Chapter Thirteen
Rafe
I’m walking through crisp air, my mind replaying moments with Sparrow. It smells like maple, cinnamon, and the musky-sweet scent of the red and orange leaves circling my feet. After she left the studio last night, all I could think about was my birthday—and the fact that she wrote it down.
I freeze. For a moment, I feel myself sitting on the wood-grooved cutting room floor in my father’s design studio, watching scraps of discarded fabric hit the floor. If I stand, a view of the Arc de Triomphe can be seen from the balcony. We’re in Paris before going to London. My father is meeting with a famous celebrity on one of the floors above, but I’m under one of the tables, waiting for someone to acknowledge my eighth birthday. It isn’t until the end of the night that my father hands me a sweater from their new line. It is far too big. At bedtime, my mother kisses me on the forehead, tucks me under some blankets, and turns out the light without remembering.
I pass by the Ollie & Sons Toy Shop, and focusing on seeing Sparrow, I almost miss the man sitting in front of the store, rocking away in a chair positioned on the sidewalk. It’s the man I saw before. He’s melded to his chair in a way that tells me this is routine. Though he’s older, I catch the sparkle in his eyes as he motions for me to sit. The truth is, I could use a moment to gather my thoughts. I lower myself into a nearby chair and get to rocking beside him. When I feel the cool air and see the people milling about the street, I think he has the right idea.
“Morning, son.”
It’s weird the effect the sentiment has on me. I freeze slightly and give a small nod.
“I’ve been waiting to meet you. The new guy.” His brows dance, and I grin. “Your jaw okay?” he asks, and I immediately feel more at ease. He sees me.
“You own this store, sir?” I nod toward the toy store that hasn’t opened for the day. He nods with pride, his movements steady even though he is advanced in years.
“I do. And my father did before me. And my grandfather before him.” He pauses and crosses his arms.
“Wow, that’s quite a legacy.” I can’t imagine staying in one place so long. Images of my father trying to pass down his legacy to me leaves me with a sinking feeling.
“It is.” He studies me, and I let him. A piece of me is desperate to know what he’s thinking. “Son, I think you’ve got something a lot of kids lose these days.”
“And what’s that, sir?” I flinch a little bit at his use of son , but the word doesn’t make me bristle like I did a moment ago.
He grins knowingly. “Imagination.”
I blame the sudden moisture in my eyes from allergies or something in the air. It’s definitely not because of this gem of a human sitting next to me.
“Your girl has seen a lot. Felt a lot. Her dad was my best friend, you know.”
I look at him. His eyes take in the street. I know exactly who he means, and I’m loving that he just called Sparrow mine.
“Any advice for me, sir?” I ask humbly. This man is quickly becoming a legend I’ll tell my kids about, I’m sure.
He lets out a laugh. “Well, other than not calling me sir ... ” He gives me a pointed look full of amusement before his face becomes solemn. “Let her know you see her. Just because everyone knows her doesn’t mean she feels seen.”
Don’t I know the feeling. Maybe what Sparrow needs is what I need too. Maybe we need each other. I clear my throat and lean back a little more, the rhythm of our rocking chairs becoming more in sync.
“Do you mind if I call you son?” he says into the morning before us.
And I find myself saying, “No, not at all.”
∞∞∞
How I ended up in this kitchen as Sparrow bakes and I ... stand awkwardly, I’ll never know. Oh, wait. I do know. It starts with Lily and ends with . . . well, Lily.
When I first walked into the bakery after meeting Ollie, all I got was, “She’s in the back,” and a motion to head there. I moved toward the kitchen, and as surprised as I thought Sparrow would be, it turns out she has a great poker face. She looked up from her work with only a slight blush on her cheek. Then she handed me an apron and motioned to the sink. I nodded to the stuffed raccoon (who still holds one of my guitar picks), and that was that.
Now I’m standing between the oven and a counter, the oven warming my backside and making me regret wearing one of my nice sweaters. Sparrow seems to like when I wear a sweater, so I thought I’d make an effort. I’m glad I did, even though I can feel my neck growing hot. I brush the hair from my forehead and, for the third time, try to put my hands in apron pockets that are nonexistent. If she’s noticed my awkwardness, she hasn’t said anything, which is a small blessing.
Sparrow mixes various elements together and effortlessly floats from each ingredient’s location to the stainless-steel equipment surrounding us.
“You move very ... gracefully,” I say tentatively, already kicking myself for using a poetic word and giving away another glimpse of how romantic my heart can be. There’s a reason I write song lyrics for a living—I often forget how much I like picturing the world as an opportunity to love someone.
Her chocolatey eyes, which look like Swiss chocolate today, captivate me. Sparrow has tiny freckles dancing across her nose and the edges of her lightly flushed cheeks.
“I’m glad my years of pliés and relevés have given me a distinct way to move through the world.”
Ah, I was right. She was a ballerina. I take in her hair, which is pulled into a bun like it was always meant to be held in such a way, and observe the curve of her neck, the set of her shoulders, the way I never hear her shoes clicking across the floor, and I’m so happy to have discovered this about her.
“Okay,” I say much too cheerily, nearly knocking over the container of flour in front of us. I find myself mirroring her small smile.
“Okay,” she says in a lower octave than normal, which causes my heart to beat again in a way I’m not familiar with ... but could get used to. “Since you’re with me today, and Lily won’t have it otherwise, you can help me make these muffins.”
I watch as long as I’m allowed before she looks at me, those pretty eyes slamming into mine. I lean closer without realizing it, and she makes an amused sound. Somehow, I’ve shifted so close that she can no longer move her right arm unless she leaves her station. Instead of embarrassing me, she smiles softly.
“If you want to grab the sugar, that would be helpful.”
I clear my throat and look for a bin of sugar, or le sucre , but all the containers look the same. Without looking over her shoulder, she says, “The one on the top right, with the ‘S’ written on the lid.”
I find it and set it near her, careful to keep my distance this time. Standing in the back of the bakery like this, watching her work, I feel more of a sense of what she’s lost. She has never mentioned her parents to me, but I know they’re no longer here. And I know firsthand that a person can only carry so much before they lose themselves in the process. But even though she’s experienced what must have been deep pain, she’s strength meeting a soft heart, and I’m in awe of her.
Sparrow uses the sugar to magically create a concoction of flour, sugar, salt, baking powder, and some brown stuff that looks like cinnamon. “This is nutmeg,” she explains, catching me eyeing her progress. “It makes vanilla batter taste better, in my opinion.” She grins, and I find myself grinning too. Her hands carefully weave together milk, eggs, and melted butter. “Could you please hand me those muffin tins?”
I nod and grab the muffin tins and a stack of what appears to be paper cups of some sort.
“And the muffin liners,” she adds. And I stand a little taller, knowing that I somehow knew she would need them too. She raises a brow when she sees I already have them in my hand and effortlessly lines the tin and scoops most of the batter like it’s easier than an inhale. I watch her mix what I think is another cinnamon mixture. “This is cinnamon and sugar. And we’ll melt some butter to dip them in when they’ve baked. But first, let’s get these in the oven.”
“Allow me,” I say in a way that makes me wince. She laughs lightly, though, and I’d say it a thousand more times if it meant she would make that sound again.
While the muffins are in the oven, I lean against the counter and try to appear calm. I can make small talk. I have the thought that if I can make her see I’m not awkward in her kitchen, she’ll see I won’t be awkward for her heart.
We chat about her favorite things in Birch Borough and how my songs are coming along, the timer keeping a steady rhythm to our conversation like a game show without the pressure. She asks me about my time in Europe and when I started playing music, and I’m careful to give her the parts of me that I’m ready to have her see. We’re dancing a fine line between me revealing everything or holding back. Because the truth is, she’s already been breaking down my defenses. They’re crumbling. But I’m trying to believe I still have a choice whether or not I allow her in all the way.
We’ve switched back to the topic of baked goods when she casually mentions, “These are called French breakfast puffs.”
I furrow my brow. “Huh. I never heard of them ... when I was in Paris.”
She grins and leans closer to me as if we’re conspiring. “That’s because they’re not really French.” Sparrow scrunches her nose, and we laugh. I absolutely know they’re not French. “Carrying them in the bakery was my father’s doing,” she explains. “It’s a bit of a French fry situation, this ... and this is who I am.” She shrugs. “Very American, but sometimes French ... and these muffins are not one of those times.”
I nod, only half-listening as I watch her hands orchestrate these everyday ingredients into the start of a batter.
“My father knew they weren’t authentic but wanted something new to add to the menu. These made the cut.” She hums. “They are delicious ... my best seller after maple croissants, but I don’t love the name. Puffs should be reserved for cream puffs.”
“What happened to your family?” She looks at me slowly, her smile sinking. And I immediately wish I could take back my question. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that, of course ... ”
“No, it’s okay. I actually can’t believe it hasn’t come up ... you know, since we’re dating and all.” She grins, and I know that we’re okay. “It was his heart. And for my mother . . . we lost her in an accident.”
She looks up at me, and I can see the silent request to refrain from asking anything more right now. I nod but can’t let the moment pass without saying, “Sparrow. Tell me when you’re ready, okay?”
Her eyes are glassy as she gives me the saddest, softest smile I’ve ever seen. It’s time for me to return to my nonsense over the muffins. “So, why don’t you just call them French muffins?”
“What?” She’s amused but tries to keep it in check.
“Well, we have English muffins ... why can’t we have French muffins?”
She laughs, but I can see the wheels of her beautiful mind turning. “I’m not sure my father would’ve approved of it.” I know my father would hate it. She looks up into the corner of the room as if she’ll find the answer there. “Actually,” she laughs, “he probably would’ve loved it.”
“So, why are you rejecting my idea to call them French muffins?” I dip my finger in the bowl and watch as she intently follows the journey of the batter to my mouth.
She catches my gaze and quickly shakes her head. “Because this is a bakery — my family’s bakery. And I’m trying to elevate things a little, so calling another baked item something so pedestrian feels a little bit like ... I don’t know ... ”
“Not French?” I finish the sentence for her.
She nods shyly, and I grin.
“So, you’re the type of girl who binges Emily in Paris but is also kind of mad about some of the inaccuracies?”
Her mouth drops open.
“You have seen every episode ... ” I put a dish into the sink and turn to face her. “Haven’t you?”
She tilts her chin up, and I see her resolve to call her own bluff.
“I mean, wasn’t Alfie just the dreamiest?”
Sparrow turns around so fast a puff of flour gets thrown onto the counter. “No, Gabriel!”
“Ha! I knew it.”
Suddenly, magic happens as she bends away from me, her shoulders shaking silently. When she rises again, she’s wiping tears from her eyes and laughing. Her smile lights up the whole room, and I never want this radiance to fade. I thought she couldn’t be any more lovely, and here she is, lifting the limit on what I thought possible.
“And just what is so funny?” I ask, my arms crossing over my chest.
“It’s just ... you,” she laughs. “ Emily in Paris references.”
Little does she know I’ve binged the show too. (And love to hate it.) I’m grinning as she smirks and begins to wipe up the flour on the counter. I move over to help her, and soon, my hands are covered in flour while she has a neat little pile in front of her.
“I mean, who knows? You could even call your new French boyfriend a French muffin.”
At this, her nose crinkles, and she tilts her head to the side. Her hands go a mile a minute as she remembers something that she finds exciting. “Oh my goodness! In college, there was this couple on my floor, and she was American, and he was English, and she always called him her little English muffin !” Her mouth opens in shock while her eyes light with amusement. “I couldn’t possibly,” she says, more like Audrey Hepburn than Sparrow.
I lean closer to her and wiggle my eyebrows dramatically. Her eyes widen. “I’ll be your French muffin.” The funny thing is, I’m not joking. I would totally let her call me her French muffin if it meant I could be near her like this more often.
The smile falters on her face. Her eyes scan me as if looking for something she hasn’t yet found the answer to. “But you’re not French,” she whispers.
I swallow. “What if I was?”
Now she swallows, and her teeth pull on her bottom lip, brow furrowed. “But you’re not.”
My heart sinks a little, and I feel the urge to get away from this pressure building in my chest as quickly as possible. The batter left in the mixing bowl in front of us calls to me, and when I see her pick up a few items and turn toward the sink, without overthinking it, I smear my thumb in the batter and paint her hand with the mixture. She freezes and turns to me, her eyes wide again and mouth slightly open.
I force myself not to look at her lips as I hold back a laugh.
“How. Dare. You.” Her eyes send warning flares, but I see her holding back another laugh. I don’t break eye contact and dip my thumb back into the bowl in slow motion. Her mouth opens wider as a big heap of batter rests on my thumb, and I wait.
“Don’t!” she warns as the blob of batter lands directly on her nose and catches in her eyelashes. I watch it drop from her face to the top of her t-shirt. When it rolls to her apron like a Slinky toy, a laugh escapes me.
“That’s it!” she yells as she reaches for the rest of the batter, but I block her before she can reach my face. Instead, her hand swipes across my chest and stains my blue sweater with a handprint of muffin batter.
“Ugh!” she’s yelling, and I’m laughing more than I’ve let myself laugh in ages as she successfully gets another handful of batter and smears it in my hair while I double over. She’s ruthless.
I stand to my full height and watch as she waits for me to retaliate. Instead, I change tactics and step closer to her. The smell of the batter and her distinct scent of caramelized sugar is a heady combination. Her eyes darken slightly as we stare at each other. A few drips of batter from our messy fingers flop to the floor. I reach for her hand, the sticky batter gluing us together. Our fingers intertwine, and I never want to let her go. Even though the moment is chaotic, it’s wonderful.
My heart rate accelerates, the sensations in my hands heightening, and I feel my eyes taking in each detail of her face. She tips up her chin, and I watch, mesmerized, as her eyes land on my lips. She’s trembling slightly, and I gain courage in knowing I’m not the only one about to explode from the heat in this kitchen. Finally, she lifts her eyes to mine, and I know it’s my moment.
If I don’t kiss Sparrow right here, right now, I may never recover from the regret. I stare at her lips and commit to memory the moment they part slightly. I lessen the space between us but pause as my mouth barely brushes hers. Inhaling shakily as the very edges of my lips burn deliciously, I know I’m about to be a changed man.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
Sparrow jumps back and stares at our muffin-battered hands woven together. She gasps and shakes her head slightly. I let out a breath. The moment is gone.
“Oh, don’t burn!” she pleads, searching everywhere for something to grab the muffins. Little does she know I’m already toast. I see a pot holder on the counter in front of me and clear my throat.
“Can’t talk about it right now!” She rushes toward me. Seeing the pot holder, she grasps it frantically and flings open the oven doors. The kitchen smells amazing, and nothing seems to be burning except for me. She places the tins on cooling racks, and I see her slouch over like she just ran a marathon and didn’t just do what she’s done thousands of times before.
I walk up and stop right behind her, the intensity between us still humming. The moment may be over for me to kiss her, but it isn’t too late to let her know I’m not done with whatever is brewing between us. Lightly touching her arm, I reach for a towel on the shelf above her. She stiffens but doesn’t move. Her breath catches, and I close my eyes for a moment, relief washing through me. My reaction wasn’t just one-sided, and I didn’t dream whatever just happened only moments ago.
I wipe my hands and reach for another towel. Gently, I capture her shoulders and turn her toward me. I need her to know I won’t push for anything. Instead of holding her close like I’d like, I reach for her hand and begin carefully wiping away the batter that’s crusting onto her skin.
“Baked goods are a serious business,” I say, my voice raspier than usual, while she focuses steadily on our hands.
“I think the pot holder is shot,” she whispers. “It never did fit right.” The opening of the item she’s referring to is nearly sealed shut from the batter that transferred when she hurriedly put it on without washing her hands first.
I look around, and at least a dozen of the same pot holder lines the shelves near the oven. She has things in her kitchen that she doesn’t even like. It’s infuriating. In the short time I’ve known her, I’m convinced this woman deserves to be surrounded only by things that bring her joy, especially when she is so content with the smallest details.
I don’t know what her dreams are quite yet, but if I can make them happen, I will. Like those pesky pot holders, I think she is holding onto ideas that need replacing. From everything I’ve seen so far, she’s got the wrong narrative of who she is and what she deserves. I won’t stand by and let her believe the lies anymore. We may not be ready to face the full truth between us, but what I feel is honest. I decide then and there that I’m going to be the one she finds shelter in, as much as possible, for as long as possible.
“If you didn’t like how they fit, why did you keep buying them?” I ask softly.
Her eyes get a bit glassy. “Um ... because they were supposed to be what I needed.”
“And they weren’t what you hoped for?”
She shakes her head and moves her feet into first position. She seems to find comfort in ballet poses. When I’m almost finished wiping away the wayward batter, I lightly wrap my hand around her wrist and move the towel back and forth across her fingers. There’s nothing else there, and we both know it, but she’s not moving, so I take a chance.
“Well, maybe there’s one out there that fits better.” And just like that, I’m not talking about the pot holders anymore, and she knows it. Sparrow searches my eyes, and I let her. I’m not sure whether five seconds or five minutes pass, but I won’t move until she finds what she needs. I almost hope she discovers my secret. When she seems satisfied with her search for now, she nods slightly and releases our hands. I don’t miss the extra press of her palm into my own before she moves to the sink and turns on the water.
I thought this had everything to do with her wanting someone French. It doesn’t. She’s waiting to move forward ... She just doesn’t want to do it alone. If she needs a dance partner, I’m ready to volunteer.
“Don’t worry, Sugar. Even if there were ten Jacques here, fighting for your love, they would never be worthy of you,” I find myself saying. “And I’m on a mission to make you believe it.”