Page 42 of I Love You in French

I turn around, a grin playing on my face. She has a trench coat wrapped around her now, the socks and hem of her pajama dress still peeking out from beneath. “Morning, Sugar.”

Her eyes are bright as she scans my outfit, a small smile on her lips as she takes in my sneakers. She motions for me to come in, and I step into her apartment, which instantly feels like home. I try to notice as many details as possible. The French elements throughout, the pictures of her and two people who must be her parents, the way it smells like her.

I put the coffees and pastries on her farmhouse-style countertop and look at the tiny clock in the kitchen. It’s French blue with a little sparrow in the middle.

“My father gave that clock to me,” she says simply, a trace of pain laced with comfort in her voice.

“I like it.” I start to open the box of pastries and notice Sparrow hasn’t moved yet. There’s a furrow in her brow. Just when I’m tempted to reach over to smooth it, she looks at me with such certainty I almost take a step back.

“Rafe,” she begins, “would you like to go to Boston with me today?”

The offer is not what I expected, to say the least. But I feel myself grin as I motion to the pastries. “Good thing I got them to go.”

∞∞∞

Her eyes are closed, and I take the moment to hungrily take her all in. The freckles dancing across her face and the way her bottom lip is slightly fuller than her top lip. The way her lashes seem to hover over her cheeks like butterfly wings. There’s nothing pretentious about her. She’s classically stunning, her beauty mesmerizing me like a sunset. Seven wonders of the world? Please. I’ve traveled the world and never seen anything this moving in my life.

We’re sitting on a bench in Boston Common, looking at the pond. Sparrow is beside me, a cup of coffee in her hand. The scent of cinnamon and honey combined with her own sugary fragrance invades my senses. Rogue leaves still cling to the trees, the sun patchy as it reaches through the branches, creating a trail of shadows all around us.

The air is crisp and cool, filled with the scent of the nearby ocean and the sound of children playing across the way. Tourists paddle in Swan Boats on the distant pond, taking pictures and enjoying an iconic fall day in Boston.

But my only focus is the woman beside me. The top half of her face is now etched with a look of pain, her brow still furrowed, a slight crease between her eyebrows. Despite her emotional turmoil, a slight grin attempts to emerge on one side of her face. It’s not enough to bring out her dimple but enough to let me know she’s not about to cry. Whatever she’s feeling, it’s not my time to step in or rescue her—she doesn’t need that. What I sense is that she just needs me to be near her so she’s not alone.

After Sparrow invited me to accompany her today, she took a shower, and I went for a brisk walk around town. There was no way I could be in the same space with her, knowing that only a door would be between me and her with no clothing. I respect her too much to let it be otherwise. When I returned, I was ready to take on the world, and she looked like my newfound dream. She’s wearing a dress that wraps at the waist with boots and a trench coat that nearly matches mine.

We ate our pastries and the reheated coffee on the train to Boston (side-by-side, this time) and laughed the whole way here. It turns out that traveling with someone you’re falling for is actually ... fun. While she travels, Sparrow loves to comment on the potential lives and secrets of the people that happen to be on the train. She kept me fully entertained. We didn’t converse too deeply—I still don’t know why we are here, except that this is a day she tends to repeat every few weeks, and Lily thought Sparrow could use the company.

I wasn’t expecting to be invited when I knocked on her door this morning, but I did want to give her something to keep her energy and spirits up for whatever she seems to encounter every time she makes the trip to the city. The last time she returned to the shop after a notable absence on a Thursday, she seemed a little sadder than usual.

The sun shifts again, a sliver of its warmth crossing my face. I close my eyes and allow my head to tilt back, a feeling of peace settling over me. It’s being beside her, I think, that’s making such a difference. I used to feel anxious all the time, as if my legs had to keep walking and my fingers had to keep moving, but she quiets that restlessness within me.

I’m surprised when she breaks the silence.

“My parents met in Boston,” she says, without looking to see if I’m listening. She knows I am. “My mother used to bring me here. I remember her grabbing a latte and a treat for me at the café we just visited. She would bring me here, and we would sit on this bench. And my father would walk up and around and across the bridge over there ...” She nods toward the Public Garden Foot Bridge, a pedestrian bridge that crosses the lagoon, where a Swan Boat floats underneath it with passengers. “And when he reached the middle of that bridge, he would wave at us. And we would wave back.”

She clears her throat, as if she’s not used to saying the words she’s speaking between us. “And then she would wait for him. We would wait for him. And she’d point out the ducks. And the weeping willows that I still love so much. And we would watch them dance in the wind.”

I look toward the weeping branches, their delicate leaves rustled by the invisible wind playing between them. And then I look at Sparrow, her hair almost mimicking the movement—strands of it flying up and swirling around, as if part of her has been weeping too. I know it has. I reach out and pull her close to me, her head easily nesting into the crook of my neck.

“I come here every other Thursday because that’s the day of the week they met. My father did so after my mother passed, and I kept it going after ...” She stops. “It helps me to remember them. And it reminds me that there’s a world bigger than the one I’m used to. One that’s full of more possibilities. Where a woman from a small town in France and a man from a small town in America can somehow meet, and make a life, and write a story that’s worth repeating.”

“Thank you for telling me.” The simple words feel like enough.

She nestles in a little closer when a brush of wind rustles through the trees. I’m not sure how long we sit on the bench before I feel her nod against my skin. I take a deep breath. She shifts back but reaches for my hand to maintain our contact and lifts her brow as if it’s my turn.

“It would be easier if I could sing it to you,” I murmur. And I wish I could tell her what I want to say. What I know, one day, I’ll need to say. But I’ve had too many experiences with heartache, and I don’t feel brave enough yet. I’m not ready.

“Hmm. I’m sure I would love to hear it. But I think, in this moment, it would mean more if you’d speak it to me.”

I love that she sees my way of moving through the world and is asking me to give her something I couldn’t give anyone else. It’s easy for me to sing out my feelings. Much harder to let them be known without music.

I laugh lightly and pull her back beside me. She doesn’t fight it. I think she knows that having her closer to me will help me say the words I need to say—well, most of them. My heart is racing as anxiety starts to creep in. I feel a lot, but I often don’t let myself feel it like this. So honest. So open. My jaw clenches, but somehow, I find the courage to begin. I know I need to give her more of myself. “My father is a fashion designer.”

She lets out a sigh. “Ahh, yes, so that’s why you’re always so well dressed.” The amusement in her voice makes me grin, as if she finally figured out the answer to a question she’s had since we met.

“I suppose so.” My hands are cold, but I don’t want to move the one wrapped around her, so I settle for one in my pocket and one exposed. As if she can read my thoughts, Sparrow glances to my hand around her and pulls it closer so that she can wrap her gloved hands around my palm. Better. “He’s been on runways across the world. And, well, my whole life has been people trying to know me in order to get to him. Or people trying to know me in order to get seats or take selfies. Or get free clothes.”

She scoffs at this but then catches my face, and I see when she realizes I’m not joking. “Would I know him?”

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