Page 19 of I Love You in French

“I am—although, not my best look, if I’m honest. But there will be some singing. Guitar. That kind of thing.”

He looks between Sparrow and me, the expression on her face still choosing how to emote itself.

“You write your own songs,” she says, looking toward me. It’s part question, part statement.

“Ah—I do, yes. And some covers. But only if it’s a song that means something to me, of course.”

Jacques shuffles his feet. “Well, I have tickets. I probably can’t return them, so ... sounds good.”

Does it, Jacques? He starts to move toward the door.

I feel Sparrow’s hand wrap lightly around my arm, and I’m not sure if it’s to keep herself steady or to further sell the fake-dating thing, but I’m here for it.

“A bientôt! See you tomorrow!” Jacques calls. The door shuts, and I look down to see Sparrow’s hand still wrapped around my arm. She peeks up at me, her eyes once again catching on a piece of my hair that must be out of place (it’s always out of place), and I notice the blush creeping up her neck as she pulls her hand from me. To break some of the tension, I hurry behind the counter (even though I’m certain I’m not allowed back here) and reach for a muffin from a nearby tray as I do. Because I’m now a thief and a musician.

I walk back around the counter in a sort of spin move, allowing myself to fully smile when I’m turned from her view. I take a bite of the muffin in my hand. It’s delicious. It shouldn’t even be legal for her to sell these things. When I turn to face her, I feel the crumbs on my face and hear myself let out an appreciative moan. It’s cinnamon and sugar, but it’s light and buttery. I peek over my shoulder to see her eyes light up.

“You like it?”

I nod and really sell how much I’m enjoying it. “So much so that I’ll leave a ticket for you at will call. Do you want one for Lily too?”

“I have a thing!” Lily yells from the back. Yes, I definitely should be scared of that one.

We laugh, and I lean a little closer to avoid Lily’s listening ears. “So, see you tomorrow night, Sugar?” I whisper conspiratorially.

And just like that, I’m using a nickname for the woman I first met on a train and never expected to see again. I freeze as a soft smile plays on her lips.

“See you tomorrow tonight,” she whispers back. She turns from where we are standing, grabs an empty canister of what was probably cookies from near the register, and moves toward the kitchen, but not without throwing me another smile as she moves through the swinging door.

Chapter Eight

Sparrow

My stomach has been fluttering all day. I would say it’s butterfly wings, but it also could be the three cups of coffee I had with a croissant. I couldn’t eat much today from the nervous energy in my system. I was hoping Rafe would stop by, but he didn’t. I don’t know why he would’ve, except to see me. Or to eat one of our amazing pieces of mille-feuille, a thousand leaves or layers, which consists of really thin and crispy layers of puff pastry that we fill with a rich vanilla pastry cream and powdered sugar. They’re more common in patisseries than a boulangerie, but it’s my mother’s recipe. It’s flaky and buttery and scrumptious, and maybe I’ve just convinced myself my stomach has more mille-feuille flakes than butterfly wings.

I don’t know what’s happened to my life in such a short time. When Jacques asked about my relationship status, I panicked. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. And all I could see at that moment was Rafe. And then I was too embarrassed by the whole debacle to go back out and tell Jacques I’m single. But I need to tell Rafe that we can’t do this—we can’t fake date. As much as it would be a dream in many ways—because let’s be honest, I can’t deny he’s dreamy—I need to rein this whole charade in before it gets out of hand.

“He’s not staying,” I speak out loud, thinking maybe if I hear it back, it will stick. My heart has been set on Jacques for months. I need to get out of this mess so that I’m free again to date him—even though I was never taken in the first place. And while pretending to date Rafe doesn’t change that, I don’t like entertaining what’s not real. I’ve learned it can be dangerous to pretend. To try to convince yourself that you’re not as alone as you are. And while I’d never want to hurt anyone in the world, maybe this is my opportunity for Jacques to finally recognize my worth and for me to be a step closer to finding a love I haven’t dared to hope for lately.

That’s why I’m pulling down a skirt that’s shorter than anything I think I’ve worn in my life, besides when I danced ballet. Granted, it’s only inches above my knee, but it might as well be a swimsuit for how much of my legs are showing compared to how I normally dress. Lily insisted that if I get to go see a man as beautiful as Rafe, as his pretend date or otherwise, then I might as well give other women a reason to cry (her words, not mine).

I don’t think it’s working, but I appreciate her confidence. I’ve managed my hair as best I can; two small braids now flow into a messy knot at the back of my neck. Between my new red lipstick, a shimmery nude eyeshadow, and a plumping mascara that—once again—Lily insisted on, I’m standing a little taller. I insisted the dress be flowy and that I could wear my ballet flats with ribbons, and she let me. Besides the length of my dress, I still feel like myself, which I appreciate.

The little venue—Nostalgia—where Rafe is playing tonight, is one my father and I would venture to each summer. It converts from a music venue to a makeshift movie theater of sorts. They often feature Old Hollywood films or classic movies, and our favorite happened to be Sabrina. My father was a Humphrey Bogart fan, and I, of course, adore Audrey Hepburn.

The memories bring a smile to my face as I see my lovely town shine in the glow of the lanterns and fairy lights hanging from the venue as I approach. There’s a group of women talking to each other, their faces animated as they chat. It’s then I notice what they’re looking at—an image of Rafe behind one of the theater’s glass-enclosed poster spaces.

I move around them to get a full glimpse and feel like I can hardly breathe. How does one go from living a life in which you don’t know someone exists to not understanding how that was ever possible? The man photographs WELL. The poster features him sitting with his guitar on the edge of a stage, his hair slightly disheveled, a five o’clock shadow on his face. I take a moment to really drink in the sight of him. It’s my opportunity to study him without the variability of his movements or words. Now that I’m researching his face, I realize his expressions are almost sculptural. You could pause his face at any moment, and it’s a study of human emotion. This photo must’ve been chosen for its ease and playfulness. He’s looking to the left and laughing, his forest eyes dancing with whatever he’s seeing off camera. I feel the warmth in my stomach as I think of that man—the one that I’m seeing on a poster—when his arm was around me. And suddenly, I’m wishing to be fully held by him.

The lights flicker overhead with my cue to go inside, and I head to the ticket booth. The outside is a bit antiquated but clean, much like our town. The gold accents have dulled a bit over the years, but it feels worn in a way that honors the past while time keeps moving forward. The person on the other side, Gladys, is the same woman who has been there since I was a child. She likes to start shenanigans in town and has a thing for our macarons at my shop. We’re also close because of her consistent communication with me via text message. Bless her, she loves to send me pictures of good-looking men once or so a week with messages such as, Thought you’d like these attractive men reading books or Here’s a fireman holding a cat. I’d like to think it’s sweet, but really, I think the photos are more for Gladys than me.

“Hi, Gladys!” I say lightly.

She takes one look at me, and I see amusement in her eyes. “You too, huh?”

I furrow my brow. “I’m sorry?” My heartbeat pulses through my ears at the thought that I must’ve been caught during my art lesson back at Rafe’s concert poster.

“Let me tell you, honey, I don’t blame you in the least. In fact, I encourage it. You’ve had too much heartache in your life, and this could be our dear Lord just giving a little love back to you.”

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