Chapter Fifteen
Rafe
I knock on Sparrow’s door, not sure she’s even awake yet. Lily swore this would be a good move, but I’ve noticed Sparrow avoids the bakery on Thursday mornings, so I’m not sure what to expect. I wore my best cable-knit sweater and my lucky Converse and threw on my camel-colored trench coat for warmth. It felt like the right move. I’ve run my hand through my hair so many times I’m sure it’s sticking up, but this is important.
I woke to a call from a recording studio telling me we may have a deal on a demo I sent and seven missed text messages from my father. What I haven’t told Sparrow yet is that my father has made it his mission to ensure I’m not able to work anywhere around him. He’s called all his connections and told them I’m not worth their time. Unfortunately, a call like that from someone of his caliber is to be believed. So, moving forward is a big deal. It has to be.
I’m startled from my thoughts by the door opening and the sight of Sparrow in her oversized sleep dress and knee-high socks. My mouth goes dry as I take in her disheveled hair and the way one side of her face has what can only be a pillow mark. My face heats as I clear my throat.
She lets out a squeak as she wraps her arms around herself. I hold up the coffees and pastries I brought as a distraction before she decides to shut the door. But then I realize that maybe she really is uncomfortable, so I turn around to give her some privacy. I hear a giggle from her, and I feel my shoulders relax.
“I’m sorry. Lily ... ” I trail off.
“Enough said.” A pause. “You can turn around, Rafe.”
I turn around, a grin playing on my face. She has a trench coat wrapped around her now, the socks and hem of her pajama dress still peeking out from beneath. “Morning, Sugar.”
Her eyes are bright as she scans my outfit, a small smile on her lips as she takes in my sneakers. She motions for me to come in, and I step into her apartment, which instantly feels like home. I try to notice as many details as possible. The French elements throughout, the pictures of her and two people who must be her parents, the way it smells like her.
I put the coffees and pastries on her farmhouse-style countertop and look at the tiny clock in the kitchen. It’s French blue with a little sparrow in the middle.
“My father gave that clock to me,” she says simply, a trace of pain laced with comfort in her voice.
“I like it.” I start to open the box of pastries and notice Sparrow hasn’t moved yet. There’s a furrow in her brow. Just when I’m tempted to reach over to smooth it, she looks at me with such certainty I almost take a step back.
“Rafe,” she begins, “would you like to go to Boston with me today?”
The offer is not what I expected, to say the least. But I feel myself grin as I motion to the pastries. “Good thing I got them to go.”
∞∞∞
Her eyes are closed, and I take the moment to hungrily take her all in. The freckles dancing across her face and the way her bottom lip is slightly fuller than her top lip. The way her lashes seem to hover over her cheeks like butterfly wings. There’s nothing pretentious about her. She’s classically stunning, her beauty mesmerizing me like a sunset. Seven wonders of the world? Please. I’ve traveled the world and never seen anything this moving in my life.
We’re sitting on a bench in Boston Common, looking at the pond. Sparrow is beside me, a cup of coffee in her hand. The scent of cinnamon and honey combined with her own sugary fragrance invades my senses. Rogue leaves still cling to the trees, the sun patchy as it reaches through the branches, creating a trail of shadows all around us.
The air is crisp and cool, filled with the scent of the nearby ocean and the sound of children playing across the way. Tourists paddle in Swan Boats on the distant pond, taking pictures and enjoying an iconic fall day in Boston.
But my only focus is the woman beside me. The top half of her face is now etched with a look of pain, her brow still furrowed, a slight crease between her eyebrows. Despite her emotional turmoil, a slight grin attempts to emerge on one side of her face. It’s not enough to bring out her dimple but enough to let me know she’s not about to cry. Whatever she’s feeling, it’s not my time to step in or rescue her—she doesn’t need that. What I sense is that she just needs me to be near her so she’s not alone.
After Sparrow invited me to accompany her today, she took a shower, and I went for a brisk walk around town. There was no way I could be in the same space with her, knowing that only a door would be between me and her with no clothing. I respect her too much to let it be otherwise. When I returned, I was ready to take on the world, and she looked like my newfound dream. She’s wearing a dress that wraps at the waist with boots and a trench coat that nearly matches mine.
We ate our pastries and the reheated coffee on the train to Boston (side-by-side, this time) and laughed the whole way here. It turns out that traveling with someone you’re falling for is actually ... fun. While she travels, Sparrow loves to comment on the potential lives and secrets of the people that happen to be on the train. She kept me fully entertained. We didn’t converse too deeply—I still don’t know why we are here, except that this is a day she tends to repeat every few weeks, and Lily thought Sparrow could use the company.
I wasn’t expecting to be invited when I knocked on her door this morning, but I did want to give her something to keep her energy and spirits up for whatever she seems to encounter every time she makes the trip to the city. The last time she returned to the shop after a notable absence on a Thursday, she seemed a little sadder than usual.
The sun shifts again, a sliver of its warmth crossing my face. I close my eyes and allow my head to tilt back, a feeling of peace settling over me. It’s being beside her, I think, that’s making such a difference. I used to feel anxious all the time, as if my legs had to keep walking and my fingers had to keep moving, but she quiets that restlessness within me.
I’m surprised when she breaks the silence.
“My parents met in Boston,” she says, without looking to see if I’m listening. She knows I am. “My mother used to bring me here. I remember her grabbing a latte and a treat for me at the café we just visited. She would bring me here, and we would sit on this bench. And my father would walk up and around and across the bridge over there ... ” She nods toward the Public Garden Foot Bridge, a pedestrian bridge that crosses the lagoon, where a Swan Boat floats underneath it with passengers. “And when he reached the middle of that bridge, he would wave at us. And we would wave back.”
She clears her throat, as if she’s not used to saying the words she’s speaking between us. “And then she would wait for him. We would wait for him. And she’d point out the ducks. And the weeping willows that I still love so much. And we would watch them dance in the wind.”
I look toward the weeping branches, their delicate leaves rustled by the invisible wind playing between them. And then I look at Sparrow, her hair almost mimicking the movement—strands of it flying up and swirling around, as if part of her has been weeping too. I know it has. I reach out and pull her close to me, her head easily nesting into the crook of my neck.
“I come here every other Thursday because that’s the day of the week they met. My father did so after my mother passed, and I kept it going after ... ” She stops. “It helps me to remember them. And it reminds me that there’s a world bigger than the one I’m used to. One that’s full of more possibilities. Where a woman from a small town in France and a man from a small town in America can somehow meet, and make a life, and write a story that’s worth repeating.”
“Thank you for telling me.” The simple words feel like enough.
She nestles in a little closer when a brush of wind rustles through the trees. I’m not sure how long we sit on the bench before I feel her nod against my skin. I take a deep breath. She shifts back but reaches for my hand to maintain our contact and lifts her brow as if it’s my turn.
“It would be easier if I could sing it to you,” I murmur. And I wish I could tell her what I want to say. What I know, one day, I’ll need to say. But I’ve had too many experiences with heartache, and I don’t feel brave enough yet. I’m not ready.
“Hmm. I’m sure I would love to hear it. But I think, in this moment, it would mean more if you’d speak it to me.”
I love that she sees my way of moving through the world and is asking me to give her something I couldn’t give anyone else. It’s easy for me to sing out my feelings. Much harder to let them be known without music.
I laugh lightly and pull her back beside me. She doesn’t fight it. I think she knows that having her closer to me will help me say the words I need to say—well, most of them. My heart is racing as anxiety starts to creep in. I feel a lot, but I often don’t let myself feel it like this. So honest. So open. My jaw clenches, but somehow, I find the courage to begin. I know I need to give her more of myself. “My father is a fashion designer.”
She lets out a sigh. “Ahh, yes, so that’s why you’re always so well dressed.” The amusement in her voice makes me grin, as if she finally figured out the answer to a question she’s had since we met.
“I suppose so.” My hands are cold, but I don’t want to move the one wrapped around her, so I settle for one in my pocket and one exposed. As if she can read my thoughts, Sparrow glances to my hand around her and pulls it closer so that she can wrap her gloved hands around my palm. Better. “He’s been on runways across the world. And, well, my whole life has been people trying to know me in order to get to him. Or people trying to know me in order to get seats or take selfies. Or get free clothes.”
She scoffs at this but then catches my face, and I see when she realizes I’m not joking. “Would I know him?”
I shake my head. “You’ve probably heard of his designer name. But that’s why I just go by Rafe. It’s why I’ve traveled so much. Why I’ve lived in a few different cities. If I wanted a chance at my own art, my own life, and to make a name for myself on my terms, it had to be completely on my own. My father made that clear as well.”
Sparrow grimaces slightly. “I’m sorry.” She pauses for a moment, shuffling the fringe resting on her forehead. She faces me with a look that would level any man. “There was a woman too, wasn’t there? Her influence is all over your music.”
I don’t want to ruin the image of the band she loves so much, so I simply whisper, “It was in Paris.”
She nods almost imperceptibly, and then her brow furrows. “French?” she mumbles.
“I thought we loved each other. Really, she only wanted the fame, the lights ... another guitarist I knew. And she wanted my songs. I thought I was in love with her.”
“Thought? You didn’t really love her?”
“Thought. Being in love and loving someone are very different things.”
“Yes, I suppose that could be true.”
I hold my breath, my mind racing with what she could be implying. “Could be? Have you not ever been in love?”
She closes her eyes for longer than a blink and then shakes her head. I can’t believe it. This woman is taking my heart piece by piece. I want her to fall in love with me just so I know she can shake her head yes, and I could be the reason.
“I was heartbroken at the time, but now I realize I was mourning something that wasn’t alive in the first place.” She hums, so I continue. “I’ve traveled around the world. I’ve lived in Paris. When I was thirteen, I was sent to boarding school.”
“In America?”
“Yes. In America. It was one that had a prestigious art program. My parents thought I was studying design. I was not.”
“Music?”
I nod. “Music. It’s the only thing that has ever made sense for me.” Until now , I almost say, but I don’t. She grips my hand a little tighter. I must figure out the science between this connection because I swear she knows what I’m thinking most of the time, which is dangerous and strangely comforting. “I do not have good memories of my parents, Sparrow. People think it’s glamorous to be at all the parties. To have a name that people know. I just felt like I was drowning.”
“Did they hurt you?” she whispers.
“Not physically.” It’s the most I can say without going into all the details of how much they’ve cut me internally over the years. “But I’m a disappointment to them.”
“That can’t be true.”
“It is,” I say roughly. Not from anger but from emotion. “As long as I pursue music, I’m cut off from them. I’m not allowed to pose with them in any pictures unless they arrange it for a photo op. My inheritance is being held hostage. And they have decided that unless I apologize, marry someone they think is worthy of our name, and join the business, then I’m not worth their time.”
Sparrow sits up, and her movement somehow pulls us closer. We’re inches apart, and I hold my breath as one of her gloved hands moves toward one side of my face. She’s cupping my jaw so sweetly, so tenderly, I feel another piece of my heart shift. No one has ever touched me like this. I’ve been with women, but having Sparrow beside me, I can see how clearly they were all imposters—trying to be the real thing to me but never actually seeing me. She sees me.
“Listen to me and listen well.” I nod, the intensity in her eyes new and blinding. “You are not a disappointment. You are creative. You are kind. You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life—and not because of your looks—because of who you are. You actually see people. You’re so funny. You care deeply. You give so much of yourself. You pour out your heart through your music, and you make it so that others can feel something too. We haven’t known each other long ... ” she says.
I shake my head because I feel the emotion behind my eyes.
She removes her gloved hand from my face, and rather than letting go of me, she pulls off her glove with her teeth and lets it fall to the grass beneath our feet. “Gosh, I’m just so happy you exist.” And then her warm hand is wiping at the corner of one of my eyes. I must be crying.
She’s looking at me as if her look alone could convince me that a lifetime of not being enough for the people I wanted to love me the most could be erased. She looks at me like I haven’t yet dreamed what’s possible for me. The roots of what my parents have sown grow deep, but she’s shining the truth over the shadows. I’m not sure how to hold on to her words, but she makes me want to believe. I didn’t think someone could love me, yet she is making me think there’s a possibility I was wrong.
We don’t speak for a while after that, other than to point out amusing people and circumstances happening around us. For someone who has had so much pain, she sees the world in such an interesting and amusing way. She never makes fun of people, but she does see the humor when people are so very ... human.
We spend the rest of the day in Boston, her hand never leaving mine. We stroll the walkways in Boston Common. We window shop and wander as far as the North End, where we eat lunch in Faneuil Hall and walk through Christopher Columbus Waterfront Park to catch a glimpse of Boston Harbor. We end up at a coffee shop before catching the T so we can make it to South Station for our train back home.
Something shifted for Sparrow and me today. And there were moments as we explored Boston when I knew I’d remember this as one of the best days I’d ever have. I wanted to take a Polaroid of it, to use my old-fashioned camera that actually prints pictures so that I could hold on to it and have a stack to hide in my guitar case for inspiration.
I know that what I’m holding is fragile. It’s the crunching of leaves between my fingers; it’s the colors on the trees already changing. As much as I want to hold on to the woman within my arms, the urge to put what she needs above what I want is haunting. I know what I need to do when we return to town. She deserves someone who can stay, and I don’t yet know if I have it in me to be in one place without running again.
It’s when we’re riding back on our train car to Birch Borough, as the quiet seeps in and the lights contrast with the darkness outside the windows, that I let myself daydream a little more, even if I know that I’ll wake up to reality soon. Sparrow is leaning against my chest, her peace easing through me. She fell asleep about five minutes ago, her breathing calm and even, and I’ve been trying desperately to will my whole body to remember this feeling. The one where I’m allowed to be a place of safety for her, and she’s a place of safety for me.
I let my finger trace the soft skin of her forehead lightly, brushing a piece of her dark, honeyed hair to the side. “Sparrow, I’m in love with you,” I whisper into the still air, only the steady sound of her breathing and the train on the tracks beneath us as we move through the New England night.