If his voice wasn’t so hollow, I would laugh or find it to be a tad dramatic, given that we’re two guys talking about the women we’ve loved and lost. But he’s right. We’re hurting, which doesn’t make it the least bit amusing at all.

“Graham? Thank you. For all of it.”

“I’m always here.” And I know he is.

We hang up, and I run my hands through my hair. It’s then that what I’ve been holding deep inside starts to creep into my consciousness. Words that I’ve been scared to say. Words that I’m terrified to speak out loud. But somehow, I know these are the words that need to be said.

∞∞∞

The lights are blinding but comforting. I’m onstage at Nashville’s newest venue for indie artists, Lyric. The irony isn’t lost on me. I decided before I came out to perform that I was going to leave my absolute all on the stage tonight. It’s the last show I have planned for a while, and it’s important to me that I finish it well.

I sing through an entire set list, my heart pounding and my throat straining with all the emotion I channel. Songs about love. Songs about heartache. Songs about chemistry and finding a home. Songs about a woman I don’t want to forget. The atmosphere is thick with all the things that I’ve left unsaid. All the things I wanted to tell her and didn’t.

What is it about life that it’s only when we’re through a moment and on the other side that we can see it for what it was? Some moments we know we’ll never forget, but why is it the ones we never expected that stick, making homes in the corners of our heart and reconstructing it in a way it wasn’t before? My heart isn’t the same as it was before I met Sparrow. There are new rooms with different views. There are new words I’ve learned that describe what love could be. It’s like she’s retuned some notes, and I couldn’t play the way I used to before I knew her, even if I wanted to. And even now, I wish she was here.

With one more song left before the end, I take a moment to look out at the crowd. A few cheers ring out, and there’s some whistling that gets a smile out of me. I ask for the lights in the house to be brought up a bit, and I make eye contact with the people in the audience. Somehow, it feels like it will be easier if I can see the people I’m talking to and tie a human connection to it all. I don’t recognize a single face. And while this is actually ideal, I close my eyes and pretend for a moment that I see hair the color of dark honey, a blue ribbon melded throughout it, and eyes like melted chocolate in the front row, with a smile that warms my heart. I choose to think it could give me courage.

“Good evening. Or bonsoir.” I swallow. “If nothing else, I hope you’ve felt something here. I hope you heard honesty in the sound of what I created tonight.” I clear my throat.

“I’m not famous for my music ... yet.” I give a little grin when some polite laughs make it through the crowd. “But if I can reach people in this way.” I tap my guitar. “If I can unlock notes and help people move forward ...” Sparrow’s words from the festival ring in my head. “If the music can help people heal ...” I smile, even though it physically hurts. “Then, to me, I’ve found success.

“There’s a French band that most people wouldn’t know here. It’s called Histoire. I’m not able to say much, but it used to be my dream. And now I have a new dream.” I shift my guitar in my hands and take a deep breath. A catcall rings through the crowd that breaks some of the tension and has me shaking my head with a forced smile.

“Thank you. I guess.” I laugh lightly, even though it feels a bit hollow. “I’ll stop talking soon, but I just need to say—feel that I need to say—that I love to play and sing, but it’s writing music that means the most to me. And it was brought to my attention that maybe the creativity I thought was once lost was just finding a way to return to me.” I begin to tune my guitar, for something to do with my hands, and try to imagine this room is full of people who are my friends. I try to imagine I’m back at the piano at Aesop’s Tavern. I’m in a café, strumming my guitar. I’m back in Birch Borough.

“Sometimes, we run from people who’ve hurt us, and sometimes we run from ourselves. I don’t want to run from myself anymore.” I pause, my gaze catching on my guitar pick that has landed on the stage near my feet. I missed it slipping from my hands.

“And I guess that’s what falling in love will do to you. Love makes you not want to hide. J’ai eu un coup de foudre.” A bolt of lightning, or it was love at first sight.

My thoughts drift to Sparrow, and I shake them away.

“So, tonight, I thought I would officially introduce myself. As if we were friends. As if I’m not hiding. Bonsoir! Good evening! I’m Raphaël Durand. I’m French, it’s true ... although, I’ve now spent most of my life in America. I recently fell in love with a woman in a small town in New England. And I—I don’t know what’s next for me, except to play for you tonight.” I see light hitting the smiles of those in the crowd. I’m being real. Tonight, I refuse to worry about putting all of myself out there. Because without Sparrow and without worrying about my parents, I have nothing left to lose.

“Enchanté. J’espère que vouz apprécierez ma prochain chanson.” I pause to swallow. Man, it feels good to be speaking in French again too. “For those who didn’t catch that, I only said it’s nice to meet you ... and I hope you enjoy my next song.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Sparrow

Lily’s eyes are wide as she runs into the back of the bakery. She’s in pajama bottoms and slippers, but her hair is done, and she’s wearing a sweater. I freeze in the middle of piping a tray of madeleines. She’s pointing at the screen of her phone, and all I can hear is a muffled voice speaking and what sounds like a guitar. Possibly some singing. It sounds a bit familiar, but I can’t make it out over the noise in the front of the café.

“Lily?”

She’s panting, her mannerisms wild. “He’s. He told. I can’t. NO.”

“What on earth is happening?” I rush to her side and look down to see that on the screen is none other than Rafe. My heart constricts. “What is happening? Is he okay?” Panic enters my voice, but I couldn’t control it if I wanted to. “Lily!”

That seems to get her attention as she pulls me from the back, the bag of madeleine batter falling to the floor. She’s still pulling me as we move through the café, past Anna, who’s working the front of house today, and out into the street.

I shake Lily off me and point toward her phone. “Lily, tell me! Is Rafe okay?”

She’s pacing back and forth and throws her phone into my hands. “I needed air. And I didn’t know—I didn’t know this is how you would find out.” She’s waiting for a reaction from me, and I’m suddenly too scared to feel whatever she’s expecting me to feel.

“Find out?” My stomach drops to my toes. It’s the same feeling as when you’re on a roller coaster and are plummeting toward the ground from the highest height.

I pull up the screen and see the headline of the video: “Histoire in Nashville.” My brows furrow because that can’t be right. Rafe did say he knew them, but this can’t be right. The video says, “Histoire in Nashville.” But Rafe is the only one onstage.

My brain won’t compute. He’s sitting on a stool, and I can’t even hear the video correctly. I shake the phone like it’s an old-school Etch A Sketch and realize that doesn’t wipe the image or make it start over. I move to the beginning of the video and hear him tell the world that he’s done hiding. And that his dream was Histoire ... he’s Histoire. He then starts speaking in French. And then singing in French. My heart rate accelerates, and all of the past several weeks of me with him and me without him flash through my mind. It’s a kaleidoscope of emotions, from anger to hurt and embarrassment to full-on longing.

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