Page 18 of I Love You in French

She turns. “No?” The swinging door stays in place with the tip of her foot.

“I mean, yes, I want to do this. I just . . . I . . . ”

“Yes?”

“I don’t tend to trust people either.” Sharing this part of myself has me grasping for anything in a room full of kitchen equipment and baking ingredients. The truth is, something is stirring in me again that I thought was long gone. I think of what it would mean to really feel again. The discomfort. The want. The happiness. If I’m ever going to become the lyricist I want to be or remember what it was like to find joy in creating music, I need to be able to feel. And I’ve been a shell of myself for too long.

I think of what I would do, of what I would say, if my heart was light and the boy who dreamed he could be fully loved was still a part of me. He would believe that someone out of his league might want him too.

I settle into the moment and try to remember what it’s like to follow my instincts and ...play. Just for the fun of it. “If we’re dating, you probably need a nickname,” I say.

If her nose scrunching wasn’t so adorable, I’d be laughing at how light I feel right now. I’ve been anchored in pain for far too long. She crosses her arms, lightly clasping her elbows.

“What do you mean a nickname?”

My heart is beating strongly, and I’m beginning to remember what it means to want someone again. “When you’re dating, don’t people tend to have nicknames for each other? It happens in France too, I would imagine,” I encourage. We totally have nicknames for each other there.

Sparrow narrows her eyes and makes a noncommittal sound. She starts smearing the semi-dried coffee grounds on her apron in an attempt to get them off. I have to remind myself, again, not to smile. And not to notice her curves.

I clear my throat. “I can’t call you Sparrow, and I can’t call you Rory.”

“Why? That is literally my nickname,” she mutters. Her hands go out in front of her like she’s stuck pulling two baking trays from the oven.

I grin. “Because everyone calls you that.”

She holds her breath and slightly shifts the bottom of her lip. It’s distracting. I feel the heat creeping up my neck and avert my gaze. Through the kitchen window, I spot the trays of macarons in the front of the store that she was attempting to pick up from the floor when we first met. Next to them are bags of chouquettes, their bright-white pearls of sugar a contrast to the caramel-colored choux pastry underneath.

An idea hits. It’s bold, but I have a feeling I have to go all in for this woman. I remember the American movies I tried to watch as a kid. Some of them Westerns. Some of them rom-coms. I remember how I used to pretend to be smooth. I need a bit of that version of me now.

“Okay, it’s Sugar. I’m gonna be the one to call you Sugar.”

Her eyes widen, but I see a hint of light flash through them, and the dimple on her right cheek makes an appearance. “You will not.” She doesn’t hate it.

“Actually, I will.”

We’re in a stare-off, and it’s the most exciting thing I’ve been a part of in ages. A bobby pin shoots to the floor. She lets out a frustrated sound. She leans down to pick it up, and a crescent moon of skin peeks through the line between her shirt and pants. My mouth goes dry. She stands to her full height, her face a bit flushed, and pulls up the rogue piece of hair with the pin she’s reclaimed. I let my emotions leak onto my face and stare at her like she’s my next lyrics to the song I haven’t figured out how to write yet.

“Sugar.”

“Yes?” I grin.

“What are you, Southern?” she counters.

I shake my head slowly. Southern France doesn’t count here. Besides, most of my childhood was spent in Paris. “No, just a man who has a sweet tooth.” This time, I laugh at the way her mouth parts and her eyes simmer. I can admit how ridiculous I sound, but I stand by it.

Sparrow surprises me by grabbing my hand and pulling me behind her into the front of the store before letting go. Jacques is still waiting (a patient man, I’ll give him that). She nods at him, and I don’t miss the moment she rubs the hand I was holding with her other one.

“Listen, Jacques,” I start. I don’t dare touch Sparrow again, so I lean in a bit closer toward her and hope it’s convincing enough. “Why don’t you come to my show tomorrow night?”

“I’m already going to a show tomorrow night. And I was going to ask ...” He looks at me and then toward the poster now hanging on the bulletin board. I don’t know who posted it, but from the grin on Lily’s face, I’m guessing I know the answer. Where she got it from is a mystery.

Jacques looks between me and the poster. “Wait—is that you? You’re Rafe?”

I put on my meet-and-greet face and smile. It’s not fake, but it’s not the full me. I shrug my shoulders. “Guilty.”

“You’re the one on the poster? That poster?” He’s pointing at it like it’s vermin.

I want to laugh, but I refrain. It should also be noted that I’ve only wanted to laugh this much since I’ve met Sparrow. It’s like she’s released something in me that feels like joy. I didn’t know that would be possible for me again.

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