Page 35 of I Love You in French

“I’ve been waiting to meet you. The new guy.” His brows dance, and I grin. “Your jaw okay?” he asks, and I immediately feel more at ease. He sees me.

“You own this store, sir?” I nod toward the toy store that hasn’t opened for the day. He nods with pride, his movements steady even though he is advanced in years.

“I do. And my father did before me. And my grandfather before him.” He pauses and crosses his arms.

“Wow, that’s quite a legacy.” I can’t imagine staying in one place so long. Images of my father trying to pass down his legacy to me leaves me with a sinking feeling.

“It is.” He studies me, and I let him. A piece of me is desperate to know what he’s thinking. “Son, I think you’ve got something a lot of kids lose these days.”

“And what’s that, sir?” I flinch a little bit at his use of son, but the word doesn’t make me bristle like I did a moment ago.

He grins knowingly. “Imagination.”

I blame the sudden moisture in my eyes from allergies or something in the air. It’s definitely not because of this gem of a human sitting next to me.

“Your girl has seen a lot. Felt a lot. Her dad was my best friend, you know.”

I look at him. His eyes take in the street. I know exactly who he means, and I’m loving that he just called Sparrow mine.

“Any advice for me, sir?” I ask humbly. This man is quickly becoming a legend I’ll tell my kids about, I’m sure.

He lets out a laugh. “Well, other than not calling me sir ...” He gives me a pointed look full of amusement before his face becomes solemn. “Let her know you see her. Just because everyone knows her doesn’t mean she feels seen.”

Don’t I know the feeling. Maybe what Sparrow needs is what I need too. Maybe we need each other. I clear my throat and lean back a little more, the rhythm of our rocking chairs becoming more in sync.

“Do you mind if I call you son?” he says into the morning before us.

And I find myself saying, “No, not at all.”

∞∞∞

How I ended up in this kitchen as Sparrow bakes and I ... stand awkwardly, I’ll never know. Oh, wait. I do know. It starts with Lily and ends with . . . well, Lily.

When I first walked into the bakery after meeting Ollie, all I got was, “She’s in the back,” and a motion to head there. I moved toward the kitchen, and as surprised as I thought Sparrow would be, it turns out she has a great poker face. She looked up from her work with only a slight blush on her cheek. Then she handed me an apron and motioned to the sink. I nodded to the stuffed raccoon (who still holds one of my guitar picks), and that was that.

Now I’m standing between the oven and a counter, the oven warming my backside and making me regret wearing one of my nice sweaters. Sparrow seems to like when I wear a sweater, so I thought I’d make an effort. I’m glad I did, even though I can feel my neck growing hot. I brush the hair from my forehead and, for the third time, try to put my hands in apron pockets that are nonexistent. If she’s noticed my awkwardness, she hasn’t said anything, which is a small blessing.

Sparrow mixes various elements together and effortlessly floats from each ingredient’s location to the stainless-steel equipment surrounding us.

“You move very ... gracefully,” I say tentatively, already kicking myself for using a poetic word and giving away another glimpse of how romantic my heart can be. There’s a reason I write song lyrics for a living—I often forget how much I like picturing the world as an opportunity to love someone.

Her chocolatey eyes, which look like Swiss chocolate today, captivate me. Sparrow has tiny freckles dancing across her nose and the edges of her lightly flushed cheeks.

“I’m glad my years of pliés and relevés have given me a distinct way to move through the world.”

Ah, I was right. She was a ballerina. I take in her hair, which is pulled into a bun like it was always meant to be held in such a way, and observe the curve of her neck, the set of her shoulders, the way I never hear her shoes clicking across the floor, and I’m so happy to have discovered this about her.

“Okay,” I say much too cheerily, nearly knocking over the container of flour in front of us. I find myself mirroring her small smile.

“Okay,” she says in a lower octave than normal, which causes my heart to beat again in a way I’m not familiar with ... but could get used to. “Since you’re with me today, and Lily won’t have it otherwise, you can help me make these muffins.”

I watch as long as I’m allowed before she looks at me, those pretty eyes slamming into mine. I lean closer without realizing it, and she makes an amused sound. Somehow, I’ve shifted so close that she can no longer move her right arm unless she leaves her station. Instead of embarrassing me, she smiles softly.

“If you want to grab the sugar, that would be helpful.”

I clear my throat and look for a bin of sugar, or le sucre, but all the containers look the same. Without looking over her shoulder, she says, “The one on the top right, with the ‘S’ written on the lid.”

I find it and set it near her, careful to keep my distance this time. Standing in the back of the bakery like this, watching her work, I feel more of a sense of what she’s lost. She has never mentioned her parents to me, but I know they’re no longer here. And I know firsthand that a person can only carry so much before they lose themselves in the process. But even though she’s experienced what must have been deep pain, she’s strength meeting a soft heart, and I’m in awe of her.

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