Page 6 of I Love You in French

And it’s not just because my parents were here, and it’s not even that I’m afraid to leave (okay, I would be a little afraid to leave). It’s mostly because this place is a part of me. I love the rhythm of it all. The changes in the weather that transform the tone of our town. The way that Chester tries to sell bushels of apples in the fall and then lavender in the summer. The way that Angie from Angie’s Pies tries to add extra cream to my coffee and extra whipped cream on my apple pie because she says I need the love. The way Ted from Ted’s Pet Shoppe takes pictures of the local rescues every year and makes a calendar to raise money for even more pets to be able to be adopted. The way Mrs. Krutchens tries to sample wine at our weekly farmers’ market, even though they only sell it by the glass.

People in high school were always talking about leaving this place. And except for the four of us girls, our class mostly did. But as much as I want to adventure to Paris, I’ve never wanted to escape Birch Borough. It’s the most magical place because I’ve never had to leave it to know its worth.

This town is a place of belonging. It’s a community that actually cares that you like pizza every Friday night and donuts every Sunday morning. A place that gives you the freedom to feel everything you’re feeling. And while they’ll send you soup when you’re sick and put your bagel “on the house” when you’re running late, they won’t judge you for it when you’re just...human.

Stopping in front of my store, I let out a little sigh. I’m so proud of it. I love what we’ve accomplished here and that it’s still doing so well, even after the loss of my father. Sure, the first few months were tough, but the town rallied around me to make sure we made more money than ever, even after the weeks we barely stayed open.

But as I study the logo and the trim, I look for answers to the nagging feeling in my bones. The one that says I could do more. Not in terms of location but with the store. My father, in his final years, mentioned one day launching something online. Our town is not very tech-savvy, but I could see it. A way to get my mother’s recipes and legacy to more people. A way to ensure this place lives beyond me as well.

I walk around the corner of Main Street toward the back of my store, the uneven cobblestones pushing through the soles of my shoes, and see my apartment with the tin-roof door. It’s not really a tin roof, but my father painted it the color of the roofs in Paris and did the same for our bakery and café so my mother would feel more at home. It’s worn now, and the paint is chipped in several places, but it still feels right.

Gathering my mail and opening the front door, the tendrils of the crisp night send a chill down my spine. The only sounds I hear are the soft sounds of the stairs beneath my feet as I climb. My dancer training may have caused me to step lightly, but I’m convinced nothing can escape a creaky old floor.

Ihesitate at the top, knowing that when I enter the apartment, I’m on my own. The store is closed for the evening, Lily is off doing Lily-like things, and there’s no one waiting for me on the other side of the door. I take a deep breath and slide in, waiting for another night to pass.

∞∞∞

I want love—the hit-me-in-the-guts-and-make-me-feel-something kind of love. A love that makes me forget these moments. This moment. The one where I’m thinking about which organic frozen meal I’m going to microwave for the fourth time this week and asking myself where I took a wrong turn to end up here.

I’m thirty years old. And in all the time I’ve lived, I’ve never once felt real love. Sure, I’ve had crushes and wished for someone’s love, but all of that? That’s really just pretend love. It’s the kind of love that excites you because you want love so badly that you’ll take the scraps. And somewhere in your soul, you know they’re only scraps. But you take them anyway. And somehow, you end up thanking the person who gave you crumbs because you’re starving, and they’re the closest thing to love that you’ve known yet.

I’ve read enough romance novels to know that—somewhere—the love that makes you want to be brave is out there. It has to be. So many things have changed, but people still write about love, sing about it. Sure, I’ve spent more time with the heartbroken than the heart-whole, but I like to think it’s taught me what love is not. And love is not this.

Don’t get me wrong. I love a good night in, and the fact that I haven’t settled, and that I’m sitting in my pjs with full possession of the remote control. But when I look in the mirror, I know I’ve never felt real love. Not romantically, anyway. And it bleeds me out, little by little.

There are very few moments in which I can fully remember my mother. But for some reason, a moment always seems to waltz into my mind from when I must’ve been three or four years old. We were sitting on a bench in Boston Common, and I remember it being sunny. And there were ducks . . .lots of them. I remember the sounds of people and families milling about and me looking up at ma maman. She was wearing a perfectly fitting white dress with brown strappy sandals, and her milk-chocolate hair flowed behind her as she drank from a paper coffee cup. I remember smelling cinnamon from whatever she was drinking and the taste from the madeleine cookie I nibbled—one of the buttery, golden ones. Whenever I recall this moment, I’m looking at the Swan Boats in the river, and then I look up at my mother, who stops drinking her coffee. A slow, blinding smile paints itself across her face, and when I follow her gaze, I see my father standing there. The smile I can’t seem to forget was for him. And I hope someday someone brings a smile like that out of me too.

I curl up on the loveseat in my apartment and play Histoire on my record player in the corner that is a CD, cassette, radio, and digital music player all in one. A candle glows on my coffee table, and a glass of rosé sits on a coaster that reads, We’ll be those dirty, filthy, almost-French, Stars Hollow girls. Lily has one that says, Oy, with the poodles already.

A picture of my parents and me from when I was around three years old takes up space on a shelf on my built-in bookcases. I have all kinds of little figurines and memories that cover the gaps before the bindings on my books. My gaze falls to a picture of my father and me right before he passed. He’s smiling, his little glasses perched on his nose, and I’m laughing at something he just said. Lily took the picture. I don’t remember what was so funny, but really, does it matter?

I miss him so much it hurts. Sometimes I feel like I take up so much space, and other times, I feel like I’m alone in a great big world caught between two worlds, two stories, two cultures—my mother’s and my father’s—and neither one of them are here to tell me how to move forward or create my own future.

The microwave sounds with its annoying alarm, and I let it ding, not quite yet willing to move. My back has arched perfectly into the couch cushions, and honestly, the sound of Histoire’s voices is doing exactly what I hoped it would—calming my nerves by hitting the right notes. The image of the guitar that was wedged between the train seats this morning puts a grin on my face. I wonder if the owner of said guitar appreciates how delightful Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling’s dance numbers and duets were.

Suddenly, the meal heated through radioactive waves sounds even less appealing than before I sat down. So I take a sip of my nearby sparkling rosé and let the microwave down by ignoring its call and pulling the blanket from the back of my well-worn couch. I blow out the apple-crisp candle in one final slouch under the blanket and let the music wash over me, the memories of my father humming as he baked croissants calling me to dream.

∞∞∞

Everything that could go wrong today has, indeed, gone wrong. There was a thunderstorm last night with torrential rain that reinforced my fear of freezing to death. I woke up to a thin layer of water all over my kitchen after accidentally leaving the window open a crack before falling asleep on my couch. Thanks, rosé, for giving me a sleep that meant I awakened to my music still playing with my alarm not even set.

I tried to make Nutella toast. It burned. I attempted coffee but realized I was fresh out. My hair, because of the aforementioned rain, is giving me such aggressive flyaways that another bobby pin is rejected as I watch it launch from my head and onto the floor. Even my shower was lackluster as I had forgotten to buy body wash, so instead of suds, I had one bubble’s worth of soap. Really. One. Bubble.

Somewhere on the sidewalk from my apartment to the front door of the bakery, I stepped in something sticky, so the bottom of my shoe sounds like it is now trying to suction the earth. I didn’t wash my favorite sweater, so I’m wearing my non-favorite sweater, which happens to have a mysterious stain on the cuff of my left sleeve.

Still, as I walk to my bakery, I can’t help but find a fresh appreciation for all that waits for me inside. Thankfully, a year or so ago, we hired a pastry chef and an assistant pastry chef to manage the baking and opening in the early morning hours, so my schedule is on my own terms these days—a freedom I don’t take for granted.

As I linger outside my store, I notice the things that make it as charming as it is in the morning light: the cream trim, the sign over the front door that was hand-painted by my mother, the café tables Lily and I chose that look like they belong in a French bistro and not in a tiny town like ours. We are situated by a river, though ... so there’s that.

I say a silent prayer that someday, someone else, a partner in this life, will love this place as much as I do—enough not to think I’m settling by being here. Enough to want to stay with me through the days and nights that I will keep these doors open. Enough to want to stay for more than the croissants (which are incredible, by the way).

I place my hand on the knob of the creaky old door and turn. If my parents had what it took to run this place, surely I can do the same today.

Chapter Four

Sparrow

“Okay, name one thing that isn’t perfect about Jacques?” Granted, I know he’s not perfect. I’m sure Lily knows that I know that, too, but she’s too kind to point out my tightly held nightly frozen-dinner habit. I’m pushing my luck with her by bringing him up again.

---