Page 48 of I Love You in French

As am I, young man. As am I.

“I’m fine. Thank you so much.”

He doesn’t believe me, but thankfully, he walks away anyway.

Jacques is amused and starts to eat his food, all politeness and refinement, and nods at the waiter as if it was perfectly reasonable to ask me such a question and perfectly reasonable for me to have almost wiped out a moment ago. Jacques is still smiling, but it’s at this moment I realize Rafe would’ve laughed. Actually, he may have thrown a piece of his own food back at me just so we’d be even. And this thought makes me ache.

“So, Jacques,” I say, attempting to distract myself ...again. “What do you think about Birch Borough?” I know he’s in the area for the next few years at least, as he mentioned as much when he first arrived.

“It’s . . . quaint.” Huh.

“Does this mean that you don’t expect to stay?”

He shakes his head adamantly. “No, of course not. I’ll be here another year more to gain business experience in America. It’s a good choice for me to be here now. But France is home.”

I smile politely, and inside, I’m sunk. Wasn’t I just telling Lily that the reason I can’t be with Rafe is because he is leaving? And didn’t I partially choose Jacques tonight on the pretense that he ...isn’t? “I didn’t realize that.”

He nods, and I think of all the ways I may have seen this situation incorrectly. He’s stunning, yes. On paper, he’s what I wanted. But off paper ...

“Sparrow, I have to tell you, you make me so nervous.”

What did he say? I make him nervous? I stuff a forkful of pasta with hardly any sauce into my mouth to buy some time. I point to my mouth in the universally acknowledged sign for “hold please, I’m chewing” (actually, that may not be true, but it was worth a shot) and wait while my brain races. I take another sip of wine to buy a few more seconds, and then I look him in the eye.

“Why?” is the devastatingly clever answer I manage.

He grins and leans a little closer. “You’re beautiful. You own a business. You’re very funny.” I shrug at this. “You’re like light. You make people feel good—they want to be around you. I want to be around you.”

To his credit, these are very kind answers. And still, I’m disappointed. The words seem right. They should feel right too, shouldn’t they? But they don’t.

“Thank you, Jacques. You’ve definitely made me nervous too.” Because he has. The past few months I was frozen when he walked in. “If you’re not staying here ...” I start, “then, um . . . what are we doing here? Tonight?”

He shifts in his seat, his brow furrowed. “You mean to date?”

I nod. He smiles. “I would like to know each other. See what happens. Next year, I’m going back to Paris. And if things are good, we could go together? No matter what happens, if you want to be in Paris too, I can help. You could even sell your business. It’s what I do.”

My shoulders slump slightly. I stare back at the face I have been hoping to see in front of me, just like this, for all these months. Now that we’re here, I realize a very important thing: He doesn’t see me. And I wouldn’t even know this to be true if I didn’t know what it’s like to be fully seen by someone else.

Jacques is kind. He’s a decent man. My mind gives me images and ideas of touring Paris with him, and as incredible as it would be to be there and feel like I was with someone who knew the culture and the language, I’d rather stumble through and discover it all with Rafe.

“That’s very kind, thank you.” I smile and resume eating. It’s pleasant enough, but I keep my words few and my smiles sincere but generic. As fancy of a place as this is, as elegant as the company, as delicious as the dessert is when we get to that point of the meal, I want to hoard all my words and my full smiles for a man who is not here, and yet I feel him as if he were.

At the end of the night, I get a kiss on the cheek from Jacques in that faire la bise type of way, with a promise to see each other around town from me and a hope we go out again from him. But we won’t.

Chapter Eighteen

Rafe

Another tree branch hits me in the face. “Ow!”

“Would you quiet down back there, D’Artagnan? You’re going to cause a scene.”

Lily and I have already been around town, trailing a romantic date that makes me feel like my insides are being ripped out as I watch. I was sitting at Graham’s tonight, trying to work up the energy to order a pizza, when Lily texted me, saying that Sparrow needed my help. Turned out, it was all a ruse for us to follow Sparrow and Jacques around on their date.

We’ve been to a fancy Italian place (and driven all around Portsmouth before we found said Italian place). We went through a drive-through (Lily insisted she had a craving and needed fuel for the mission). And now it’s dark, and we’re parked back at Lily’s apartment, walking behind some of the shops in town and through some (very sharp) tree branches extending from almost barren trees. Clusters of birch trees, the namesake of this town, stand out against the night sky, moonlight reflecting off their trunks from the river rushing to our left, its steady presence a comfort.

“Lily, why are we doing this? Do you just have a sick sense of humor or something, because this really isn’t fun for me.”

She turns to face me, a milkshake cup dangling from her hand. I didn’t see her take it from the car. How did it even get here? And when?

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