Chapter Six
Sparrow
The handsome man, aka Rafe, is back today. I was so embarrassed yesterday morning when he remembered me from the train, that when I saw him, I literally thought I was going to melt to the floor. Because, of course, seeing me asleep on a train wasn’t enough. Hearing me announce to the world that I wouldn’t date someone who wasn’t French wasn’t enough. TWICE.
No, he also had to see me covered in coffee and muttering my thoughts out loud. Because he’s the most stunning man I’ve ever seen, and all the embarrassment thus far isn’t nearly enough to right the impossibility of both of us being in the same space and there being any chance of keeping my heart in check. Have I been focused on Jacques? Yes. Does the feeling of meeting Rafe even compare? No.
I’m so frustrated that I’ve been furiously scrubbing a pot in the back of the bakery for the past ten minutes, occasionally leaving the sudsy sink and letting water drip on the floor as I peep through the window on the swinging door just to make sure he’s still here. As of fifteen seconds ago, he is. I wish I could take everything back from yesterday. I never should’ve gone to the city. Except, I always do, so I did. Every other Thursday, I stop by the graveyard to honor my parents with flowers. I also bring the journal that holds my memories of them.
And then I sit in Boston Common, drinking a cinnamon-honey latte that I remember my mother liked (or really, that my father told me she liked), and I watch the ducks and the Swan Boats and try to remember at least one memory I have of each of them and write it down. It helps me to feel connected to them. It gives me a way to honor them. And I get to see life outside of my small town, even if it’s only to keep myself from forgetting the world beyond Birch Borough.
What happened with Rafe is unsettling for several reasons. It’s the multiplication of mortification for messing up something that could’ve been wonderful. It’s the humming of change in the air before there’s stillness, and you don’t know if you muddled it up or made it better. It’s the discomfort of Lily’s words and the image of a castle with walls that are climbing higher with each tick of the clock because my heart is screaming that if I lose one more person I love from my life, something in me will permanently break. I’ve given up trying. I had to give up trying. I scrub the pot a little harder and try to ignore the burning behind my eyes. Because aren’t I breaking, regardless?
I know what this is, the melancholy that floods my soul every so often, each time a little harder than before. It’s the anger that layers itself on my heart every time I know my emotional walls ensure I’ll still be alone when I get back to my apartment tonight. And it’s the words that circulate in my head, saying that I’ll never be enough for someone I’m attracted to. And life seems to keep reiterating this truth. Except for the bakery’s account, which Lily runs, I left social media entirely because I couldn’t stomach seeing people I know getting engaged, being in love, and having babies. Not because I’m not happy for them—I am happy—but because every time I see it, I’m confronted with the idea that maybe it won’t happen for me. Not everyone gets their happily ever after, right?
I feel like I’m in a game where everyone got a manual on relationships, and I didn’t. Like whenever God was handing out the instruction guides, I didn’t hear my number called, or I was so focused on my grief that I missed the memo. I was absent when they covered this class in the school of life—the one where people seem to know how to talk to a potential partner and don’t say sabotaging things like, “You’re not French,” to perfectly eligible men they might want to date. The one where people learn how to flirt (Ha! As if anyone has ever accused me of THAT).
Itching with the need to confirm if Rafe has felt the energy of my thoughts and finally decided to bounce, I chuck the pot to the counter (that’s now clean enough to shine like a million suns) and sway toward the door. Rafe is furiously writing in a little notebook, occasionally stopping every ten seconds or so to tap the edge of the pencil against his full mouth. It’s distracting. I’m out of my element, and I’m desperately trying to make sense of the effect that his hair curling under the rim of his now-vanished baseball cap has been on loop within my mind.
I realize there’s no point in hiding back here anymore since we’re about to have an afternoon rush, and I’ve left Lily by herself for the masses (aka our town regulars) to devour all the quiches, crêpes, and croissants we prepare each day, which will be chased by copious amounts of espresso. I take a deep breath, try to fix my haphazard low ponytail, and shove the swinging door open. Apparently, my newfound resolve is too powerful, as the door smacks the wall and almost takes me out before I dodge out of the way. My eyes are wide as I focus on Lily—and decidedly not Rafe—and cross to where she stands.
“Oy, finallyyyy,” Lily huffs. “What have you been doing back there?”
I wrap my arms around myself and inwardly sink a bit with the truth. “I was cleaning a pot.”
Lily’s brow furrows. “One. Singular?” I nod. “There are, like, a million dishes stacking up in the bins, and the Music and Arts Committee is in the corner. We’ve got about fifteen more minutes of them debating on the right food truck choices and placement of the booths for Maple Fest before they’re all going to bombard the counter.”
I snap into work mode and start stacking some of our plates. They’re cream with a little sparrow in the center of each one. “Oh, gosh—the festival! I forgot they’re planning it today ... even when I passed the pumpkins in front of all the shops this morning! How is that possible?”
My gaze slides over to Rafe right as he looks up at me, like we’re already so in tune with each other that he knows my next move. He shrugs lightly, a grin ticking up one side of his mouth, and I find myself doing the same. Lily catches the exchange, and I can see she’s about to squeal. If it wasn’t so busy today, I’d banish her to the back of the store. Permanently.
I try to ignore him by taking stock of the store. Fall flowers on every table? Check. Tables cleaned and wiped? Check. Our adorable little boxes and napkins restocked? Check. Ability to ignore the beautiful man to my right? Absolutely none.
Rafe is still holding a pencil, and now he’s tapping it on the notebook. The motion makes me think of teacups, the tiny ones that rest in my apartment. Suddenly, I remember the familiar smell of chamomile and the steam that would rise from the porcelain vessel while my mother wrote with a worn-down pencil in her journal or jotted letters back home to those she loved still in Paris. I haven’t thought about that memory in years.
“Excuse me? Sparrow?” Dang, if that voice isn’t as rich as a dark-chocolate ganache. And I think I was staring. Again.
“Mm-hmm?” I manage to get out—and wait, he knows my name?
Rafe nods with a grin, and my feet involuntarily move toward him. If he has a magnet specifically crafted for me on the other side of this counter, I won’t be surprised. Dangerously, I place my elbows on the edge of the furniture between us and lean toward him. His thumb casually touches the rim of his coffee cup.
The fingers on his other hand brush the counter, seeming to move to a beat that only he can hear. I love these counters. They’ve been here since I was a little girl and are just the right amount of antique white worn down with a layer of charm. Rafe could be a model for these counters if they were available to the general public. But my father made them, so they’re one of a kind.
“Don’t ask me for another coffee.” I grin. “I can’t give it to you. I have my limits.”
Rafe contemplates what I’ve just said by continuing the tapping noise. I glance toward the rogue, familiar pencil, but it only picks up speed.
“I wanted to ask you ... ” he says, leaning closer to me. Our faces are only inches apart at this point, and I notice a dark-green ring encircling those forest eyes that seem to pull me in deeper the longer I stare at them.
“Mm-hmm?” Still nothing verbally creative happening here, folks. Keep it moving.
His eyes flicker to my lips for a fraction of a moment, and then they’re back to my eyes, intensely trying to figure me out. So, of course, I lean a little closer. The bell on the door signals that a customer has entered the store. I ignore it due to the important work of trying to discover another color in Rafe’s eyes. Lily can take care of the customer.
“Sparrow!” I hear my name spoken in a musical, French accent. Or maybe not.
I’m shocked out of the trance Rafe has me in and feel my cheeks blush. Rafe looks amused and clears his throat but not without sending a glare toward the man at the register.
“Jacques!” I hate how my voice cracks, but this man has had this effect on me since I first laid eyes on him. He’s been in town to work with a French restaurant from Boston that is opening a location in Portsmouth, which is only a town away. I’m not sure why he decided to stay in Birch Borough and not closer to the restaurant, but I haven’t been complaining. Portsmouth is typically full to the brim with renters, and we’re the next best option.
I push disheveled hair behind my ears and try not to grimace when I realize it’s already pulled back. Nervous habit. Rafe’s brow furrows even more as he looks between me and Jacques. I pull away from Rafe and ease toward the register. Meeting Jacques’ light-brown eyes, I take in his outfit: well-tailored pants (I’m guessing, since they’re blocked by the counter, but he always wears them); a grey, button-down shirt rolled up at the elbows and showing off his impeccable, caramel-toned forearms; hair always neatly arranged. He’s the version of a Frenchman that you’d see in the magazines. The one that most definitely has modeled at some point in his life (and I know this because Lily once looked him up for me). I mean, the man has literally been in a Chanel photoshoot ... in Paris . And I ... have never left New England.
I feel Rafe’s interest but can’t bring myself to look his way, not when there’s so much at stake. I don’t like how this is unfolding, but the man I’ve been hoping would ask me out for months is now here, and what if he’s ready to give me something other than his coffee and pastry order? Lily told me not to focus on Jacques, but she also said he asked about me. So, guess what, Lily? This could be my moment. Maybe all the embarrassing events that have happened in my life up to this point could turn around. This could be redemption.
“Sparrow, I’m happy to see you back,” Jacques says smoothly, his accent blurring the words in a pleasant way. “My heart stopped when you weren’t here yesterday.” A smile I haven’t seen from him yet appears as he breaks the imaginary barrier over the counter. “Don’t worry. I think it’s working now,” he says softly.
“Oh, gosh,” I mumble. I immediately see his amusement and try to make it right. “I mean, I’m happy to see you too. So happy.”
At this, I cringe. I chance a glimpse over toward Rafe, who looks confused, irritated, and like he’s trying to figure out what’s happening between me and Jacques. Me too, Rafe. Me too.
Usually, I look forward to seeing Jacques. However misdirected and absurd, in my panic, he is the one I must’ve been thinking of yesterday morning during that critical moment on the train platform. He’s the one I’ve been thinking of every morning since he showed up in town. And all this time, I’ve been hoping he would look at me in the way he’s looking at me now.
I’ve been swearing to everyone (aka Lily) that Jacques is exactly what I need. What I want. I even declared it (sort of) to the world on an (almost) moving train. He’s the very embodiment of what I’ve been waiting and praying for all these years. I mean, isn’t he?
I think about all our interactions up until this point and quickly assess the situation. Handsome? Check. Fashionable? Check. French? CHECK. Single? As far as I know. Witty? To be determined. Personality? Possibly. Interest in me? To be determined. There was the time he mentioned that my croissants reminded him of the ones he used to get when he traveled to Cannes (yes, that place). Right now, he’s making eye contact with me and isn’t breaking it, so that’s something. And yes, I realize the bar has been set really low for me to even have eye contact as a qualifying factor. But I’m also so embarrassed over all the events that have unfolded recently that my fingers are crossed that I can finally celebrate a win in getting Jacques’ attention.
“Your usual?” I manage.
“ Oui, s’il te pla?t ,” he says. Yes, please. Familiar. He’s using the familiar tense, not the formal. He never uses the familiar tense. Are we familiar? Jacques knows I understand some French, so when he is here, he throws in words and phrases here and there. But it’s always been formal. Is this a sign? It feels like a sign.
I get in motion to gather his usual order, my mind racing with possibilities. Surely this is how it begins. It must be. It starts with speaking French formally, and then informally, and then we’re in love. Sounds about right.
I stare up at the clock. It’s been exactly two minutes since Jacques walked into the bakery, and I’m shaking. My nerves are absolutely not because Rafe is watching my every movement as I grind espresso and take a pain au chocolat from the case. It’s not because of the way Rafe’s navy sweater stretches over his shoulders. Or the way I want to run my hands through his hair like I’m folding pastry dough. Wait, what?
“Sparrow, what have you been up to?” Jacques asks, looking at me over the pastry counter as I pull shots of espresso. He’s moved out of the way so Lily can take care of other customers—much to her not-delight—and I crinkle my nose. I have to get Rafe out of my mind so that I can focus on this situation.
“Oh, you know ... this and that.” I shrug.
“D’accord.” Okay .
A sound comes from Rafe that sounds suspiciously like laughter.
I shoot a pleading look at Rafe and pray that this awkward interaction will be over as quickly as possible. Or that Jacques will ask me to marry him and solve both the question and the problem in the form of the man on the barstool behind me.
Placing the pain au chocolat in a bag and with the to-go coffee cup in hand, I pass them to Jacques. His gaze shuffles toward Rafe, and I watch his jaw tense. I wonder what he thinks of the handsome newcomer.
Suddenly, he turns back toward me, and his smile is a bit—dare I say—unsure. I don’t know whether to enjoy his newly found attention or run from it.
“Sparrow, I’ve been meaning to ask you ... ” he begins. Jacques has never been one to stay at the bakery longer than necessary. While always polite, he’s usually glued to his phone. I didn’t know he’d ever noticed me. I feel Rafe leaning in for this conversation as much as I am, and it’s distracting. Sabotage.
“Yes?” I manage to get out.
Jacques does the most incredible thing. He gives me a full smile. Yet another smile I’ve never seen before, and it’s alarming how much I’m not melting right now.
“Are you seeing someone?” His voice echoes throughout the café. Croissants are held mid-air. Coffee cups clatter.
And this is the moment where I believe that there are other dimensions. As much as I’ve been wishing this would happen, there’s no way this can be real life. I feel vindicated. I feel affirmed. I feel ... confused?
“Oh—I, uh . . . ” I begin.
Lily is frozen too, completely in awe of what’s unfolding. Thank goodness the person beside her is Emma from the art studio, or this would be a bad review waiting to happen. The whole bakery has hushed. And it’s like I can see outside of myself, the way my body looks tense, the way I’m chewing on my lip ...
And, people of the world, this moment, much like the one on the train platform, is one that I will never understand. The moment that, when asked my relationship status by the man I’ve been waiting to notice me for months, instead of saying “no” or “ non, ” I look over to the man I met less than twenty-four hours ago instead and find that he’s looking at me too.