Chapter Twenty-Three
Rafe
Getting on the train this morning was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. No, actually, leaving Sparrow last night was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I knew she wasn’t ready to let me into her heart completely. But, oh, how I had hoped.
I was ready to tell her all of it. Everything. But I knew that could sway her opinion. Again. And there’s no way I’m going to have her in my life because of circumstances and not commitment. I’ve lived enough of my life for the expectations of others. My parents are the ones who tell me things to try to sway my behavior. And as much as I knew it could work in my favor, there was no way I was giving Sparrow any more incentive to choose me. She had to decide that herself. And she didn’t.
If I didn’t love her as much as I do, I might be bitter. Angry. Resentful. But I’m not. I’m sad for her. Because I know I would’ve spent the rest of my life showing her how much she’s worth. And I would’ve been near her through every hard moment. I would’ve held her as we fell asleep, and I would’ve sung to her ... anytime she wanted to listen. I can’t say I won’t write more songs about her because that’s inevitable. The woman is my muse, and she will be for as long as I live, whether she knows it or not.
When Noémie took all my music, I thought I would never get over it. I thought it was the worst thing that could possibly happen to me. Now I’m realizing that while I loved her, I was never fully in love with her—there’s a difference. So much of a difference that it’s like standing in a shallow pond versus trying to stay afloat in a rushing river. I never had a chance to fight the current that is Sparrow. She pulled me under the second I saw her asleep on the train.
I’m now at Boston Logan airport, waiting at my gate before I head to Nashville. I have a few meetings I’ve set up there with the singer I met in Boston and some other country singers who are looking for a change in their style of lyrics. I even have a studio interested in my mixing abilities. I guess my demo got me further than I thought it would.
All in all, I should be so excited, but I’m not. It’s the bittersweet feeling of your favorite show in its final episode. You loved it, and its leaving, and you know you’ll never get a new episode to love again. It’s trying to let go of something that you never wanted to say goodbye to in the first place.
The screen near my gate lights up with a message as my phone does the same. My flight is delayed. And instead of seeing this as a sign to stay or wait until a later date to figure out if Sparrow will break through her fear, I choose to put in my earbuds and go over a track that I’ve been mixing, which may or may not be about the woman I’m leaving behind.
∞∞∞
When people think of Nashville, they often think of country music and all the things that go with it. While they’re not wrong, I’ve found Nashville to be the place I go when life doesn’t make sense. It has rescued me a few times because of the connections I have and the feeling I have of being capable of anything while I'm there. I hope it can rescue me again.
After leaving my heart in a small town near Boston, I’ve been holed up in a studio used by some of the biggest country artists. Am I writing country music? No. But I am creating. It’s been a week since I’ve left Birch Borough. I keep telling myself that it will get easier, that I won’t miss the way Sparrow greets me in the morning. I tell myself, as I chew on a mediocre bagel and sip a slightly burnt cup of coffee, that I don’t miss Sparrow’s Beret and its maple croissants. To be fair, Nashville has great food. But I grabbed whatever was left over in the break room at the studio so I didn’t have to go out in public and face ... people.
I look out the windows that give a view over the street and see tourists milling about with their cameras out and ready. A guy in a cowboy hat just got stopped by a bunch of teenagers and is now crouched down and taking pictures with them. I don’t envy him. It’s wild to me how Broadway Street in Nashville looks like Hollywood Boulevard got replicated. But instead of fake awards in the windows, it’s cowboy boots. And instead of street performers, it’s open windows flowing with cover songs.
I’m not recognized here, and that’s more than okay. But I am lonely, and so, in between recording sessions, I decide to call Graham. It’s only two rings before he answers.
“Hey, buddy,” he says. “Already missing me?”
The truth is, I am. But he already knows that. Still, I indulge him. “Something like that.”
“Hmm . . . Nashville isn’t enough this time?”
I look out of the window at the skyline of the city. This place where I’ve often found so much comfort just feels ... uncomfortable. I feel like I’m hiding out instead of finding refuge.
“She’s fine,” he says clearly.
I hold my breath and wait. I wasn’t going to ask him about her, but if he’s bringing her up, then I’m willing to hear about it. I want to hear about all of it.
“I didn’t think you’d ask about her, but I stopped by and saw her. She looks ...” I remind myself to keep breathing because I’m starting to see spots. “... distant. She looks distant,” he concludes.
I know why, but I don’t want to comment any further. I don’t think my emotions would allow me to speak anyway. I manage a hum and then will myself to keep talking. I fill Graham in on my parents and the ways that they’re disappointed in me yet again. I fill him in on all the time I’ve spent in the studio. And then I decide to ask him the question that’s been bothering me for so long.
“Do you think I could be both?”
He doesn’t need me to explain. He knows how I’ve split my life up and all the ways I have been hiding behind my music. “I think you need to think about what you’ll regret. I know it has never ended the way you wanted in any city or town you’ve been lately, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t keep trying. Keep risking.”
There’s silence on the line for a few seconds as I twirl an unimportant to-go coffee cup in my hands. Unlike the ones from Birch Borough, there’s no joy in it. “I thought it was bad when I left LA, and it was. I was burnt out. I wasn’t creating. But now . . . I don’t know, man ... It’s like I finally felt alive and then woke up to a nightmare.” I take a deep breath because this is the thing that’s been haunting me since I left. “I really don’t know how to move on without her.”
Graham lets out a knowing sigh. “I know. In more ways than I’ve ever told you.”
I’m taken aback by his confession. I’ve suspected there’s a heartbreaking story beneath his cool, businesslike facade. “You’ll get the full story soon. But, in the meantime, just know that we really don’t regret trying. It’s when we don’t try that it kills us. Slowly and painfully.”
“Graham, I still think it has to be her. I don’t want other options.”
He sighs. A long, drawn-out sigh. But not the kind that tells me he thinks I’m not thinking clearly or that I have the wrong idea. It’s one that seems to get what I’m saying and knows this feeling of there being no going back. “Ok, so what do you need me to do?”
“Do you think ... Do you think you and Lily could help me get her back?”
“Absolutely not. Not with her.”
His response is unnerving. I knew he didn’t have a great impression of Sparrow’s best friend, but I didn’t think he would be this adverse to being near her.
“But you’re my best friend. And she’s Sparrow’s best friend. See where I’m going with this?”
He sighs again, this one out of frustration. “I understand. But you don’t know what you’re asking of me. There’s ... history there.”
Wow. I really may have underestimated this situation. “No, it’s okay. I’ll figure this out on my own.” Silence. I know I’m making the right decision. Whatever happened between him and Lily, he’s not ready to face it. And I have to respect that too.
“If there’s anything I can do myself, I will. You know that, right?”
I grin. “I do. Thank you. For inviting me. For letting me stay at your place. I know I’ve probably brought more emotions and feelings—and loud music—into your world than you ever would’ve wanted, but you’ve been great, man. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime. And I’m rooting for you, for what it’s worth. I hope you get your girl.” If his voice wasn’t so hollow, I would laugh or find it to be a tad dramatic, given that we’re two guys talking about the women we’ve loved and lost. But he’s right. We’re hurting, which doesn’t make it the least bit amusing at all.
“Graham? Thank you. For all of it.”
“I’m always here.” And I know he is.
We hang up, and I run my hands through my hair. It’s then that what I’ve been holding deep inside starts to creep into my consciousness. Words that I’ve been scared to say. Words that I’m terrified to speak out loud. But somehow, I know these are the words that need to be said.
∞∞∞
The lights are blinding but comforting. I’m onstage at Nashville’s newest venue for indie artists, Lyric. The irony isn’t lost on me. I decided before I came out to perform that I was going to leave my absolute all on the stage tonight. It’s the last show I have planned for a while, and it’s important to me that I finish it well.
I sing through an entire set list, my heart pounding and my throat straining with all the emotion I channel. Songs about love. Songs about heartache. Songs about chemistry and finding a home. Songs about a woman I don’t want to forget. The atmosphere is thick with all the things that I’ve left unsaid. All the things I wanted to tell her and didn’t.
What is it about life that it’s only when we’re through a moment and on the other side that we can see it for what it was? Some moments we know we’ll never forget, but why is it the ones we never expected that stick, making homes in the corners of our heart and reconstructing it in a way it wasn’t before? My heart isn’t the same as it was before I met Sparrow. There are new rooms with different views. There are new words I’ve learned that describe what love could be. It’s like she’s retuned some notes, and I couldn’t play the way I used to before I knew her, even if I wanted to. And even now, I wish she was here.
With one more song left before the end, I take a moment to look out at the crowd. A few cheers ring out, and there’s some whistling that gets a smile out of me. I ask for the lights in the house to be brought up a bit, and I make eye contact with the people in the audience. Somehow, it feels like it will be easier if I can see the people I’m talking to and tie a human connection to it all. I don’t recognize a single face. And while this is actually ideal, I close my eyes and pretend for a moment that I see hair the color of dark honey, a blue ribbon melded throughout it, and eyes like melted chocolate in the front row, with a smile that warms my heart. I choose to think it could give me courage.
“Good evening. Or bonsoir .” I swallow. “If nothing else, I hope you’ve felt something here. I hope you heard honesty in the sound of what I created tonight.” I clear my throat.
“I’m not famous for my music ... yet.” I give a little grin when some polite laughs make it through the crowd. “But if I can reach people in this way.” I tap my guitar. “If I can unlock notes and help people move forward ...” Sparrow’s words from the festival ring in my head. “If the music can help people heal ...” I smile, even though it physically hurts. “Then, to me, I’ve found success.
“There’s a French band that most people wouldn’t know here. It’s called Histoire. I’m not able to say much, but it used to be my dream. And now I have a new dream.” I shift my guitar in my hands and take a deep breath. A catcall rings through the crowd that breaks some of the tension and has me shaking my head with a forced smile.
“Thank you. I guess.” I laugh lightly, even though it feels a bit hollow. “I’ll stop talking soon, but I just need to say—feel that I need to say—that I love to play and sing, but it’s writing music that means the most to me. And it was brought to my attention that maybe the creativity I thought was once lost was just finding a way to return to me.” I begin to tune my guitar, for something to do with my hands, and try to imagine this room is full of people who are my friends. I try to imagine I’m back at the piano at Aesop’s Tavern. I’m in a café, strumming my guitar. I’m back in Birch Borough.
“Sometimes, we run from people who’ve hurt us, and sometimes we run from ourselves. I don’t want to run from myself anymore.” I pause, my gaze catching on my guitar pick that has landed on the stage near my feet. I missed it slipping from my hands.
“And I guess that’s what falling in love will do to you. Love makes you not want to hide. J’ai eu un coup de foudre. ” A bolt of lightning, or it was love at first sight.
My thoughts drift to Sparrow, and I shake them away.
“So, tonight, I thought I would officially introduce myself. As if we were friends. As if I’m not hiding. Bonsoir! Good evening! I’m Rapha?l Durand. I’m French, it’s true ... although, I’ve now spent most of my life in America. I recently fell in love with a woman in a small town in New England. And I—I don’t know what’s next for me, except to play for you tonight.” I see light hitting the smiles of those in the crowd. I’m being real. Tonight, I refuse to worry about putting all of myself out there. Because without Sparrow and without worrying about my parents, I have nothing left to lose.
“Enchanté . J’espère que vouz apprécierez ma prochain chanson .” I pause to swallow. Man, it feels good to be speaking in French again too. “For those who didn’t catch that, I only said it’s nice to meet you ... and I hope you enjoy my next song.”