Chapter Five
Rafe
I can’t tell if the adorable woman in front of me is stumped, irritated, or frustrated. It’s amusing the heck out of me. And yes, I’m describing her as adorable. She’s the one who was on my train yesterday.
I got back to my seat, and in my peripheral vision, there she was, stretched out with a book featuring a picture of a woman in some sort of period clothing—I’m guessing something in the age of Mr. Darcy—and a man wearing a surprisingly great coat. She was spread out on the train seat, a slight grin on her slumbering face. If she had been awake, I would’ve asked for her number. Somehow, I think if I had seen her fully, I wouldn’t have been able to.
There’s a child with a volcano of chocolate milk erupting in the corner and a frantic mother trying to clean the sticky mess off the floor, but I don’t even glance in their direction. Normally, that type of thing would draw my attention.
But I can’t stop looking at the woman in front of me who is annihilating my thoughts of anyone else I’ve considered attractive. I heard her declaration on the train yesterday, turned around, got my first look at the side of her face, and decided I couldn’t look at her ever again if I wanted to keep a hold on my heart. And then I caught a glimpse of her sleeping. The way her bottom lip had parted just a bit as if she was ready to talk in her sleep. My chest warms, and I suddenly wish for the colder air outside. It’s too hot in here.
Her hair is the color of dark honey, and her eyes are a river of melted chocolate. I was irritated when I heard her talking about wanting to date someone French—for the second time—but now, looking at her, I can’t remember why it frustrated me. Oh, probably because it complicates any hope of a relationship with her if I wanted one. My heart and body are fighting it out with my mind right now. And my mind isn’t winning.
“What else can I get you ... Rafe?” she squeaks out.
Her eyes flutter toward the window with a grin, as if my name is satisfying to say. But then she shakes her head lightly and gives me a shy smile. When I gave her my name, I tried to be charming, but the hopeful look on her face when we first made eye contact shattered the second she heard me speak. Instinctively, I understand that she was hoping for a voice other than my own.
I think a part of me died, and I brought on some wrath from my ancestors when I butchered “please” in French. My whole mouth is bitter with the aftertaste of such a crime.
Maybe I should’ve handled this all differently, but when she was talking about wanting to date a French guy , I couldn’t get the words out. And the reason sinks soul deep.
“Uh ... ” my voice cracks. This isn’t doing me any favors.
The friend — Lily , I think her name tag reads—looks both riveted and confused. She glances at her friend and then looks back at me. Making a decision, she grabs a rag and heads toward the chocolate-milk kid. He may have left by now, for all I know, but who even cares at this point? The bell has chimed a few times, and there are definitely two or three people behind me, but again, I’m not moving. If this woman is looking at me, there’s no chance I’m doing anything to interrupt her.
“I’ll take an Americano, please?” Why do I keep turning statements into questions? I’m usually confident, able to accomplish anything I set my mind to—except for talking to this woman.
“For here?” she asks, and I manage to nod.
“That I can do ... I think,” she whispers as she slowly turns away toward the machine. She mumbles something about shaking. Without her gaze on me, my shoulders relax a bit, and I breathe a little easier. I can finally take in my surroundings.
The sounds of the café bring a smile to my face. Suddenly, I miss the mornings of sitting in the corner of a patisserie with the smell of brewed coffee, the café tables on the sidewalks, the sounds of the city, the view of mopeds rushing by ...
“Anything in it?”
ZAM. I follow the voice, and we make eye contact. I’ve been hit by lightning once again. I try to focus on anything but her eyes, probably looking like I don’t usually drink espresso and am thrown by the question or that this is a cry for help.
I shake my head too excitedly and sigh audibly when she turns back to the machine.
“You should just ask Sparrow out,” a voice behind me whispers.
I look over my shoulder to see a woman with whitening hair, a glimmer in her eyes, and a smirk as wide as the Atlantic Ocean looking at me. She nods toward the woman I now know is named Sparrow, and I feel my cheeks warm. I clear my throat. This must be what embarrassment feels like.
“I—uh—well, I . . . can’t.”
“And why not?” She’s clearly not impressed with my response.
The reasons it wouldn’t be a good idea to be involved with anyone right now filter through my head like a viewfinder: disappointed parents, writer’s block, She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, nights in Paris, mornings in Los Angeles, an ominous deadline for a demo, that moment a few nights ago where I swear I did a very masculine version of crying myself to sleep.
“That will be three-fifty,” says the angel voice from behind the counter.
My answer to the nosy customer behind me is cut off, and I’m glad for it. I pull out my wallet and pay for the drink. Usually, I would take it and rush out the door, but today, I just want to be near her a little longer. I walk around the counter, not without noticing a wink from Mystery Advice Woman. I move to the stools overlooking the espresso machine and pull one out to sit.
Well, I try to sit. I basically pull out the stool, attempt to sit, falter, and then finally make it onto the stool. Hopefully, she didn’t see. Sparrow is placing the Americano—poured into a European-looking ceramic cup—onto the counter. I move to take it a little too slowly and realize I’m saddened our fingers didn’t touch in the process. What is with me today?
She gives me a little grin, and I breathe deeply, watching the steam from the cup dance in the air. My heart is beating out of my chest. Maybe it’s all the movement in my life lately, or it could be this woman. I can’t believe her name is Sparrow. I rub a hand over my heart to try to knead out the emotion that seems to have caught there.
I look up to see Sparrow making the next set of drinks, coffee cups already neatly stacked beside each other. I know she said the coffee maker hates her, but to me, she looks perfectly in her element. Like an actual angel dropped into the middle of a café. I’m wondering if she smells like croissants and coffee when she peeks over her shoulder at me with a look I don’t know how to read.
And suddenly, I very much want to know the meaning behind every expression that crosses her face.
∞∞∞
When I walked into this charming French café in search of coffee and croissants this morning, my plan was not to sit at a barstool, trying my best to not appear like I’m loitering. Now I’m writing in the notebook I carry around in my pocket, trying to pretend like I’m working, but really, I’m listening for the cheerful song of her voice, which I’ve already memorized. I’m usually one who avoids people. And it’s not because I think more of myself than I need to, but in my line of work—and because of my family —being chased by women (and all people, really) comes with the territory. I knew this the minute I stepped in front of a microphone. Actually, I knew this the minute my father began caring about his image too much.
My family doesn’t approve of me or what I do, and it’s been a point of contention for most of my life. They think I’ll never be a good enough lyricist and musician to justify leaving the family business and legacy. They think my passion is a waste of time. But I want to make a name for myself on my own. After countless conversations where my parents sat me down for an intervention, and after years of being sent away through boarding school, university, and my own need for distance, I recognized that their dreams for me feel suffocating.
Lyrics and music have taken up space in my mind, rent free, since I was a boy. They are how I’ve processed everything in my life. They are how I know I’m alive. Fighting to find the right words to match the right notes so that I could convey what I was feeling became my obsession. As soon as I could write, I found scraps of paper and wrote out thoughts that could become songs. And as soon as I could read music, I added notes above the words like my own secret code. But it was only when I discovered that I found just as much joy in writing songs for other singers as I did in performing them on my own that I knew I was onto something.
I’ve been working to break into the industry for years, and a few years ago, I released my music with my—then—girlfriend. Not wanting to be in the spotlight at the time, I wrote the music and lyrics, and she sang the tracks. I trusted her with everything. I wish I had realized back then that she was more interested in the music than I was. And when fame started knocking on her door, she decided to take a different path, along with all the songs I had written. While I had thought we were sharing royalties and that the songs belonged to me, it turned out she made a deal to keep the rights—and the royalties.
Could I have sued her? Probably, yes. Did I have it in me to take her to court to fight for songs that were all about her anyway? No, I didn’t. I had already given her full access to my life. Plus, my parents’ warning that there would be consequences if our name got dragged through court for music and not fashion hadn’t been lost on me.
It took months before creating didn’t feel like shards of glass poking through my heart. Writing lyrics has been sporadic since. The words just aren’t there. So, to keep myself distracted from the struggle of creating new music, I’ve worn myself out trying to find any other avenues open to a working musician.
There’s too much at stake for me to do otherwise. Proving myself isn’t even about pride; it’s about making something of my life that matters. Something that makes people feel seen and not small. After the breakup, when it didn’t hurt as much, I went back to see the comments on some of the music I’d written. Discovering that I could write words that others likened to a life preserver made me want to do that for others, even if I couldn’t do it for myself.
I feel the need to be great—maybe because my parents don’t think I can be. I’m not accepted by them, and somehow, that’s bled into me not accepting myself. Not really. Oh, I know how to appear confident, and since music makes me happy, I can give a performance based on the memories of my past creativity. But a part of me always keeps a distance now. I wait for people to change me. To take the credit from me. To tell me what’s wrong with me and what I’m missing. What I could do to be better. And why do these thoughts sound like what the people closest to me have always said?
I shift on the stool, distracted from my thoughts by the woman who’s now piping filling into macarons. She’s brought out a tray so customers can see them being freshly assembled. She sells them even as she stacks them neatly into a macaron tray. The contented smile that plays on her face as she concentrates on the tiny shells has me reeling. I haven’t felt this way since the last song I wrote.
I’ve been feeling like if another personal piece of my life leaks out—which is the essence of art after all—I won’t be able to recover. My dreams are calling me to move forward, but I’m shutting down. I’m choking on all the things I haven’t been able to say. And I don’t know how to fix it.
That’s why I’m in Birch Borough—for a change of scenery and something to make me feel like I haven’t lost sight of myself after the last few years.
The New England way of life will take some adjustment after living in the City of Angels. To say it’s been a culture shock is an understatement. Two days ago, I was looking at the ocean in Hermosa Beach on the pier (yes, the same one featured in La La Land , come to think of it). It was a clear day, and one of my favorite views in the world was before me: the ocean with the mountains in view. But I was burnt out creatively. I wasn’t writing. And even the ocean couldn’t ease the nagging feeling in my chest. When my friend called and said I should stay with him in his new place for a while, I jumped at the chance. It’s even better that he got me a gig already—one that should cover the plane ticket.
I’m not a starving artist. I do quite well for myself, considering my family has basically disowned me, but I like to keep in the green each month. And unexpected trips across the country aren’t normally in the budget these days.
Following my train in from Boston, I dropped off my luggage at my friend’s house and crashed — hard. This morning, I went in search of decent coffee. I was jet lagged (still am), hungry, smelled butter, coffee, and the comfort that those things are for me, and here I am. It may be a small town, but I never thought I’d see this woman again. Does she live here? What’s her story? And why do I even care?
Given the blush on her cheeks when we met, I can’t be the only one feeling something between us. I swear I even heard her friend, Lily, say something about me to the effect of, “If he were French, you’d leave everything, and I’d never see you again.” And there’s the problem. If I had a dating rule, it would be: Don’t let love leave you empty. All the external stuff? It means nothing when you’re alone at night and find yourself wondering if the people who say they love you actually believe it themselves.
I may have lingered out of fascination for this woman, but Sparrow moved to the back a few minutes ago and hasn’t returned. I hope she’s not hiding, especially from me. I recognize that she’s probably trying to search for the answer to questions like: What to do if a guy has a sticker that’s not his name on his guitar case .
Do I even want her to know who I really am? Because if I can’t share all of myself with her, then what am I even doing here? My parents’ nagging voices telling me their name is the only thing I possess worth anything freezes me inside. Could my stay in Birch Borough be a fresh chance for people to see just ... me?
The sound of my phone buzzing on the counter startles me back into the present. I see who’s calling and ignore it. When it starts ringing again, I take the chance of leaving my stuff at the counter and head outside. Better to get this over with as soon as possible. I shiver slightly at the temperature difference between here and what I’ve been used to in LA.
Still, the warmth of the sun hitting my eyes is a sharp contrast to the voice I hear on the other end of the line.
“Son.”
I wince. Nothing like the sound of someone who should support you tearing you down instead simply by the tone of his voice. I already regret answering. I move toward the side of the building, just in case I slip and my native “Frenchness” breaks out. If I’m honest with myself—and I must be—I’m recently worn from pushing it down after all these years.
“Dad.”
There’s a pause on the line before I hear him clear his throat. The habit must run in the family. “Your mother wants you to come to dinner next Friday.”
I’m stunned. I’m never invited to dinner anymore. There must be a catch. I look across the way to a store called Ollie & Sons Toy Shop, where an older man with a sunny smile is helping a little boy learn how to use a yo-yo. It’s a nice distraction from what’s happening in my mind.
“No, thank you,” I manage.
“This isn’t a game.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I’ve already had your social footprint erased with us. I can easily remove your footprint from your retirement fund too.”
I know what he’s saying. He’s already disowned me (mostly), and he’s ready to make it more official. I wish it didn’t bother me that my father constantly finds the need to give me warnings and threats, but it does. Of course it does. So, I do what I always do. I disassociate, and somehow, I grow taller.
“One of these days, I’m just going to stop answering. If you’re mad at anyone, it needs to be yourself.”
My breathing is shallow as my father again ignores whatever he didn’t want to hear.
“ Pffff, ” he slips in a familiar sound of frustration. “And speak French . This is not who we raised you to be.”
I clench my jaw. My parents didn’t really raise me at all. Still, my father likes to tell me what to do. He’s not speaking French, and I know why. He’s somewhere in America and doesn’t want to exclude whoever is in the room. Amazing how he’s more considerate with strangers than he’s ever been with me. Unfortunately for him, I’ve made it my mission to scrub some memories—and much of my heritage—from my life. It’s killed me little by little, but I’ve done it.
“No.”
“Your mother has found someone suitable for you. Again. Well, I haven’t met her, but she agreed to tolerate your little hobby—”
“Listen to me clearly,” I interrupt. “The person I’ll be with next will love me for me . Not because of my family, or my connections, or my talent—even though you don’t agree that I have any.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line. I check the phone to make sure we’re still connected and twitch as the time keeps ticking.
“I expect that you’ll be on a plane sometime tomorrow. I’ll even be generous enough to get you a ticket . ”
“Again, no.”
He sighs audibly. “Give me a reason. If you’re going to disappoint your mother once more, I need to have a reason. A valid one.”
I look around the streets and find nothing that would be an acceptable reason to convince my father to let this go. I don’t even know why I’m trying. Rubbing a hand down my face, I turn back to look at the bakery and see Sparrow has emerged in the front of the store again and is laughing with Lily over something behind the counter.
“I think I have one.”
Ihang up and hope that I’m right.
∞∞∞
After coping with the call from my father with three more Americanos and a few macarons, I’m jittery enough to know that I may have made a mistake in leaving LA for this place—for no other reason than I’ve gotten way over my head by meeting Sparrow, and I know it. I’ve never had this much caffeine and sugar in one sitting, but my head was spinning, and my heart still felt heavy. Like some miracle, after my second Americano, I opened my notebook a few hours ago and started writing.
And now, the lyrics just keep flowing. I can’t stop. The main themes seem to be honey and meeting someone on a train. If I didn’t know any better, I would think it is because of a certain bakery/café owner (at least, I think she owns it). Lord knows my father usually drains inspiration, so it isn’t coming from my earlier call with him.
The counter vibrates, and it takes me a second to register that it’s my phone and not the coffee talking. I grin at the caller ID. The name on the screen started as a joke when we met while waiting in line at a restaurant in LA, and an actress told him he was handsome enough to be the lead in a Hallmark movie. I laughed, he was horrified, and we became instant friends. Turned out he was a lawyer. A good one. And I’m grateful to have him whenever I question just how much my parents could legally take from me.
Hallmark Hot G: Pizza tonight?
While that sounds perfect, I send the shrugging emoji just for kicks and tap my foot against the counter. He’ll be annoyed, but I think it’s time I shift my friend’s comfort levels. He’s gotten too rigid over the past few years.
Lily has started stocking the coffee bar behind me, and I wait until she’s filled all the canisters and cream containers before I subtly try to get her attention. In the limited time I’ve been observing the dynamics here, it’s clear that she may be the key to getting to know Sparrow.
“I like this place,” I manage. “It reminds me of Paris a bit.” She doesn’t turn toward me, but I see her stiffen and then get back to cleaning and tidying up like she never heard me speak. A moment later, I feel her channel a different energy, and as Sparrow grabs a tray and moves to the back, Lily is next to me in a heartbeat.
“Keep writing,” she whispers.
I glance around, trying to figure out why I’m suddenly in a spy movie, when her rag hits my knuckles.
“Ow!” I yell.
“I said . . . Keep. Writing.”
“Okay, okay,” I say and do as she instructed, although it’s really only scribbles at this point.
“You’ve been to Paris?”
I nod quickly. “Quite a bit. I lived there for a while, actually.”
“Did you like it?”
I hesitate. We’re getting too close to the truth. “Not yet.”
“You can’t ruin it for her.” She nods toward the back kitchen. “Promise?”
I nod again.
“I need words.”
“Yes,” I swallow. “I promise.”
Her swipes on the counter become less intentional and more lazy. “Are you going to break Rory’s heart?”
My spine stiffens. “No.”
“How can you promise?”
She gives me a moment to think as she walks behind me, peeks her head into the kitchen, yells something to Sparrow, and then rushes back my way. “Well?”
If I’m honest, being under her full gaze has me a little frightened. Lily’s lavender-grey eyes are so intense and intriguing that they’re like shining gems in a treasure mine. Though I feel no attraction to her at all, Lily is stunning. But there’s an edge to her—a guardedness—and I don’t ever want to be the one crossing anything or anyone she loves.
There’s movement in the back, and I know I only have a moment to get this right. I’ve let other people dictate how I view myself for long enough. I also know I can’t tell Sparrow I’m French and have it affect her opinion of me, for better or worse. My parents drop names, make plays, manipulate people’s feelings ...I’m doing my best not to be them. I feel like my secret could falsely change things between us, especially after her announcements on both the train and in this café.
I’ve had to defend myself from my father, but there are lines I won’t cross. I’ve been heartbroken enough myself to understand that hurting someone intentionally isn’t one of those lines. I won’t use my heritage as a bargaining chip when it comes to love. So, I answer Lily as honestly as I can.
“Because I never do more damage than good.” Lily searches my face and gives a slight nod before turning away from me. I don’t know if it was the answer she wanted or not, but I let out a breath.
Sparrow walks out to the main floor with a tray of cinnamon rolls, and Lily is already at her side, pulling it from her as if we didn’t just share words that will stick with me for the rest of my life. I write it all down in my notebook while Sparrow laughs with a customer who just walked in. And I suddenly feel a stirring to be more creative than I have in a long time.