Chapter Eleven
Rafe
I hum quietly to the pieces of a song playing through my earphones. I’m hooked up to a sound booth sort of situation in the back of The Music Store. Liam, its owner, is younger than I expected. I looked him up, and while he is renowned in this region for jazz music, he works with musical artists across multiple genres and is a multi-instrumentalist. Apparently, his father was a drummer in a famous band in the eighties, and while Liam never wanted to tour, music is his life. I can relate.
Being attached to an instrument in the studio is where I feel the most at home. It quiets the noise and makes me feel things I otherwise wouldn’t let myself feel. I’ve been in therapy over the years, my parents insisting upon it when they thought I wasn’t pursuing my best life by refusing to go into fashion with my father. Little did they know I used the time to process how to distance myself further from their disappointment. It’s the music notes that have always been my haven.
“Man, this is sounding good,” Liam says into the microphone behind the plexiglass. Birch Borough is not Nashville or LA, but I like the vibe of this place. Here, it feels like music is all that matters, and I can get behind that. I’ve been scribbling for days and had to get the sounds out, so I stopped at the store. Liam and I connected over a love of recording music, and here I am, trying to hide away while counting down the moments until I see Sparrow again.
Usually, I can lose track of time in the studio. But while the song is coming along, it’s not quite there yet. I think I need to live a bit more to find out what it needs. Or perhaps I need to be around a certain someone who seems to both inspire me and take up all my creativity.
“We should lay down some vocals soon. What do you say?”
I nod and grin, the tension starting to ease from my frame. When I was fifteen, I realized that the only way to get my music into the world was to do it myself. I couldn't just go up to a famous singer and ask them to sing a song I wrote. But getting music into the world is my passion. I’ve always felt like everyone has something to give to the world, and the something I have to give involves music. I’ve learned to use alchemy to turn disappointment into my fuel for creativity. But lately, that creativity has been running out—until Sparrow.
Speaking of Sparrow, she has no reason to think I will stick around, and that’s bothering me way too much. Tell people you’re a singer, and they automatically assume you want to be famous. I don’t. I just want famous people to sing my songs. And I believe, one day, they will. The journey has cost me too much. And just like the others, this song has to count. It will count. I can’t afford for anything I create to only be “good” and not reach its full potential. My heart demands more.
“It needs a bit more work, but I think I know where to find more inspiration.”
Liam gives a knowing grin as he steps into the studio space. “You seem to be spending lots of time at Sparrow’s Beret.”
I will myself to keep my face in check. “Good coffee. Great pastries. What’s not to like?”
He doesn’t say anything, letting me settle into what we’re not saying: I’ve got a thing for the person who owns the bakery.
“I’ve lived here a long time. Went to school with the crew—the four women who are becoming the backbone of this town,” he says with a smile, confirming that we are around the same age and when it comes to this group of friends, he’s got wisdom to share. “Are you patient?” he says unexpectedly.
I nod.
“Good. Because your girl likes to hide. She’s brilliant and beautiful, but you’ll have to work to get under her layers.”
I must give him a look, because he shakes his head with a laugh. “I’ve never felt like that for her, just telling you how it is. It’s probably nothing you haven’t figured out.”
I nod again because my throat is feeling tight.
“But she hides.”
“Do you know why?” I ask because I’ve made some guesses, but it’s startling to me that I’ve been all over the world, and the woman I wouldn’t have believed existed has been tucked away in this small town, content to call it her home and yet aching to go to Paris.
“The same reason most of us hide, I think ... wanting to be seen and being terrified of it at the same time.”
∞∞∞
I jump when I feel Sparrow’s hand against my face, lifting the side of my headphones so she can talk to me.
“You’re humming again,” she announces.
She’s gotten a bit more friendly with me the last couple of days, and while I know I can’t read too much into it, she’s only adding to my level of attraction. We barely talk about the premise of fake dating but have somehow fallen into an understanding and a rhythm of being together. She’s the drum beat to my life right now, and I am here for it. I’ve been here for less than a week, and I’m already tired of seeing how she’s put into a box in this town. They love her, but they label her. She’s the steady creator of their coffees and croissants. They don’t see her as someone who could completely change someone’s world like she’s already changed mine. And I think it’s time she was given a new reputation.
I slip off the headphones and turn to see her in what I think to be a fourth position in ballet but with her hip relaxed and arms crossed in front of her. I grin and shake off how sweet I find her faux ballet positions. She’s like a ballerina who just won’t let herself forget that her resting posture is undeniably elegant. She says she’s clumsy, but it’s mixed with grace.
“I don’t get why I’m still tired. It doesn’t make any sense. I’ve had about four of these today.” I tilt the coffee cup on the counter to show her its emptiness. I’ve been here for hours, and I’ve had so many coffees. Too many coffees.I stretch on the stool and rub my eyes. When I open them, I watch Sparrow’s eyes widen as she clears and cleans the counter around me but avoids my gaze.“Sparrow?”
She doesn’t stop moving, and I notice her nose scrunching in an adorable way.
“Please, look at me.”
She keeps cleaning.
“What have you done?” I whisper.
Dramatically, she walks over to the coffee maker and starts examining the containers of beans she has.“Hmm ... that’s interesting.”
I cross my arms in a surly pose, but I’m trying not to smile. Her playfulness is delightful.For some reason, it keeps surprising me every time. “What? What’s interesting?”
She grins at me in what can only be described as a wicked manner and pretends to examine the coffee containers. I know she’s pretending because she doesn’t need to check them—they’ve been there for decades.“Sorry. Guess you’ve been getting decaf all day.”
I moan.“Sugar, why do you keep doing this? Why?”
She did this yesterday too. After my third cup of coffee, when I felt the lack of caffeine weakening my resolve to create, she confessed to switching out one of the cups with the drink of despair: decaf. My shoulders are slumped, and I’m holding my face in my hands. I haven’t been sleeping as a result of the woman standing in front of me. I need her to just give me the coffee goods, and for some odd reason, she’s been holding out on me.
She leans closer to me, her addicting scent of caramelized sugar, vanilla, and something spicy today lingering in the air. I inhale deeply and hope she doesn’t hear. Yep, I definitely need to write a song about the way she smells—in a totally non-creepy way, of course.
“Some of us like to keep our customers alive and not set them loose from here as a destruction to both themselves and the world.”
I do my best to squint menacingly, but given the way she’s biting her cheek, I imagine it’s not as ominous as I would wish.“Half-caf. You couldn’t give me half-caf?”
Sparrow surveys the little coffee cups with a valiant effort.
“ Non ,” she says with a French accent that makes me grateful I’m sitting and not standing.Sparrow speaking French is going to cause me to implode. It’s not painful when it comes from her.
“Let me ask you this,” she says, holding a finger in the air.“How many cups did you have before you got here today?”
I shift on the stool. “Well, I don’t see how that’s relevant ... ”
“How. Many.”
I lift my gaze to hers and lose myself in the swirling chocolate of her eyes. They’re stormy right now, like when she makes truffles or melts the chocolate over the double burner and swirls it around before dipping the madeleines. Not that I’ve been paying attention.I inch my way closer to her and hold my breath as she leans in toward me too. Her eyes fall to my lips, and I hold myself so still before the spell is broken.The sound of the bell over the door has us turning our faces toward the noise. And there, in all his French glory, is the man and the menace, Jacques.
“Him,” I mutter.
Sparrow turns to me, her eyes riveted. A look of amusement passes over them as I realize my error: Jealousy has come out to play.
“ Salut, Rory! ” he calls.
She turns to face him and walks away from me but not before I see her grin my way.
“ Salut, Jacques! Que veux-tu manger ?” What would you like to eat? She doesn’t speak French often, but why she hasn’t tried to speak French with me—other than saying non —knowing full well I’ve lived in Paris, is beyond me.I thought for sure Lily would’ve told her. Maybe it’s simply because of the awful way I first said please . I know I still haven’t recovered.
Little does she know, the more she directs this part of herself away from me only makes me crave it more.
“ Pain au chocolat et un café, s’il te plait !”A chocolate croissant and a coffee, please. She can do that.
“ D’accord !”
I sink lower on the stool as Lily walks out from the back and heads my way. She leans an elbow on the counter between us and gives me a knowing glance like she can read my thoughts about wanting to throw the chocolate croissant he ordered across the room.
“Well . . . ” she starts. “What’s your move, D’Artagnan? Sitting here like an idiot isn’t going to work well for you, no matter how attractive you are.”
“D’Artagnan?” I inhale at the thought of my secret being revealed sooner than I realized if Lily has already figured out I’m French. “Why would you call me that?” I’m not proud of the way my voice cracks.
“Traveling the world, swashbuckling tendencies ... trying to be a part of this town and win over a woman. I wouldn’t put it past you to want to win a duel with a sword, probably against Jacques.” She pins me with an intense look. “Also, I’m referring to the vibes from the 2014 British TV drama series, of course.”
I take a deep breath. “Lily, did anyone ever tell you that you are ... ”She gives me a stare that stops my train of thought.“The most incredibly perceptive, can’t-live-without, sunshine-like person on the planet?”I shift my shoulders as she grins.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
I tap my fingers on the counter.
“Oh, for The Three Musketeers’ sake, just put a guitar in your hands and start playing music. She can’t resist a brooding artist. I blame Eric for playing the recorder in first grade.”
I raise my eyebrows.“What did you say?”
Lily motions toward Sparrow.“The woman you can’t take your eyes off of ... ” She stops herself before finishing her sentence to redirect. “She has a thing for music. She also loves to dance. Can you dance?”
I nod, narrowing my eyes. This could be a trap.
“Ask her to hang out with you after the Maple Fest. She may even want to go to the pumpkin patch.”
I start at this. “What’s a pumpkin patch?”
She laughs. “Look it up. It’s about ten minutes from here. But I don’t care what you do ... just ask her.” Lily aggressively wipes the counter space around me.
“Lily, why are you helping me right now?”
Lily rolls her eyes and then grimaces when her eyes land on Jacques.“Because that man is not who Sparrow needs.”
“He’s French,” I add unhelpfully as if the fact wasn’t obvious.
“Oh, so what?”
“But Sparrow said she wanted someone French.”
“She doesn’t always know what she wants.”
“And you do?”
“Mm-hmm. You don’t know someone for most of your life and consider yourself an amateur.”
“We’re only fake dating.” My words sound half-hearted at best.
“Ha! Good one.” She shakes her head as if I’ve cracked. “Sparrow is incapable of faking. Once, in the fourth grade, we had a Thanksgiving performance—one of those truly terrible ones that scar you for life and make you wonder if you have any purpose when you remember your teacher thought you’d be best playing an ear of corn or a pumpkin.”
“I never had that experience.”
“Of course you didn’t. And be glad for it.” She scrubs a nonexistent stain on the counter and mutters, “Stupid turkey.”
“Okay . . . well, Lily—wait—what was Sparrow?”
“Oh, right.” She veers back on track. “She was supposed to be Plymouth Rock.” She scoffs, and I smile. “But she told the teacher there wasn’t any way she could possibly be a rock because rocks aren’t human, and she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t.”
I let this little revelation sink in.
“So, you see? Sparrow is who she is. What you see is what you get.”
My heart lifts. If that’s true, I really like what I’m seeing. But I’m not sure if she will like my own story. “So, if she can’t pretend, what is this all about? What does she need?”
My hope is that Lily will spill something, anything, that will give me a clue to the reason Sparrow has built such thick walls around her heart. I think they are cracking, but I’m worried it’s not enough. The pictures on the wall indicate that she’s at least partially French, so maybe it has something to do with her heritage. But that can’t be the only reason she declared to the universe that she would only consider dating a Frenchman. It just can’t be.I think I notice one of my guitar picks peeking out of a canister of coffee when Lily turns toward me.
“Nice try, D’Artagnan. But no. I don’t spill heart secrets.”
“Lily . . . ” I almost plead.
“No. If you don’t figure it out, then you don’t deserve her.” She grabs my plate, a half-eaten cookie still on it.
“I was still eating that!”
“You weren’t,” she says while wrapping it up in a tiny box and putting it in front of me. And I wasn’t. The thing’s been untouched for the past thirty minutes.She points to the empty espresso cups in front of me.“And those?”
“Don’t. Even. Say it,” I mutter.
Lily slowly backs away.“Decaffffff,” she whispers.
And I sigh. These women . . . the one I can’t get out of my head and the one who acts like her bouncer . . . they’ll be the end of me. I just know it. An idea swirls through my mind. It’ll be me laying down one of my cards. And trusting Sparrow won’t take the whole hand.