Page 22 of I Love You in French

He laughs in reply, and it’s stunning. His laugh is hot chocolate on a cold night. It’s the sound of crunchy leaves on a crisp fall day. My eyes widen as Rafe leans closer to me, the tone of his voice a secret I now want to keep.

“Careful, Sugar. Anyone watching might think I’m still trying to win you over. I may need to work harder to convince you this isn’t a mistake.” His inflection is light, but his gaze is steady.

As we leave the venue, the weight of his hand on my lower back and the glow of the twinkle lights adding to the dreamlike quality of how this evening is unfolding, I find myself looking at Rafe to make sure he’s still beside me. The sound of his laughter is echoing in my mind, and it’s almost as if I can hear Rafe’s voice whispering for me to believe this isn’t a mistake at all.

Chapter Nine

Rafe

Well, this was stupid. Agreeing to fake date—actually, scratch that—being the one to come up with the idea to fake date someone I want to kiss into oblivion is pure torture. And we haven’t even really begun our charade. But there’s something about Sparrow that makes me want to be near her. I’m already terrified.

Being a singer and starting to tour—even in small venues—there was never a shortage of bright-eyed young women who were asking me out or telling me they were perfect for me. I respected their confidence, but I’ve always found myself drawn to someone who doesn’t have to announce who she is to light up a room. Someone I want to write about simply because she exists.

Sparrow is sitting in the passenger seat of my temporary roommate’s car (that I am borrowing for the evening), a look of both contentment and nervousness on her face. Of course she’s nervous. In one night, I brought her to my show, wrapped my arm around her, and then told her I know of a diner. Who says that? I’m not Luke from Gilmore Girls and never will be. The man is a legend.

I may not have grown up in New England or even LA, but I thank boarding school for my vast knowledge of American culture and niche shows that find a way of moving hearts and spreading love. Sparrow reminds me of an Old Hollywood star who should’ve made it to the big screen. But if she had, she’d be the one looking for ways to avoid the camera and keep her life private. This realization makes me wince. I’m not well-known like my parents, but my dream is to have my music touching lives around the world. Sparrow may not want that kind of attention, even indirectly.

We pull up to Train Car Diner (which looks exactly like it sounds—a train car converted into a diner) when I let out a sound somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. Sparrow seems to have been lost in thought too, because it takes her a full breath to notice neither of us is moving.

“You okay?” I ask her, suddenly questioning every life decision I’ve made up until this point.

“Yes, of course,” she says as her hand finds the door latch, and she softly pushes it open. She casually drops one of her legs toward the outside ground, her skirt riding up in my peripheral vision, testing my ability to keep my eyes lifted. The light breeze from outside has me swirling in her scent—caramelized sugar mixed with amber tonight. I close my eyes briefly, and when I open them, I see Sparrow semi-turned toward me, her eyes carefully peeking over her left shoulder. The best part is that she’s not trying to have this effect on me. Every move she makes is the most genuine, easy-going action. She’s a casual surgeon, and I feel another stitch move through my heart.

Before I can overthink it, I pull out the Polaroid camera I keep on the backseat and see her eyes widen. Thankfully, instead of being concerned that I just pulled out an actual camera that doesn’t exist on my phone, she leans her head back against the headrest and gives a smile that would stop the world. It stops mine for a second. And I hope the film knows how to reflect what feels like gold.

A look of amusement crosses her face. “Do you normally take pictures of your fake girlfriends?”

I swallow. “No.”

She hums and then looks toward the diner, a glint of something in her eyes.

“I’m not weird if that’s what you’re thinking. I mean, you can have it if you want. I just like to capture moments.” I look at the film and see the outlines of her form making it through. The light was perfect, the bright neon lights from the diner shooting through my car window and lighting up her face in just the right way. Like she knew how to angle her smile so it wouldn’t be forgotten.

Instead of waiting for it to fully develop, I place it on the dashboard. Hustling out of the car, I walk toward her and see she’s already closed her door. Must get faster at this. I rush to hold open the diner’s door for her, and she smiles shyly, her shoulders lifting slightly in a tiny shrug as if to say she understands this may take a minute for us to figure out. I walk into the diner behind her, a bell announcing our arrival, the smell of pancakes and grease happily hovering in the air, along with a side of coffee.

“Sit anywhere!” a woman with peppered hair and a pencil behind her ear yells as she walks to a booth in the far corner, her hands full of plates holding the biggest burgers and stacks of fries I’ve ever seen.

I look at Sparrow and see her eyes are sparkling. She looks around the room and then hesitantly looks at me. I stick my hands in my pockets and try to figure out what I should do next. There are not a ton of people here, but one section seems to be fuller than the other. I’ve been on plenty of dates before ... and this isn’t even a real date. But all my knowledge of how these things are supposed to go suddenly leaves my memory. Shouldn’t I be looking for a draft in the air in case she’s cold? Would she be more comfortable with the quieter spot or the one with more people? What if she doesn’t like a window seat? Would she want the stools? Do we sit on one side of the table if we’re only pretending to date?

A light touch on my forearm stills my overthinking brain. Sparrow nods her head toward the quieter section of the diner. “That booth looks nice,” she says as she tugs my sleeve for me to follow with a look asking if it’s okay. I nod and am grateful when she picks a side, and I can slide into the booth across from her.

“Hey, darlins,” says the woman who greeted us when we entered. Her name tag says Lucy. I see the moment when Sparrow spots her name, and she releases a smile once again. I wish I knew what brought that reaction.

We nod our thanks for the water and both order coffees. I’m grateful for something to do with my hands when they arrive and move about fiddling with sugar packets and small creamer containers.

As if reading my thoughts, she shuffles in the booth, amusement tugging her face. “One day, ask Lily why the name Lucy makes me smile, okay? It’s from one of our favorite movies.”

I manage to nod, noticing the way she mentions there will be a “one day.” It’s also ironic that she’s holding a sugar packet, given the new nickname I gave her, but I don’t point it out.

“Speaking of Lily, how long have you been friends?”

Sparrow taps the table with her fingers as if she’s calculating. She gives up. “Oh, ages,” she says. “We met when we were tiny. She announced we were friends, and that’s been it. I’ve never been more grateful.”

“Or more terrified?” I manage.

“What could you possibly be worried about?” Sparrow says while a smirk plays at the corner of her mouth. “She likes you.”

I scoff. “I don’t believe it.”

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