Page 7 of I Love You in French

My friend makes a face and goes back to grinding coffee beans—rather aggressively, actually. I try to interject, but she grins and waits until the coffee beans are turned to dust. We couldn’t use them if we tried.

“Feel better?” I ask.

“Lots.” She grimaces as she looks at the coffee dust. She sprinkles it on a batch of cookies, confirming that she is a genius.

I shake my head and motion for her to get back to the conversation.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she begins. “Let’s start with the fact that you don’t really know him. And he’s kind of... cold, no?”

I square my shoulders and lift my chin. “He’s cute. Some people, who are drawn to model types, might even say he’s beautiful.”

Lily rolls her eyes. “Since when have you been into models?”

“Never,” I mutter.

“But what if I subconsciously was saying what I want on the train platform yesterday? Because if I did end up with someone French, then it’s like ...”

“What your parents had,” Lily finishes.

I nod as she closes the gap between us with one of her koala hugs. We can’t call them bear hugs because she’s too afraid of bears to allow it. She pulls away, and I start to organize the pastry case.

“What’s so wrong with choosing a different path?”

I look up to see Lily leaning against the case, watching me work.

She grins. “I’m just saying ... is this revelation about knowing what you want, or are you avoiding a real relationship?”

I bristle and work on grinding more coffee beans to replace Lily’s coffee dust but end up watching as the coffee maker tries to sputter to life. I hit it with my palm as some nearby beans fall to the floor. The poor things are having a day like mine. Coffee grounds have claimed me and mark my apron, my hands, and—I’m pretty sure—parts of my face. I could’ve made a cup of coffee this morning with how many are glued to me at this moment.

“I don’t pay you for therapy, you know. You’re really on a roll lately.”

“You’ve been grieving for two years. You’re trying to hold on at this point.”

I clench my jaw. “Let it go, Lily.” The warning is the closest we’ll get to fighting.

“So, you’re really saying now that you’re only going to go out with a man who’s from France? Or someone who speaks French? I mean, you don’t even really speak French! It’s gotta be about more than that ... and, truthfully, it better be ... because your parents would want more for you.”

“I am not being shallow. Lily, I go home to an apartment each night alone. I have no family, except for a great-aunt who’s never written me back. I love this town, but everyone has their life—even you! So, what’s so wrong with wanting to have something like my parents had? Why does it have to make sense? Life doesn’t always make sense!”

I rearrange some bags of chouquettes—a choux pastry topped with pearl sugar—and recall a moment when I was little when my father handed me a chouquette and said he had sprinkled it with love, just like my mother would. I focus on the bags to keep up my nerve for the declaration I’m about to make. The bell over the door rings, and I will myself not to cry.

“You know what?” I announce. “I stand by what I said. And I now officially declare that I refuse to date anyone who isn’t French. If they’re not French, I’m not interested.”

Lily drops a tray of macarons she is holding, and I watch them tumble to the floor.

“You sure about that?” she whispers.

I reach out to grab some of the ruined pastries and feel my forehead tap the edge of the counter. Great, a mark to encapsulate this moment. Lily still hasn’t moved. I sigh and take in her frozen glance. She’s a goner. I hold my head and grab a rag to try to brush myself off before turning to meet the new customer. If she’s going to abandon me by becoming a statue, so be it.

Pasting a smile on my face, I turn toward where she’s staring and freeze at the sight. It’s a man. No, not a man. A man would be too pedestrian for the type of human before me. This is a Beyond Man—one you only see when you swear off all other men. And I’m pretty sure it’s the same man from the train. Scratch that; it is the man from the train. I’d recognize the way the bottom of his hair flips anywhere.

“You.” I let out a breath.

I’m taller than average, and even I have to look up to take him all in. Cinnamon-brown hair with natural highlights casually frames a set of forest-green eyes. Yes, forest green. The type of green only seen on the tall trees of a northern forest. The kind I’ve only seen in pictures.

His cheekbones and jawline perfectly highlight his full lips and stubble. His hair glistens in the sunlight. He’s wearing a navy-blue t-shirt that hugs his shoulders and chest before meeting a pair of light-colored jeans.

He clears his throat, and I realize I’ve been staring for God knows how long. Wait. How long have I been standing here?

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