Page 80 of I Love You in French

We’ve been stopped quite a few times for people to take selfies with him or get an autograph, mainly because of his parents, but for the most part, people have been respectful. And if any woman has tried to get a little too friendly (I get it, he’s gorgeous), he’s quick to put his arm around me or pull me into a bone-melting kiss.

The patisseries are enough to keep me inspired for the next several decades, and we’ve even traveled across the city. Turns out, Rafe is quite adept at riding a moped. It’s both one of the scariest and hottest things I’ve ever seen in my life (as if he needed any other reason to have me melt). We drive all throughout Paris, weaving in and out of back roads and streets that are hidden from tourists and full of life. He even talks of getting one when we get back to the States. I wouldn’t hate it.

He speaks only in French unless we’re on our own. He says he wants me to feel like I have the full French experience when we’re on the streets of Paris. It’s adorable how much he wants this trip to be everything of my dreams. But what he doesn’t fully realize is that it’s only this way because I’m with him.

So, when we’re riding on the metro all over Paris, and I see the Eiffel Tower, la tour Eiffel, in the distance (some of their metros are above ground), I’m taken back to the moment I first saw Rafe and how much our lives have changed for the better. How funny to think I was once afraid to let myself love him, when now the only fear I have is of one day not being able to remember every moment we share together.

Now, I’m leaning on the ancient stone wall of the Pont Alexandre III bridge, the wind playing with my hair that’s caught in a low bun, the light dress I’m wearing billowing around me. The air smells different here. Like croissants and cigarettes that carry a different smell of tobacco. And coffee. So much coffee. The sounds of the Seine move around us, along with the sounds of Paris traffic. I thought it might be strange for me to hear French all around me or that I’d feel out of place, but really, I feel at peace.

“You look happy,” Rafe says as he rubs small circles on my lower back and brushes his beautifully calloused fingers across the diamond ring on my left hand.

“I am happy,” I say as I turn to look at him, the setting sun causing part of his face to glow. “I’m with you.” I smile. “Husband.”

He grins before stepping behind me and wrapping his arms around me. I cover his arms with my hands and lean back onto his shoulder, allowing one of my fingers to trace his strong wrists. He marks a trail of small kisses beneath my ear and down my neck before lifting his head so that his cheek is resting beside mine. I reach one hand back to rest against one side of his face, enjoying the feel of his stubble beneath my palm.

And this is how we stay until the sun sets and the lights turn on. We hold each other while the Eiffel Tower glimmers and the city becomes the City of Light it’s known to be.

Time begins to lose meaning, except that it gives us these moments, and I think of all the ways I would try to describe how I feel. I don’t think I’d ever be able to explain it fully. Lily once asked me when it was that I knew. And it had to have been somewhere between a train and guitar picks, a dance and a very memorable croissant. But years from now, when I look back on our story, I know I’ll have no regrets for opening my heart. I’ll think about the ways I moved through fear and how he moved through fear for me. I’ll recall moments like this when I held him as my own. And oh, the way that I loved him. With a full heart, I loved him (in French).

Epilogue

Rafe

NEXT FALL

I stand in our kitchen, the stove light creating a soft glow within the space. It’s cozy and comforting and reflective of my days and nights since Sparrow and I started our life together. I listen as the espresso drips into the cups we bought in Paris last spring. Seeing her light up in the City of Light felt like the first time I really saw Paris, and it’s all thanks to Sparrow. I smell a sunflower I pulled from our petite garden this morning and set it on the wooden breakfast tray. It’s a little late for breakfast, but I know she’ll appreciate the gesture.

My girl is waiting for me upstairs. And if what I smell is correct, she’s got a bath running and some candles burning. I smile to myself and run my hand through my hair, the fire that she sparks in me kindling at the thought of us being able to spend the rest of the day together—preferably under blankets.

Sparrow is my everything, my home. I waited for someone to really see me, and she didn’t just see me, she saved me—from loneliness and especially from myself. I hum one of the songs I’ve written for her recently (because they’re all about her now) and brush my hand over the scruff on my face.

The oven timer dings. I timed it perfectly. I pull out the warmed French muffins that have made our store and my latest album famous and nearly burn myself. I put my thumb to my mouth and wait—can’t have myself burnt. Worse than this pain would be not being able to feel Sparrow underneath my fingers.

Satisfied that I’ll make it, I pop some muffins from the tin and allow the steam to melt pats of butter through the cut pieces. As it melts and flows onto the dish, I dip my finger in the melted butter and cinnamon-sugar mixture and savor it with contentment.

To imagine that my life at this point last year was me hightailing it out of LA to find the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen passed out on a train and then to spend the next several weeks trying to win over her heart ...well, I never saw it coming.

My eyes catch on the pictures of us on our refrigerator because, yes, I am the man who is sentimental enough to get them printed at our local pharmacy just so I can stare at us every time I get cream from the fridge.

There’s a photo of Sparrow when we first went to the diner, and she looked at me over her shoulder. One of the two of us on Halloween when I played the piano, and she sat beside me (Lily took that one). One of us at Thanksgiving, passed out on the couch (Lily took that one too).

Then, there are more recent photos. One of us in Paris, in Montmartre, holding the illustration an artist drew of us. One of us in Nashville, attempting to line dance. One of me laughing with my eyes closed as Sparrow kisses my cheek so hard that my face is squished. One of us in Boston Common, sitting under a willow tree and drinking coffee. One of us in LA, at the Hermosa Beach Pier near the Pacific Ocean. One of me as I play the guitar while Sparrow hugs me from behind. She does that a lot these days and snuggles her face into my shoulder each time. One of me on one knee in front of Sparrow, on the local train platform, with a ring box in my hand. One of us as we make vows to each other under hanging lantern lights in an old stone church.

Ihear a quiet humming and gather the tray so I can make my way upstairs. I love looking at pictures of us, but seeing her face in real time is even better.

∞∞∞

Sparrow continues to hum softly, the sound echoing throughout the bathroom. It greets the door where I stand on the other side, adding to the richness of her voice. I crack open the door and hear the gentle splash of her surprise.Holding up the tray as an offering, I gently put it on the counter near the towels.

Her eyes warm toward me, and I feel the swirl of love within my stomach. The gritty kind of love. The one that’s going to love this woman even when we no longer look like ourselves from the weathering of age.

A candle flickers on the corner top of the tub, casting warmth throughout the room. The diamond on her left finger sparkles in the firelight, briefly catching my attention before my mouth goes dry. The scent of rose combined with her sweet skin arrests me, and I’m not leaving her side. No chance.

“Hello, darling,” she says softly.

“Mon cœur,” I respond. My sweetheart. I often speak to her in French because she may have lost the sound of it in her life for some time, but she’ll always have it now with me. I’ll make sure of it.

Her eyes catch mine, and we linger there, a dance of who will make the next move. Without hope of a standoff, I move toward the tub and crouch down, my jean-clad knees touching the porcelain. Her breath catches, and her hands quickly try to coax the bubbles over herself. Even though I can’t see anything, it’s no use. My hands have already memorized every part she’s trying to cover. Even my semi-burnt thumb pulses now. Her body is a magnet, so I slowly dip my finger into the water as if osmosis might work this time and get me even closer to her.

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