Page 13 of I Love You in French

“Did you like it?”

I hesitate. We’re getting too close to the truth. “Not yet.”

“You can’t ruin it for her.” She nods toward the back kitchen. “Promise?”

I nod again.

“I need words.”

“Yes,” I swallow. “I promise.”

Her swipes on the counter become less intentional and more lazy. “Are you going to break Rory’s heart?”

My spine stiffens. “No.”

“How can you promise?”

She gives me a moment to think as she walks behind me, peeks her head into the kitchen, yells something to Sparrow, and then rushes back my way. “Well?”

If I’m honest, being under her full gaze has me a little frightened. Lily’s lavender-grey eyes are so intense and intriguing that they’re like shining gems in a treasure mine. Though I feel no attraction to her at all, Lily is stunning. But there’s an edge to her—a guardedness—and I don’t ever want to be the one crossing anything or anyone she loves.

There’s movement in the back, and I know I only have a moment to get this right. I’ve let other people dictate how I view myself for long enough. I also know I can’t tell Sparrow I’m French and have it affect her opinion of me, for better or worse. My parents drop names, make plays, manipulate people’s feelings ...I’m doing my best not to be them. I feel like my secret could falsely change things between us, especially after her announcements on both the train and in this café.

I’ve had to defend myself from my father, but there are lines I won’t cross. I’ve been heartbroken enough myself to understand that hurting someone intentionally isn’t one of those lines. I won’t use my heritage as a bargaining chip when it comes to love. So, I answer Lily as honestly as I can.

“Because I never do more damage than good.” Lily searches my face and gives a slight nod before turning away from me. I don’t know if it was the answer she wanted or not, but I let out a breath.

Sparrow walks out to the main floor with a tray of cinnamon rolls, and Lily is already at her side, pulling it from her as if we didn’t just share words that will stick with me for the rest of my life. I write it all down in my notebook while Sparrow laughs with a customer who just walked in. And I suddenly feel a stirring to be more creative than I have in a long time.

Chapter Six

Sparrow

The handsome man, aka Rafe, is back today. I was so embarrassed yesterday morning when he remembered me from the train, that when I saw him, I literally thought I was going to melt to the floor. Because, of course, seeing me asleep on a train wasn’t enough. Hearing me announce to the world that I wouldn’t date someone who wasn’t French wasn’t enough. TWICE.

No, he also had to see me covered in coffee and muttering my thoughts out loud. Because he’s the most stunning man I’ve ever seen, and all the embarrassment thus far isn’t nearly enough to right the impossibility of both of us being in the same space and there being any chance of keeping my heart in check. Have I been focused on Jacques? Yes. Does the feeling of meeting Rafe even compare? No.

I’m so frustrated that I’ve been furiously scrubbing a pot in the back of the bakery for the past ten minutes, occasionally leaving the sudsy sink and letting water drip on the floor as I peep through the window on the swinging door just to make sure he’s still here. As of fifteen seconds ago, he is. I wish I could take everything back from yesterday. I never should’ve gone to the city. Except, I always do, so I did. Every other Thursday, I stop by the graveyard to honor my parents with flowers. I also bring the journal that holds my memories of them.

And then I sit in Boston Common, drinking a cinnamon-honey latte that I remember my mother liked (or really, that my father told me she liked), and I watch the ducks and the Swan Boats and try to remember at least one memory I have of each of them and write it down. It helps me to feel connected to them. It gives me a way to honor them. And I get to see life outside of my small town, even if it’s only to keep myself from forgetting the world beyond Birch Borough.

What happened with Rafe is unsettling for several reasons. It’s the multiplication of mortification for messing up something that could’ve been wonderful. It’s the humming of change in the air before there’s stillness, and you don’t know if you muddled it up or made it better. It’s the discomfort of Lily’s words and the image of a castle with walls that are climbing higher with each tick of the clock because my heart is screaming that if I lose one more person I love from my life, something in me will permanently break. I’ve given up trying. I had to give up trying. I scrub the pot a little harder and try to ignore the burning behind my eyes. Because aren’t I breaking, regardless?

I know what this is, the melancholy that floods my soul every so often, each time a little harder than before. It’s the anger that layers itself on my heart every time I know my emotional walls ensure I’ll still be alone when I get back to my apartment tonight. And it’s the words that circulate in my head, saying that I’ll never be enough for someone I’m attracted to. And life seems to keep reiterating this truth. Except for the bakery’s account, which Lily runs, I left social media entirely because I couldn’t stomach seeing people I know getting engaged, being in love, and having babies. Not because I’m not happy for them—I am happy—but because every time I see it, I’m confronted with the idea that maybe it won’t happen for me. Not everyone gets their happily ever after, right?

I feel like I’m in a game where everyone got a manual on relationships, and I didn’t. Like whenever God was handing out the instruction guides, I didn’t hear my number called, or I was so focused on my grief that I missed the memo. I was absent when they covered this class in the school of life—the one where people seem to know how to talk to a potential partner and don’t say sabotaging things like, “You’re not French,” to perfectly eligible men they might want to date. The one where people learn how to flirt (Ha! As if anyone has ever accused me of THAT).

Itching with the need to confirm if Rafe has felt the energy of my thoughts and finally decided to bounce, I chuck the pot to the counter (that’s now clean enough to shine like a million suns) and sway toward the door. Rafe is furiously writing in a little notebook, occasionally stopping every ten seconds or so to tap the edge of the pencil against his full mouth. It’s distracting. I’m out of my element, and I’m desperately trying to make sense of the effect that his hair curling under the rim of his now-vanished baseball cap has been on loop within my mind.

I realize there’s no point in hiding back here anymore since we’re about to have an afternoon rush, and I’ve left Lily by herself for the masses (aka our town regulars) to devour all the quiches, crêpes, and croissants we prepare each day, which will be chased by copious amounts of espresso. I take a deep breath, try to fix my haphazard low ponytail, and shove the swinging door open. Apparently, my newfound resolve is too powerful, as the door smacks the wall and almost takes me out before I dodge out of the way. My eyes are wide as I focus on Lily—and decidedly not Rafe—and cross to where she stands.

“Oy, finallyyyy,” Lily huffs. “What have you been doing back there?”

I wrap my arms around myself and inwardly sink a bit with the truth. “I was cleaning a pot.”

Lily’s brow furrows. “One. Singular?” I nod. “There are, like, a million dishes stacking up in the bins, and the Music and Arts Committee is in the corner. We’ve got about fifteen more minutes of them debating on the right food truck choices and placement of the booths for Maple Fest before they’re all going to bombard the counter.”

I snap into work mode and start stacking some of our plates. They’re cream with a little sparrow in the center of each one. “Oh, gosh—the festival! I forgot they’re planning it today... even when I passed the pumpkins in front of all the shops this morning! How is that possible?”

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