Page 67 of I Love You in French

∞∞∞

Eyes still swollen and heart a little less burdened, I’m back home, reheating a piece of pot pie from Gladys, who insisted I shouldn’t waste away after letting out so much emotion.

One of Rafe’s sweatshirts is still on the back of the couch. I may or may not have smelled it several times (I have) or used it as a sort of pillow so I could go to sleep last night (I definitely did).

I shift my gaze to a photo of my father and me when I was a little girl. I had just made my first batch of croissants. The oversized oven mitts cover half my arms, my hair haphazardly brushed across my face, and my father so steady, so proud.

My father was the best man I’ve ever known. Consistently kind, gentle, and unassuming. He was the type of person who filled up a space without ever announcing his presence. Never calling attention to himself, he gave freely, and the absence of his presence was devastating. He was the one who practiced French braiding my hair so I didn’t look motherless at school and was overly concerned about making sure I never felt less of ...anything, really.

I wish I could say that I remember every single moment my father and I shared, but I’m human. And sometimes words fall short. Even when I look back on old cards or journal entries, they’re fragments of what we shared and not the whole story. It will never be the whole story. Because when you lose someone, through the force of life or through time, we’re still in the middle of our own story. All the pieces become fragments, chapters ending or new worlds beginning, and all of it brings me back to the moment, two years ago, when I saw my father awake for the last time.

He was sitting up in a hospital bed. I brought him a special treat—cookies my mother used to make. It was her own recipe. We never sold them in the shop because my mother said that while she loved everyone, she loved my father the most, and he deserved to have a cookie from her that was only made for him.

I now move through my own kitchen, gathering the ingredients and getting the mixing bowls. I turn on the oven and set my phone to Ella Fitzgerald while I work, getting lost in the movement of it all. The music of it all.

Even though my father was too sick to eat the cookies during our last moments shared here on earth, I still remember the smile across his face. He looked at those cookies like they were an old friend. And I guess, considering the memories he had shared with my mother, they were.

In honor of him and my mother, for two years, I’ve made the cookies on the anniversary of the last time I saw him. Although he passed away the next day, this is the day that I do the most remembering and hiding and processing away from the world.

As I spoon the dough onto the cookie pans, pop them in the oven, and set the timer, I take deep breaths. Reaching into my pocket, I find one of Rafe’s guitar picks I took the last time he played music in the café. It was early morning, and he had decided to play a new song for the customers while they ordered their coffees and pastries. I rotate it around through my fingers, careful not to let it fall. And it’s then I make a decision: I will never let love slip through my hands again. Hope beats hard and fierce within my chest. Maybe love is never really lost after all.

∞∞∞

I’m waiting at the edge of town, at a café I rarely frequent. It’s a chain one, and we don’t do chain stores in the heart of town. But I needed a place where I wouldn’t be too scarred from the memories of what’s about to go down. I shift in the uncomfortable seat, listening to the sounds of baristas yelling and calling out orders like we’re at an auction. It’s then that I notice him.

Jacques gives a sheepish smile and walks over to where I’m sitting. “Did you want anything?” He motions to the counter.

“No, I’m good,” I say politely. He nods and walks over to the pickup area for a tiny espresso cup, which he obviously ordered ahead.

I grin at this. Rafe would never have ordered without me. It sends a bit of a sting, but I’m learning that perspective is everything. And having him in my life for the time that he was is more than I could’ve ever hoped for. He opened my eyes to what’s possible. And what being loved by someone who doesn’t have to—who isn’t family and doesn’t require anything of me—feels like. He never responded to my last text. I didn’t expect him to after I reached out once I found out the truth. Rafe may have said he had fallen in love with me at his show, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be returning. I have to accept that my hesitation may have turned his feelings to the past tense.

When Jacques is seated before me, I take a moment to really look at him. He’s still the polished French man who makes women swoon everywhere. His style is still impeccable, and he’s meticulous in how he carries himself. And somewhere within him is a puzzle piece hinting that he might be as uncomfortable with himself as I have been with my own life.

“Jacques, I’m sorry.”

He arches a brow. “Why are you sorry? I should be the one apologizing.”

I nod politely, but we’re both to blame. “I shouldn’t have gone out with you.” His eyes widen. “Not that there’s anything wrong with you,” I add. He relaxes slightly. “But I shouldn’t have gone out with you when I knew I was in love with someone else.”

At this, he smirks and looks toward the window. “Ahh, love.” He plays with his now empty paper espresso cup and then looks up at me with an earnest expression. “You really love him?”

I nod quickly.

“And he loves you?”

I hesitate. “He did.”

“He still does.” He’s so sure, but I don’t contradict him. “Then, to me, you’re lucky.” He won’t meet my eyes. “Not all of us know what that feels like.”

We don’t stay long. We wave our goodbyes, and Jacques promises to stop by the bakery again, but we both know he won’t. He’ll be off to another French bakery in the area, looking to fill a void he hasn’t yet named.

When I step back into my bakery, I wrap an apron around myself and take a deep breath. For as much as it can be, this is home. I take in the sight of a mother and daughter sharing a croissant at the corner table and Johnny texting at the bar while drinking an Americano. I wave at Gladys, who’s eating macarons and having tea on the other side of the space and reading the latest town newsletter. Lily steps out from the back and raises a brow to ask if I’m okay. I nod and give her a grin.

“Good girl,” she says while pulling me into a side hug. I take another moment to look at the cream trim throughout the store. Everything feels so warm and cozy. The whole place smells like butter, coffee, and a hint of caramelized sugar. And there’s a look of peace on the faces of those who are here. This is home. And I’m ready to share a piece of it with the world. My mother had it right: Share a space with others to make them feel loved and watch the love that fills your life.

“Hey, Lils? What do you think about finally helping me open that online store?”

“Finally!” she yells. “So, what are you thinking? Like, we launch a website, and then what? Should we sell maple croissants first? Nobody’s selling those except us.” The look of pride and determination on her face has me grinning. Can’t have a home without a little fire, can we?

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