Page 20 of I Love You in French

The theology is misguided, but her heart is in the right place. I open my mouth to ask her about my tickets when I realize she isn’t done with her little pep talk.

“I saw a glimpse of that man earlier today as he was getting some of that musician stuff out of the back of a truck, and I could’ve stared at him for the rest of my life. And that was just from behind! The way those jeans just fit his—”

“Gladys!” I yell before she can finish the sentence. Oh, Lord, please don’t let her finish that sentence.

She grins, fully knowing she’s got me flustered, and hands me an envelope. “Well, you look pretty if that’s what you’re worried about.” Oh, the blessings of being in a small town.

I let out a deep breath, enough for my bangs to catch some air before they land back on my forehead. I grin and shake my head, the smell of popcorn whirling through the air. “Thank you, Gladys.”

I cup my hand toward her as if we’re conspiring and watch as she excitedly leans closer to the glass between us. “I hope you get a look at him again, even if it is from behind,” I whisper before biting my lip to keep from laughing as she falls back in her chair with a dramatic flourish.

“From your mouth to God’s ears, honey. From your mouth to God’s ears.”

I head toward the doors and move to pull out my ticket when I see a note, barely visible, scribbled on the side.

I’m singing for you tonight, Sugar -R

My cheeks hurt from smiling so much when someone knocks into my back. I guess standing in a doorway will do that to someone.

“I’m so sorry,” I mutter, my heart racing and lifting simultaneously. I don’t know Rafe enough to know if he’s left notes and given nicknames to other girls when he’s toured. The thought sparks an ember of envy, but I extinguish it as fast as it appeared. And though, by the looks of him, the likelihood of such a scenario is high, his eyes are sincere. And my father always said one’s character is all in the eyes if you know how to look.

It may just be pretend, but tonight, someone’s waiting for me.

Once inside, I grab a drink and head to the corner of the room. I forgot how much I love this place and the feeling it exudes of a theater that’s seen and heard creativity in its proper time. While the floor creaks a bit, the acoustics are wonderful here. And the anticipation of seeing Rafe on the stage in front of me is a bit heady. My seat is right by the stage, and I will be near Rafe while he sings. I’m so close that I can see the scratch marks from shoes and equipment etched on the stage.

The lights go down, and suddenly, there he is. He walks onto the small stage, his head high and confidence humming through his frame. I don’t know how to describe him except to say he’s a vision. His hair is unruly with a few pieces cascading over his forehead. He’s wearing a white t-shirt under a brown bomber jacket that I recognize from the train and jeans that are tight in all the right places. Even his Converse high-top shoes scream my kind of guy. Vintage high tops. I honestly don’t know how I’ll last the night.

He settles on a stool and signals to the rest of the band, whom I’m just now noticing. As the opening chords start to play, I catch him sliding his gaze to the floor, across the stage, and lifting his eyes right to me. He knew I was here the whole time. He grins, and I feel my cheeks heat.

Without breaking eye contact, he speaks into the mic, “This one’s for a girl I saw on a train, and lucky for me, I got to see her again.”

He winks at me, and I’m shaken. His fingers start strumming his guitar, and I go to another dimension. In a moment, I picture my mother sitting with a guitar, me dancing around her feet as she strums. Tears brim in my eyes. I had missed that memory somehow. How could I have forgotten it? The beauty of it is that when his voice hits the air, something deep within me shifts a little more. His voice is heavy cream swirling in a cold-brew coffee. It’s the crackly top of a perfect crème brûlée. My soul wakes, and I know I can never un-hear the way his heart is melded into every word and note. Or the way his voice is twirling around my lungs and asking them to hope again.

For a brief moment, I let myself think it’s only the two of us here. Rafe is a natural onstage. Even during the songs that make me want to hug him through them, it’s unnerving how raw he can be but also so funny and animated. His lyrics are poetic and symbolic, and I want to dance to them. I haven’t touched a barre in years, but my feet seem to keep tapping to everything he’s playing. I brush a tear from my face as Rafe sings about a love that moves along without him. Somewhere moving, always moving, and when it feels like love may be seen in the distance, love still moves ahead of him every time. The beat is light, a contrast to the weight of this heartache, and I realize that he is a merging of two worlds. Old Hollywood meets current trends. Indie artist meets an A-list smile. Soft strumming with loud significance. A voice mixed with grit and grace.

Rafe catches my eyes at the end of every song and sometimes in between. He doesn’t look at me when the songs speak of sadness, but I see him glance my way whenever there’s a lyric about hope or moving forward. If I had any thoughts about calling this off, they’re getting weaker with every chorus. Before I know it, the set is over, and I’m standing on my feet with everyone else, clapping frantically and smiling so much my face may freeze like this. Rafe gives a wave and a humble nod to the crowd. I don’t miss the grin he throws my way over his shoulder as he steps into the wings.

“C’est beau ça!” It’s beautiful. I hear the phrase coming from somewhere to my left.

I scan the room to find the French-speaking attendee and notice, three tables over, Jacques. I can’t believe I didn’t notice him before now. I’ve been distracted by Rafe but can’t forget that it’s my mission to find what my parents had and to live, as my father would say, with the “French kind of love.” Jacques is sitting with a stunning woman. I would expect nothing less, but seeing them together still causes my stomach to stutter with a spark of jealousy. I don’t think I’m insignificant in the looks department, but I also don’t think I can compete with her perfect beauty. But as the lights go up, I find myself asking, Do I even want to?

∞∞∞

The show ended about two minutes ago, and as I gather my clutch and stand, I notice a guitar pick hovering near the edge of the stage. It must’ve fallen during the set. I know it’s Rafe’s because of where it fell. I think of bringing it back to him, even though it’s probably ridiculous. Don’t musicians have a thousand of these? I hesitate another moment before finding some courage and heading toward the stage. Maybe he needs it or maybe he doesn’t. I reach for the guitar pick and feel an imprint near my thumb. Upon a closer look, I see an “R” etched into the custom pick. I smile lightly, glad to have grabbed it, and slide it into a hidden pocket within my clutch. I’m moving toward the entrance to leave when I see my phone light up with a message.

Unknown Number: Wait for me, please?

I don’t have to guess who it is, but even if I did, the next message clarifies.

Unknown Number: Gladys gave me your number. Hope it’s OK.

I laugh and feel the mille-feuille version of butterflies in my stomach start to flip. It was one thing to see him onstage. It’s another to know he wants to stand beside me again. We didn’t make plans tonight except for me coming to the show. And while I should tell him that we need to back out of this whole fake-dating thing, after seeing him tonight, I’m conflicted.

So, I pull out my phone to text Gladys, seeing the most recent image she sent of a man in a very tight shirt, reading a book while holding a cup of coffee, from some account called @hotdudesreading. It has remained unanswered because responding can be a bit like a jack-in-the-box situation—you know what’s coming, but her responses still surprise me every time.

Sparrow: I’m going to assume giving out my number was a moment of temporary insanity.

My phone immediately lights up with a response.

---