Chapter Nine
Rafe
Well, this was stupid. Agreeing to fake date—actually, scratch that—being the one to come up with the idea to fake date someone I want to kiss into oblivion is pure torture. And we haven’t even really begun our charade. But there’s something about Sparrow that makes me want to be near her. I’m already terrified.
Being a singer and starting to tour—even in small venues—there was never a shortage of bright-eyed young women who were asking me out or telling me they were perfect for me. I respected their confidence, but I’ve always found myself drawn to someone who doesn’t have to announce who she is to light up a room. Someone I want to write about simply because she exists.
Sparrow is sitting in the passenger seat of my temporary roommate’s car (that I am borrowing for the evening), a look of both contentment and nervousness on her face. Of course she’s nervous. In one night, I brought her to my show, wrapped my arm around her, and then told her I know of a diner. Who says that? I’m not Luke from Gilmore Girls and never will be. The man is a legend.
I may not have grown up in New England or even LA, but I thank boarding school for my vast knowledge of American culture and niche shows that find a way of moving hearts and spreading love. Sparrow reminds me of an Old Hollywood star who should’ve made it to the big screen. But if she had, she’d be the one looking for ways to avoid the camera and keep her life private. This realization makes me wince. I’m not well-known like my parents, but my dream is to have my music touching lives around the world. Sparrow may not want that kind of attention, even indirectly.
We pull up to Train Car Diner (which looks exactly like it sounds—a train car converted into a diner) when I let out a sound somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. Sparrow seems to have been lost in thought too, because it takes her a full breath to notice neither of us is moving.
“You okay?” I ask her, suddenly questioning every life decision I’ve made up until this point.
“Yes, of course,” she says as her hand finds the door latch, and she softly pushes it open. She casually drops one of her legs toward the outside ground, her skirt riding up in my peripheral vision, testing my ability to keep my eyes lifted. The light breeze from outside has me swirling in her scent—caramelized sugar mixed with amber tonight. I close my eyes briefly, and when I open them, I see Sparrow semi-turned toward me, her eyes carefully peeking over her left shoulder. The best part is that she’s not trying to have this effect on me. Every move she makes is the most genuine, easy-going action. She’s a casual surgeon, and I feel another stitch move through my heart.
Before I can overthink it, I pull out the Polaroid camera I keep on the backseat and see her eyes widen. Thankfully, instead of being concerned that I just pulled out an actual camera that doesn’t exist on my phone, she leans her head back against the headrest and gives a smile that would stop the world. It stops mine for a second. And I hope the film knows how to reflect what feels like gold.
A look of amusement crosses her face. “Do you normally take pictures of your fake girlfriends?”
I swallow. “No.”
She hums and then looks toward the diner, a glint of something in her eyes.
“I’m not weird if that’s what you’re thinking. I mean, you can have it if you want. I just like to capture moments.” I look at the film and see the outlines of her form making it through. The light was perfect, the bright neon lights from the diner shooting through my car window and lighting up her face in just the right way. Like she knew how to angle her smile so it wouldn’t be forgotten.
Instead of waiting for it to fully develop, I place it on the dashboard. Hustling out of the car, I walk toward her and see she’s already closed her door. Must get faster at this . I rush to hold open the diner’s door for her, and she smiles shyly, her shoulders lifting slightly in a tiny shrug as if to say she understands this may take a minute for us to figure out. I walk into the diner behind her, a bell announcing our arrival, the smell of pancakes and grease happily hovering in the air, along with a side of coffee.
“Sit anywhere!” a woman with peppered hair and a pencil behind her ear yells as she walks to a booth in the far corner, her hands full of plates holding the biggest burgers and stacks of fries I’ve ever seen.
I look at Sparrow and see her eyes are sparkling. She looks around the room and then hesitantly looks at me. I stick my hands in my pockets and try to figure out what I should do next. There are not a ton of people here, but one section seems to be fuller than the other. I’ve been on plenty of dates before ... and this isn’t even a real date . But all my knowledge of how these things are supposed to go suddenly leaves my memory. Shouldn’t I be looking for a draft in the air in case she’s cold? Would she be more comfortable with the quieter spot or the one with more people? What if she doesn’t like a window seat? Would she want the stools? Do we sit on one side of the table if we’re only pretending to date?
A light touch on my forearm stills my overthinking brain. Sparrow nods her head toward the quieter section of the diner. “That booth looks nice,” she says as she tugs my sleeve for me to follow with a look asking if it’s okay. I nod and am grateful when she picks a side, and I can slide into the booth across from her.
“Hey, darlins,” says the woman who greeted us when we entered. Her name tag says Lucy . I see the moment when Sparrow spots her name, and she releases a smile once again. I wish I knew what brought that reaction.
We nod our thanks for the water and both order coffees. I’m grateful for something to do with my hands when they arrive and move about fiddling with sugar packets and small creamer containers.
As if reading my thoughts, she shuffles in the booth, amusement tugging her face. “One day, ask Lily why the name Lucy makes me smile, okay? It’s from one of our favorite movies.”
I manage to nod, noticing the way she mentions there will be a “one day.” It’s also ironic that she’s holding a sugar packet, given the new nickname I gave her, but I don’t point it out.
“Speaking of Lily, how long have you been friends?”
Sparrow taps the table with her fingers as if she’s calculating. She gives up. “Oh, ages,” she says. “We met when we were tiny. She announced we were friends, and that’s been it. I’ve never been more grateful.”
“Or more terrified?” I manage.
“What could you possibly be worried about?” Sparrow says while a smirk plays at the corner of her mouth. “She likes you.”
I scoff. “I don’t believe it.”
“Well, has she thrown chocolate at you?”
I’m both confused and intrigued. “No.”
“Then you’re fine.” As Sparrow looks about the space, a wistful look crosses her face that I want to chase. “In high school, my friends and I would come here. There are really four of us—Lily and me and then two others I suspect you haven’t been in town long enough to meet yet.”
I shake my head.
“We would come here and sit in a booth and chat about, you know, our crushes at the time, and our parents—well, in my case at the time, parent —and we’d plan our movie nights and sleepovers. It was the best.”
I’ve seen pictures in her café of her parents but just realized there is only one of both parents with Sparrow. The rest were of her and her father alone. “Have you always lived here?”
She nods. “Mm-hmm ... my parents started the café and bakery right after I was born ... my namesake, of course. Berets can be cliché, but my father bought me one for my third birthday. There’s a picture of me in it somewhere ... Anyway, that’s how it got its name, and I couldn’t ever leave it. And I’m okay with that. Some people need to go off and be in the world, and I respect them for it. I mean, look at you; you’ve just come from LA!”
If only she knew all the places I’ve been, calling them home but never feeling at home.
“I love where I live. And except for wanting to visit Paris—which is where my mother was from—I have no desire to live anywhere but here.”
We’re interrupted again by Lucy, and I order an omelet and fries (I insist it’s far better this way than with hash browns), and Sparrow orders the same. I’m not used to eating with someone in a way that makes me feel nervous and also like I’ve put on a comfortable sweater. I know what it’s like to travel with a band, but I’m usually the lone man out. I’ve never realized how much that bothers me until I notice how nice it is to sit across from someone who wants to be here with me and isn’t trying to only talk to me about key changes or chord charts. Someone who’s content with the moment. As Sparrow gazes around the diner, her eyes crinkled in the corners like maybe she’s enjoying herself too, I realize how much I could get used to this.
∞∞∞
“Absolutely not,” I mutter.
“Oh, I agree,” she says matter-of-factly as her eyes meet mine over her steaming cup of coffee. Lucy refilled our coffees a minute ago after clearing our plates, and now I’m trying to find reasons for this night not to end. “I may be partly French, but I cannot bring myself to eat a snail.”
I smile at her rambling ways and try to think of something else to get her talking. It turns out she’s not as shy as I thought she was. I think she just needs to know someone wants to listen.
“Here, lovebirds,” Lucy sings as the biggest sundae ever, with bits of warm apple pie melting the vanilla ice cream through the chilled glass and a swirl of whipped cream and cinnamon, is placed between us on the table. Sparrow’s mouth has formed a slight O, a blush nestled on her cheeks. “On the house,” Lucy says and winks while walking away, all before I can remind her that we never ordered dessert. With the smell of cinnamon and apples swirling around us, I don’t seem to mind. It immediately reminds me of Chaussons aux Pommes , the apple turnovers I grew up eating.
Sparrow shrugs as she reaches for a spoon. She digs in for a bite, a spoon full of melting ice cream and pie hanging mid-air as the bell jingles. The look of shock on her face is enough to tell me who it is, even before I hear the French accent.
“ Bonsoir!” Well, it was a good evening. All I want to tell him is, “Au revoir.”
I try not to let my emotions show as I attempt to catch Sparrow’s eye. Her mouth is still slightly parted, the sundae forgotten, but she seems calm. Kind of.
“Uh—Jacques,” she says. Without overthinking it, I stand and do a hovering move over the table to swerve next to Sparrow. Except, she still hasn’t moved, so part of my backside is not on the bench. I look at Sparrow, but she’s focused ahead, her eyes still tracking Jacques.
He walks our way with a scarf around his neck that makes him look so very ... French. His face looks delighted as he takes in my right leg awkwardly extended from the booth. He’s studying me closely, and I’m praying fervently that he doesn’t out me. I hope he doesn’t ask my last name. Or see a bit of my father in me. It’s only then that Sparrow seems to notice my new location and the situation we’ve found ourselves in.
“Oh!” she whispers. A pink blush creeps up her neck, and I grin as she slides closer to the window, her hand still holding the spoon of (dripping) ice cream.
“Hi, Jacques,” I say, my fake media smile plastered to my face.
He nods briefly but then looks to Sparrow. They begin chatting about something to do with the bakery and croissants, and I notice the woman he was with at my show—Vivienne, was it?—creep up behind him. She’s looking at me like we’re not in a public place, and since I don’t want to give her any wrong ideas, I take the opportunity to study Jacques myself. To try to figure out why Sparrow wants him so badly. It takes me five seconds to realize that I will never understand her attraction to him. He infuriates me. And so does his date with her unsettling attention on me.
A slight burning feeling is happening on my left side, and before I can register what’s happening, Sparrow’s hand is on my shoulder. She’s close enough that I can smell her scent wrapping around me and the warmth of her fingers through my shirt. I clear my throat and decide that if she’s going to be close to me, I’m going to enjoy every moment. I do my best to let my body relax and slide my hand up her back, stopping at the nape of her neck. I begin playing with her hair, which I’ve wanted to do for the past hour, and smirk when I feel her hand grip my shoulder a little tighter. I don’t miss the way her voice cracks a bit as I wrap a tendril of her hair around my finger, wrap it, release it, and then do it again. This is my new favorite game.
“You should meet us at the art gallery,” Jacques says while glancing at his date, who’s still smirking at me, before focusing more attention on Sparrow. I suddenly want to pull a Thor and send my coffee mug to the floor. Except, I wouldn’t be yelling, “Another!” as other less-savory words circle my mind. I don’t know what to do with this new feeling of wanting someone to myself.
“Darling, do you want to go to an art show?” Her voice breaks me from my thoughts, and I turn to look between her and Jacques (and decidedly not Vivienne). Sparrow’s mannerisms are full of amusement, but her eyes tell me she really wants to know. And all I’m stuck on is that she just called me darling .
“Right now, anywhere you are is where I want to be,” I manage. And I mean it. Dropping my arm from her neck to the curve of her waist, I pull Sparrow a little closer to me and feel her ribcage expand with her breath.
“Gallery. It’s a gallery,” Jacques corrects.
She grins, and I return the gesture until we’re just two grinning people crammed on one side of a booth, making Jacques and his own date uncomfortable while they stand at an awkward distance. He mutters his goodbyes and some directions to a place I won’t remember, leading Vivienne slowly away from us, and my body refuses to move. We’re still leaning toward each other, her eyes searching mine for a clue as to what’s happening. But instead of letting her in on anything, since I can’t define what I’m doing either, I reach for the spoon with the abandoned sundae.
I get a new bite’s worth on the spoon and hold it in front of her face. Her eyes never leave mine. I remove my arm from her waist and feel myself smile when she lets out a little sigh. I cup my hand under the waiting spoon and hover it near her red-painted mouth.
“What are you doing?” she whispers, her eyes still trying to figure me out.
“Feeding you.” A drip of melted ice cream hits my palm.
“Why?”
I move my gaze from her perfect lips to the spoon and back again. “I don’t know.”
She furrows her brow. “Oh, I thought maybe Jacques was still watching.”
“Hmm,” I hum. “That would’ve made more sense.”
I will my hands to put the spoon down and walk away with as much dignity as possible when Sparrow grasps my wrist. Her touch pulses through my arm and toward my heart again, like she just can’t help but check on its condition. Instead of turning away, she takes the bite from the spoon, whipped cream and a hint of apple filling now lightly resting near her top lip, and closes her eyes in delight.
“Good?” I choke out, my pulse pounding.
“Wicked good.” She grins, and I find my thumb brushing the cream off her face ever so lightly. She stills and then settles into my touch.
“Kiss her already!” Lucy cheers from behind the counter.
Sparrow’s eyes widen, and the spell is broken as I realize how close I was to doing just that. What was almost a movie moment now feels like Lucy pouring a pitcher of ice water on my hopes and dreams. I must pay attention so I don’t forget who I am and what I want. And while it looks, sounds, and smells like the Sparrow sitting next to me, and I wish I had met her before Jacques, we both know I’m not really what she wants.
Still, I look to Sparrow, who is looking at me with what can only be described as whispers of hope breezing through her eyes, and I want it to stay. I lift my hand, and she holds her breath as I grab a piece of hair falling near her eyes. She stays still as I lightly twist it between my fingers and set it right again, never pushing it back. A smile plays at the corner of her mouth, and I think this must be a glimpse of what it feels like to be cherished and seen by someone. And even if it’s pretend, something about this doesn’t feel pretend at all. In fact, it’s so real it aches a little.
I clear my throat.
“Um . . . so, did you want anything else? Another coffee?” Lucy says while fanning herself with a pot holder in my peripheral vision.
I open my mouth to say something but close it again just as quickly. Sparrow raises an eyebrow. Without looking away from her, I find myself softly saying, “I’ll settle for that, for now.”