Page 39 of I Love You in French

“You’ve convinced me,” I say quietly. He chuckles, gazing deeply into my eyes.

“I’m so glad.”

We have just started to sway when he breaks the silence, his voice a whisper through the charged air encircling us. “I don’t think I’ve told you yet, but this place is special, Sparrow. I mean it. Your boulangerie could rival any place in Paris.”

I feel my jaw drop a bit. “You can’t mean that.” I know we’ve been blurring some of the lines between fiction and truth, but this is something I would hope would be clearly true.

His face shifts. There’s not a hint of amusement now. “I’m serious. I wouldn’t lie to you about that.”

I want to believe him. The music has stopped for some reason. My guess is the occasionally spotty Wi-Fi, but I don’t mention it. We seem to be moving with or without a track. “Why don’t you ever call me Rory?”

He shifts back, and his shoulders shrug as he wraps my hand tighter in his. Cradling it near his heart, I feel the beat of it against his chest. “When I was little, we went to church every Easter Sunday. It was memorable because it was the one day out of the year where my parents let me be me—there was no pressure except to attend. I just got to focus on the music and the words from the priest.” He pauses, and I think I’ve lost him in the story until he shifts back to me. “There was a verse spoken once ... about not worrying about our lives. That if God watches over the sparrows—”

“He’ll watch over us too.”

He gives a sad smile.

“I’ve heard it,” I say simply, emotion creeping up my spine. It’s hard to picture a young Rafe who needed a reminder that he was seen. “That must’ve been comforting for you.”

“Yes ... always stuck with me.” He holds my hand a little tighter. “Actually . . .” he continues, and I don’t miss the hesitation in his voice.

“What is it?” I whisper, my body warming as I go deeper into the forest within his eyes.

“I—well, I should probably just show you.” Hesitantly, he releases me and starts to unbutton the top of his denim shirt. My mouth goes dry, and my heart starts kicking my ribs. I remind myself to breathe when he stops a third of the way down.

His beautifully calloused hand, its tan a contrast against the lightness of his shirt, reveals a spot of skin over his heart. I lean closer without thinking and stop myself. His eyes not only give me permission; they ask me to see for myself. I let the tips of my fingers trace the tattoo, and I shiver at the sensation. Raised skin. Electric feelings. And the image of a small sparrow tattooed over Rafe’s heart that will forever mark my dreams.

“I got it when I was angry for being sent away for another year of boarding school. I went for a walk and sat on a bench. A sparrow landed beside me. It just sat there. I don’t even know for how long. I don’t know, it ... it felt like a sign.” He gives a sheepish smile. “I was underage, so I made a fake ID.” He smiles. “But I got the one thing I thought I wouldn’t mind having on me for the rest of my life.”

I trace the outline of the most perfect little image I’ve ever seen. I don’t know quite what it is about this man—who can hold up the world and yet still notice all its details—that has me undone. Realizing I’m still touching him, I move my hand away. He starts to slowly close the buttons, and the image of the sparrow flies away within his shirt.

“That’s why you’re Sparrow to me, and I just can’t bring myself to call you Rory. Not sure I ever will.” He reaches out his arms, and without hesitation, we’re back to swaying in the silence.

“Rafe?” His intensity surrounds me. “Never call me Rory.”

He drops his head closer to mine with a smile, his unruly hair brushing mine. “What about Sugar?”

“Oh, well, that’s just a given.”

He laughs, and I join him. Until we still, and it’s so quiet again, there’s only the sound of our breathing and the sliding of our shoes across the bakery floor.

“What about the music?” I whisper.

We continue to sway as he replies, “Oh, I know a guy.”

At this, Rafe begins to hum. And I’m mesmerized. I can feel his body vibrating with the sound, the way his breath moves in and out of his frame, and I feel the workings of his mind through the energy of his hands. He’s a living instrument, and I feel it all around and within me.

The tune he’s singing is a classic, a song my father used to play to remember my mother. He said they danced to it when they needed a break from the world. I still have the record from the great ÉdithPiaf, except Rafe’s adding his own touch to it and has slowed down the tempo enough for us to move steady and slow.

Quand il me prend dans ses bras

Il me parle tout bas

Je vois la vie en rose

In the song, a woman speaks about a man taking her in his arms and speaking softly to her, making her see the world differently. He pulls me a little closer, and this moment feels like magic. If it was wonderful hearing him sing to a crowd, it’s infinitely better when he’s singing only to me.

And as he plays with the edges of my sweater near my waist, I know it’s a moment I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

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