Chapter Eight
Sparrow
My stomach has been fluttering all day. I would say it’s butterfly wings, but it also could be the three cups of coffee I had with a croissant. I couldn’t eat much today from the nervous energy in my system. I was hoping Rafe would stop by, but he didn’t. I don’t know why he would’ve, except to see me. Or to eat one of our amazing pieces of mille-feuille , a thousand leaves or layers , which consists of really thin and crispy layers of puff pastry that we fill with a rich vanilla pastry cream and powdered sugar. They’re more common in patisseries than a boulangerie, but it’s my mother’s recipe. It’s flaky and buttery and scrumptious, and maybe I’ve just convinced myself my stomach has more mille-feuille flakes than butterfly wings.
I don’t know what’s happened to my life in such a short time. When Jacques asked about my relationship status, I panicked. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. And all I could see at that moment was Rafe. And then I was too embarrassed by the whole debacle to go back out and tell Jacques I’m single. But I need to tell Rafe that we can’t do this—we can’t fake date. As much as it would be a dream in many ways—because let’s be honest, I can’t deny he’s dreamy—I need to rein this whole charade in before it gets out of hand.
“He’s not staying,” I speak out loud, thinking maybe if I hear it back, it will stick. My heart has been set on Jacques for months. I need to get out of this mess so that I’m free again to date him—even though I was never taken in the first place. And while pretending to date Rafe doesn’t change that, I don’t like entertaining what’s not real. I’ve learned it can be dangerous to pretend. To try to convince yourself that you’re not as alone as you are. And while I’d never want to hurt anyone in the world, maybe this is my opportunity for Jacques to finally recognize my worth and for me to be a step closer to finding a love I haven’t dared to hope for lately.
That’s why I’m pulling down a skirt that’s shorter than anything I think I’ve worn in my life, besides when I danced ballet. Granted, it’s only inches above my knee, but it might as well be a swimsuit for how much of my legs are showing compared to how I normally dress. Lily insisted that if I get to go see a man as beautiful as Rafe, as his pretend date or otherwise, then I might as well give other women a reason to cry (her words, not mine).
I don’t think it’s working, but I appreciate her confidence. I’ve managed my hair as best I can; two small braids now flow into a messy knot at the back of my neck. Between my new red lipstick, a shimmery nude eyeshadow, and a plumping mascara that—once again—Lily insisted on, I’m standing a little taller. I insisted the dress be flowy and that I could wear my ballet flats with ribbons, and she let me. Besides the length of my dress, I still feel like myself, which I appreciate.
The little venue—Nostalgia—where Rafe is playing tonight, is one my father and I would venture to each summer. It converts from a music venue to a makeshift movie theater of sorts. They often feature Old Hollywood films or classic movies, and our favorite happened to be Sabrina . My father was a Humphrey Bogart fan, and I, of course, adore Audrey Hepburn.
The memories bring a smile to my face as I see my lovely town shine in the glow of the lanterns and fairy lights hanging from the venue as I approach. There’s a group of women talking to each other, their faces animated as they chat. It’s then I notice what they’re looking at—an image of Rafe behind one of the theater’s glass-enclosed poster spaces.
I move around them to get a full glimpse and feel like I can hardly breathe. How does one go from living a life in which you don’t know someone exists to not understanding how that was ever possible? The man photographs WELL. The poster features him sitting with his guitar on the edge of a stage, his hair slightly disheveled, a five o’clock shadow on his face. I take a moment to really drink in the sight of him. It’s my opportunity to study him without the variability of his movements or words. Now that I’m researching his face, I realize his expressions are almost sculptural. You could pause his face at any moment, and it’s a study of human emotion. This photo must’ve been chosen for its ease and playfulness. He’s looking to the left and laughing, his forest eyes dancing with whatever he’s seeing off camera. I feel the warmth in my stomach as I think of that man—the one that I’m seeing on a poster—when his arm was around me. And suddenly, I’m wishing to be fully held by him.
The lights flicker overhead with my cue to go inside, and I head to the ticket booth. The outside is a bit antiquated but clean, much like our town. The gold accents have dulled a bit over the years, but it feels worn in a way that honors the past while time keeps moving forward. The person on the other side, Gladys, is the same woman who has been there since I was a child. She likes to start shenanigans in town and has a thing for our macarons at my shop. We’re also close because of her consistent communication with me via text message. Bless her, she loves to send me pictures of good-looking men once or so a week with messages such as, Thought you’d like these attractive men reading books or Here’s a fireman holding a cat . I’d like to think it’s sweet, but really, I think the photos are more for Gladys than me.
“Hi, Gladys!” I say lightly.
She takes one look at me, and I see amusement in her eyes. “You too, huh?”
I furrow my brow. “I’m sorry?” My heartbeat pulses through my ears at the thought that I must’ve been caught during my art lesson back at Rafe’s concert poster.
“Let me tell you, honey, I don’t blame you in the least. In fact, I encourage it. You’ve had too much heartache in your life, and this could be our dear Lord just giving a little love back to you.”
The theology is misguided, but her heart is in the right place. I open my mouth to ask her about my tickets when I realize she isn’t done with her little pep talk.
“I saw a glimpse of that man earlier today as he was getting some of that musician stuff out of the back of a truck, and I could’ve stared at him for the rest of my life. And that was just from behind! The way those jeans just fit his—”
“Gladys!” I yell before she can finish the sentence. Oh, Lord, please don’t let her finish that sentence.
She grins, fully knowing she’s got me flustered, and hands me an envelope. “Well, you look pretty if that’s what you’re worried about.” Oh, the blessings of being in a small town.
I let out a deep breath, enough for my bangs to catch some air before they land back on my forehead. I grin and shake my head, the smell of popcorn whirling through the air. “Thank you, Gladys.”
I cup my hand toward her as if we’re conspiring and watch as she excitedly leans closer to the glass between us. “I hope you get a look at him again, even if it is from behind,” I whisper before biting my lip to keep from laughing as she falls back in her chair with a dramatic flourish.
“From your mouth to God’s ears, honey. From your mouth to God’s ears.”
I head toward the doors and move to pull out my ticket when I see a note, barely visible, scribbled on the side.
I’m singing for you tonight, Sugar -R
My cheeks hurt from smiling so much when someone knocks into my back. I guess standing in a doorway will do that to someone.
“I’m so sorry,” I mutter, my heart racing and lifting simultaneously. I don’t know Rafe enough to know if he’s left notes and given nicknames to other girls when he’s toured. The thought sparks an ember of envy, but I extinguish it as fast as it appeared. And though, by the looks of him, the likelihood of such a scenario is high, his eyes are sincere. And my father always said one’s character is all in the eyes if you know how to look.
It may just be pretend, but tonight, someone’s waiting for me.
Once inside, I grab a drink and head to the corner of the room. I forgot how much I love this place and the feeling it exudes of a theater that’s seen and heard creativity in its proper time. While the floor creaks a bit, the acoustics are wonderful here. And the anticipation of seeing Rafe on the stage in front of me is a bit heady. My seat is right by the stage, and I will be near Rafe while he sings. I’m so close that I can see the scratch marks from shoes and equipment etched on the stage.
The lights go down, and suddenly, there he is. He walks onto the small stage, his head high and confidence humming through his frame. I don’t know how to describe him except to say he’s a vision. His hair is unruly with a few pieces cascading over his forehead. He’s wearing a white t-shirt under a brown bomber jacket that I recognize from the train and jeans that are tight in all the right places. Even his Converse high-top shoes scream my kind of guy . Vintage high tops. I honestly don’t know how I’ll last the night.
He settles on a stool and signals to the rest of the band, whom I’m just now noticing. As the opening chords start to play, I catch him sliding his gaze to the floor, across the stage, and lifting his eyes right to me. He knew I was here the whole time. He grins, and I feel my cheeks heat.
Without breaking eye contact, he speaks into the mic, “This one’s for a girl I saw on a train, and lucky for me, I got to see her again.”
He winks at me, and I’m shaken. His fingers start strumming his guitar, and I go to another dimension. In a moment, I picture my mother sitting with a guitar, me dancing around her feet as she strums. Tears brim in my eyes. I had missed that memory somehow. How could I have forgotten it? The beauty of it is that when his voice hits the air, something deep within me shifts a little more. His voice is heavy cream swirling in a cold-brew coffee. It’s the crackly top of a perfect crème br?lée. My soul wakes, and I know I can never un-hear the way his heart is melded into every word and note. Or the way his voice is twirling around my lungs and asking them to hope again.
For a brief moment, I let myself think it’s only the two of us here. Rafe is a natural onstage. Even during the songs that make me want to hug him through them, it’s unnerving how raw he can be but also so funny and animated. His lyrics are poetic and symbolic, and I want to dance to them. I haven’t touched a barre in years, but my feet seem to keep tapping to everything he’s playing. I brush a tear from my face as Rafe sings about a love that moves along without him. Somewhere moving, always moving, and when it feels like love may be seen in the distance, love still moves ahead of him every time. The beat is light, a contrast to the weight of this heartache, and I realize that he is a merging of two worlds. Old Hollywood meets current trends. Indie artist meets an A-list smile. Soft strumming with loud significance. A voice mixed with grit and grace.
Rafe catches my eyes at the end of every song and sometimes in between. He doesn’t look at me when the songs speak of sadness, but I see him glance my way whenever there’s a lyric about hope or moving forward. If I had any thoughts about calling this off, they’re getting weaker with every chorus. Before I know it, the set is over, and I’m standing on my feet with everyone else, clapping frantically and smiling so much my face may freeze like this. Rafe gives a wave and a humble nod to the crowd. I don’t miss the grin he throws my way over his shoulder as he steps into the wings.
“ C’est beau ?a !” It’s beautiful. I hear the phrase coming from somewhere to my left.
I scan the room to find the French-speaking attendee and notice, three tables over, Jacques. I can’t believe I didn’t notice him before now. I’ve been distracted by Rafe but can’t forget that it’s my mission to find what my parents had and to live, as my father would say, with the “French kind of love.” Jacques is sitting with a stunning woman. I would expect nothing less, but seeing them together still causes my stomach to stutter with a spark of jealousy. I don’t think I’m insignificant in the looks department, but I also don’t think I can compete with her perfect beauty. But as the lights go up, I find myself asking, Do I even want to ?
∞∞∞
The show ended about two minutes ago, and as I gather my clutch and stand, I notice a guitar pick hovering near the edge of the stage. It must’ve fallen during the set. I know it’s Rafe’s because of where it fell. I think of bringing it back to him, even though it’s probably ridiculous. Don’t musicians have a thousand of these? I hesitate another moment before finding some courage and heading toward the stage. Maybe he needs it or maybe he doesn’t. I reach for the guitar pick and feel an imprint near my thumb. Upon a closer look, I see an “R” etched into the custom pick. I smile lightly, glad to have grabbed it, and slide it into a hidden pocket within my clutch. I’m moving toward the entrance to leave when I see my phone light up with a message.
Unknown Number: Wait for me, please?
I don’t have to guess who it is, but even if I did, the next message clarifies.
Unknown Number: Gladys gave me your number. Hope it’s OK.
I laugh and feel the mille-feuille version of butterflies in my stomach start to flip. It was one thing to see him onstage. It’s another to know he wants to stand beside me again. We didn’t make plans tonight except for me coming to the show. And while I should tell him that we need to back out of this whole fake-dating thing, after seeing him tonight, I’m conflicted.
So, I pull out my phone to text Gladys, seeing the most recent image she sent of a man in a very tight shirt, reading a book while holding a cup of coffee, from some account called @hotdudesreading. It has remained unanswered because responding can be a bit like a jack-in-the-box situation—you know what’s coming, but her responses still surprise me every time.
Sparrow: I’m going to assume giving out my number was a moment of temporary insanity.
My phone immediately lights up with a response.
Gladys: Proof.
It’s a picture of Rafe leaning into a truck bed and pulling something out. I squeal and drop my phone.
“Everything okay?” His caramel-like voice cuts through the air.
Oh, gosh, no. I’m going to give that woman a piece of my mind when I see her next. I watch as Rafe bends to the ground to pick up my phone, and I look away before he stands up. He’s looking at me with a smirk as he hands my phone back to me.
“Looked like something either shocked you or burned you.”
Oh, you have no idea.
“Clumsy, I guess,” I manage to get out. Thankfully, he didn’t see the screen, but his expression tells me he’s enjoying the reaction he’s getting from me in this moment.
He’s about to say something else when I hear a thick French accent getting louder behind us.
“Sparrow!” Jacques yells, and Rafe flinches. Interesting. Jacques approaches and does a weird handshake thing that Rafe clearly has no idea what to do with.
Rafe makes a face, and thankfully, Jacques misses it as he pulls the woman I saw earlier closer to his side.
“Sparrow, this is Vivienne.” He smiles tightly.
She briefly dismisses me before she looks Rafe up and down, and I feel my hands clench into fists. Yes, he’s beautiful, but he’s more than a face and a body, for crying out loud. That’s why I’m still planning to talk Gladys into more appropriate usage of her smartphone camera.
Rafe must take my look to think I’m jealous of her since she’s with Jacques, when, honestly, I’m more upset at how she’s looking at him. He moves closer to me, and my world tilts as he moves his arm around me and pulls me closer. Jacques’ eyes slide down, taking in Rafe’s arm around me. Right, our fake date. I attempt to pull my brain back to the purpose of this charade: to make Jacques jealous. But I’m distracted. Even as tall as I am, I fit perfectly under his shoulder, his arm casually wrapped about my waist. Except, there’s nothing casual about it. I’m undone by his touch. I whip my head toward him, but he’s focused on whatever Jacques and Vivienne are saying, though the slight quirk of his mouth tells me he’s aware of the reaction he’s getting from me.
Well, two can play this game, buddy.
I feel like I’m on fire, but I will myself to wrap my arm around his waist, and oh good Lord, is this man made of muscle? I slip my thumb through the side of his belt loop to avoid actually touching him and applaud myself for holding it together. I may think Jacques is attractive, but even I can admit he’s got nothing on Rafe. It’s like comparing the sun with a lightbulb. Both give light, but only one is worth writing songs about.
This close to him, I smell cedar and a hint of something else I can’t name. Slowly, I close my eyes and let myself enjoy the moment, not caring if I become a statue. Just let me live here, people. Turn me into a monument if you have to.
“Sparrow?”
“Hmm . . .? ” I open my eyes and notice that Jacques is gone, along with Vivienne, and I was in such a trance that about half of the room left with them too.
Rafe gently turns me to face him, and I don’t miss the moment his fingers casually brush the fallen pieces from my updo as I move. “Are you okay?” he asks, his brow slightly wrinkled as if he’s worried.
“Uh—yes. I’m okay?”
He visibly relaxes even though I answered with a question of my own. Because I realize I may not be fine at all. My lungs constrict. What am I doing? My eyes rove over his chiseled face and notice the scar in his eyebrow, the tick in his jaw. The man before me is an invitation to cross a line into an unknown world. Perhaps in Rafe’s world, I might not be as terrified to leave the comfort of the cage I’ve built around my heart.
“Good. I wasn’t sure when I saw Jacques here with someone if that would be hard for you. I mean, it must be, right?”
I look into his eyes and melt a bit at his concern.
“Oh—of course, yeah,” I muster. “Super hard.”
He nods in understanding and sighs. “Okay, well, are you hungry? My friend told me there’s only one diner open at this time of night just outside of town. I couldn’t believe him when he told me how early everything closes here. I’m used to places being open late, but at least there’s an option close to here.”
I look up at him questioningly. “I—uh—I’m not sure . . . ” I trail off. I should call it. Let the chips fall and let this handsome no-longer-a-stranger tiptoe from my life. And suddenly, that feels wrong. So wrong.
“I just thought we could go over the terms, you know?” he says quickly. “If we’re going to be fake dating, I’m sure there are some rules we need to discuss.”
Rules? Right. I guess there should be something if we’re fake dating. But now, looking into his eyes as he waits for an answer, I see something I haven’t seen before: the sparkle of an adventure. And it’s right then and there I decide that I’m not going to pass on this opportunity to be close to him—even if I know I won’t be able to give my heart to him fully. I’ll try to remind myself again that Jacques is what I need. Wasn’t it only days ago that I would melt for him ? I shake off the truth that I’ve never reacted to a man like I have the one near me now and that Rafe is willing to help me have a chance at the life I imagine, even though I’m already blatantly aware of the cracks in its foundation.
Rafe’s deep green eyes are a little hopeful, a little cautious. And something in me pulls at how maybe—impossible as it may seem—he might need me as a friend while he’s in town. Maybe, just this once, I can give myself permission to pretend that I’m less alone in the world than I am with a man like Rafe beside me.
“Oh, sure—yes. Let’s do it.” I make a weird gesture—like a thumbs-up but with my index fingers—and quickly hide them behind my back.
He laughs in reply, and it’s stunning. His laugh is hot chocolate on a cold night. It’s the sound of crunchy leaves on a crisp fall day. My eyes widen as Rafe leans closer to me, the tone of his voice a secret I now want to keep.
“Careful, Sugar. Anyone watching might think I’m still trying to win you over. I may need to work harder to convince you this isn’t a mistake.” His inflection is light, but his gaze is steady.
As we leave the venue, the weight of his hand on my lower back and the glow of the twinkle lights adding to the dreamlike quality of how this evening is unfolding, I find myself looking at Rafe to make sure he’s still beside me. The sound of his laughter is echoing in my mind, and it’s almost as if I can hear Rafe’s voice whispering for me to believe this isn’t a mistake at all.