Chapter Twenty-Five
Sparrow
I’m walking home, the river so loud it’s blissfully overtaking my thoughts. We’ve had so much rain recently, pouring in sheets and sheets, that the river is high. Its chaotic and rushing flow seems to match the level of my disappointment. I thought this would all be different. If only I had been like the river, rushing toward Rafe instead of away from him. Then maybe I could’ve been swept away instead of thrown ashore from the emotion of it all.
But that’s the thing. It’s not just emotion I’m experiencing. It’s a hunger for commitment. To be the one who knows what it’s like to hang my jacket on a hook next to his. To share toothpaste. To know what it’s like for his cologne to mix with the smell of my perfume. To see his shampoo bottle in the shower and his dirty t-shirt on the floor. Do people know what a gift it is to share space with someone? Do they realize how sacred it is? When you spend so much of your life alone, as I have, knowing a man would want to wake up to me every day just because he can seems like a miracle. A dream too far out of my reach.
Except, it was within my reach. For a moment, I saw it. I saw it all. Rafe wanted to show me how much he loved me, and I wouldn’t let him.
I’m brushing tears from my cheeks, unaware of the people shuffling around to get out of the cold. The cold feels good to me tonight. It reminds me that I’m alive. It’s sharpening the ache into something a bit more manageable.
It’s only when I’m leaning on the stone bridge over the river, watching the water swirl below, the cold seeping through the sleeves of my jacket, that I feel an arm wrap around my waist. I startle and turn to find Ivy. Her hair is pulled back under a chic little hat, large mittens covering her graceful hands.
Suddenly, I’m back in the dance classes we took together, our tights bunching around our ankles and our hair pulled back in a bun with sparkly clips. While we don’t meet at the barre anymore, she never stopped dancing. I think it’s her anchor. And being at the bakery so much, I know how important having one can be.
“Oh, Ivy. I’m sorry. I know I’m a mess.”
She shakes her head. “Never apologize for letting your emotions out, Rory. It’s what keeps us alive. If I didn’t dance, I would be out here crying with you.”
“What happened?” I ask, my focus shifting toward her.
“Nothing worth mentioning. Another bad date is all.” She shrugs, but I see the hint of sadness behind her eyes. “Grey keeps asking if I’d like to write a book about all the terrible dating experiences I’ve been having lately. But I keep telling her there’s no way I want to relive them. I’m trying to get out of this level of hell, you know?”
She laughs, and for a moment, I grin. I do know how terrible it can be out there. Which brings a memory of Rafe’s arms wrapped around me, and the tears start streaming again.
“I’m sorry, Rory. I know you love him.”
“How do you know?” I ask as she leans her head on my shoulder, connecting us and keeping us a bit warmer from the wind.
“Because I’ve never seen you cry over a man before. Except your dad.”
We stay there for a moment before we both decide we’re absolutely frozen. Ivy has to return to the studio but stops with me to get a hot chocolate at Eloise’s Chocolates before we part. I’m rounding the corner to my place when I spot a light on at Gladys’ place. I can’t help but grin as she spots me walking by and throws her dish towel in the air to run to the porch.
“Come in, come in, Rory!” She’s all energy and excitement, and I’m the opposite. She looks me up and down and makes a tsk sound. “Oh, the things men can do to us, eh?”
I have no response to this except to grip my now cold to-go cup of hot chocolate a little tighter. She waves me toward her, and I welcome the warmth from her heated porch. She’s known for spying on the town and bought herself a new porch swing last fall. It’s her pride and joy. And even though I’d rather be invisible tonight, I’m grateful for her need to keep tabs on everyone at the moment.
“I’m afraid I’m not much company right now,” I say, a slight shrug of embarrassment washing over me.
“Oh, that’s okay, dearie. I know what it’s like to be heartbroken. Don’t you fret.”
Tears fill my eyes as she hands me a steaming cup of tea. She dumps the rest of my hot chocolate, and I’m too tired to protest.
“Now, tell me. Did he hurt you?”
I nod.
“You hurt him?”
I nod again, shakily. She lets out a sigh.
“Isn’t that the way? Don’t always know what we’re worth until we lose what we wanted all along.”
She gets up to sit beside me on the cushioned porch swing and gathers me in her arms. It’s such a motherly thing to do and such a comforting gesture that it’s all it takes before I’m undone. She smells like tea and lemon, and I remember all the times this eccentric woman has stepped in when I needed a mom. The Band-Aid on my knee when I fell off my bike. The flowers she gave me at every one of my dance recitals. The way she sent food to my house when my father was ill. She’s always made sure I am taken care of. And I’ve never been more grateful.
“Let it out, dearie. Let it out,” she whispers in a gentle yet commanding way. She’s giving me permission to release some pain. And I do, the sound of my regret like the nearby river, pouring out from somewhere deep within.
∞∞∞
Eyes still swollen and heart a little less burdened, I’m back home, reheating a piece of pot pie from Gladys, who insisted I shouldn’t waste away after letting out so much emotion.
One of Rafe’s sweatshirts is still on the back of the couch. I may or may not have smelled it several times (I have) or used it as a sort of pillow so I could go to sleep last night (I definitely did).
I shift my gaze to a photo of my father and me when I was a little girl. I had just made my first batch of croissants. The oversized oven mitts cover half my arms, my hair haphazardly brushed across my face, and my father so steady, so proud.
My father was the best man I’ve ever known. Consistently kind, gentle, and unassuming. He was the type of person who filled up a space without ever announcing his presence. Never calling attention to himself, he gave freely, and the absence of his presence was devastating. He was the one who practiced French braiding my hair so I didn’t look motherless at school and was overly concerned about making sure I never felt less of ...anything, really.
I wish I could say that I remember every single moment my father and I shared, but I’m human. And sometimes words fall short. Even when I look back on old cards or journal entries, they’re fragments of what we shared and not the whole story. It will never be the whole story. Because when you lose someone, through the force of life or through time, we’re still in the middle of our own story. All the pieces become fragments, chapters ending or new worlds beginning, and all of it brings me back to the moment, two years ago, when I saw my father awake for the last time.
He was sitting up in a hospital bed. I brought him a special treat—cookies my mother used to make. It was her own recipe. We never sold them in the shop because my mother said that while she loved everyone, she loved my father the most, and he deserved to have a cookie from her that was only made for him.
I now move through my own kitchen, gathering the ingredients and getting the mixing bowls. I turn on the oven and set my phone to Ella Fitzgerald while I work, getting lost in the movement of it all. The music of it all.
Even though my father was too sick to eat the cookies during our last moments shared here on earth, I still remember the smile across his face. He looked at those cookies like they were an old friend. And I guess, considering the memories he had shared with my mother, they were.
In honor of him and my mother, for two years, I’ve made the cookies on the anniversary of the last time I saw him. Although he passed away the next day, this is the day that I do the most remembering and hiding and processing away from the world.
As I spoon the dough onto the cookie pans, pop them in the oven, and set the timer, I take deep breaths. Reaching into my pocket, I find one of Rafe’s guitar picks I took the last time he played music in the café. It was early morning, and he had decided to play a new song for the customers while they ordered their coffees and pastries. I rotate it around through my fingers, careful not to let it fall. And it’s then I make a decision: I will never let love slip through my hands again. Hope beats hard and fierce within my chest. Maybe love is never really lost after all.
∞∞∞
I’m waiting at the edge of town, at a café I rarely frequent. It’s a chain one, and we don’t do chain stores in the heart of town. But I needed a place where I wouldn’t be too scarred from the memories of what’s about to go down. I shift in the uncomfortable seat, listening to the sounds of baristas yelling and calling out orders like we’re at an auction. It’s then that I notice him.
Jacques gives a sheepish smile and walks over to where I’m sitting. “Did you want anything?” He motions to the counter.
“No, I’m good,” I say politely. He nods and walks over to the pickup area for a tiny espresso cup, which he obviously ordered ahead.
I grin at this. Rafe would never have ordered without me. It sends a bit of a sting, but I’m learning that perspective is everything. And having him in my life for the time that he was is more than I could’ve ever hoped for. He opened my eyes to what’s possible. And what being loved by someone who doesn’t have to—who isn’t family and doesn’t require anything of me—feels like. He never responded to my last text. I didn’t expect him to after I reached out once I found out the truth. Rafe may have said he had fallen in love with me at his show, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be returning. I have to accept that my hesitation may have turned his feelings to the past tense.
When Jacques is seated before me, I take a moment to really look at him. He’s still the polished French man who makes women swoon everywhere. His style is still impeccable, and he’s meticulous in how he carries himself. And somewhere within him is a puzzle piece hinting that he might be as uncomfortable with himself as I have been with my own life.
“Jacques, I’m sorry.”
He arches a brow. “Why are you sorry? I should be the one apologizing.”
I nod politely, but we’re both to blame. “I shouldn’t have gone out with you.” His eyes widen. “Not that there’s anything wrong with you,” I add. He relaxes slightly. “But I shouldn’t have gone out with you when I knew I was in love with someone else.”
At this, he smirks and looks toward the window. “Ahh, love.” He plays with his now empty paper espresso cup and then looks up at me with an earnest expression. “You really love him?”
I nod quickly.
“And he loves you?”
I hesitate. “He did.”
“He still does.” He’s so sure, but I don’t contradict him. “Then, to me, you’re lucky.” He won’t meet my eyes. “Not all of us know what that feels like.”
We don’t stay long. We wave our goodbyes, and Jacques promises to stop by the bakery again, but we both know he won’t. He’ll be off to another French bakery in the area, looking to fill a void he hasn’t yet named.
When I step back into my bakery, I wrap an apron around myself and take a deep breath. For as much as it can be, this is home. I take in the sight of a mother and daughter sharing a croissant at the corner table and Johnny texting at the bar while drinking an Americano. I wave at Gladys, who’s eating macarons and having tea on the other side of the space and reading the latest town newsletter. Lily steps out from the back and raises a brow to ask if I’m okay. I nod and give her a grin.
“Good girl,” she says while pulling me into a side hug. I take another moment to look at the cream trim throughout the store. Everything feels so warm and cozy. The whole place smells like butter, coffee, and a hint of caramelized sugar. And there’s a look of peace on the faces of those who are here. This is home. And I’m ready to share a piece of it with the world. My mother had it right: Share a space with others to make them feel loved and watch the love that fills your life.
“Hey, Lils? What do you think about finally helping me open that online store?”
“Finally!” she yells. “So, what are you thinking? Like, we launch a website, and then what? Should we sell maple croissants first? Nobody’s selling those except us.” The look of pride and determination on her face has me grinning. Can’t have a home without a little fire, can we?
“Or what about the macarons? I mean ...if someone doesn’t like a macaron, I truly question their character.”
“Oh! Or our marshmallows! Those are perfect for shipping!”
Ishake my head and move to the back of the store to get started on some dishes and to brainstorm the best ways to keep things fresh during shipment. I haven’t told Lily yet, but I’m thinking the first items we put online should be French muffins.
∞∞∞
I’m sitting in a booth at the diner, my head slightly throbbing. I got home, and after all the excitement of the day, I assured Lily I was fine, but as soon as I got in the door, I was hit with sadness again. Not wanting to heat up any more frozen food, I recognized my need for a real dinner and the bravery required to leave the apartment or the shop yet again.
Lucy already brought me a water, but as soon as she sees my face, she brings over the biggest pumpkin pie milkshake I’ve ever seen in my life and tells me it’s free refills tonight. I haven’t even told her I’m not sure I can eat much when the door swings open, and my best friends walk in. Just the sight of them makes me want to cry.
Lily leads the way with Grey and Ivy close behind. Spotting me, they head my way, looks of concern etched across their faces.
“I told you it was bad,” Lily says to them as if I’m not here, waiting for them to tell me why they’ve decided on what looks like an intervention.
“Rory, Lily filled us in,” Ivy says quietly.
“And you’re here to tell me what a mistake I’ve made?” I sniffle and wipe my eyes with the edge of my sleeve.
“No,” Grey says. “We’re here to tell you how much we love you.”
Lily scoffs, and I see the way her jaw tightens. “And to tell you what an idiot you’ve been, but you already knew that.” She winks at me, and I let a laugh escape.
They don’t mention Rafe directly. I think they’re waiting for me to bring him up. And it’s a relief to know they’re not pushing for answers. We order food and sit and eat as they fill me in on what’s been happening in their lives. Grey’s waiting for Boston, her childhood best friend, to return from a business trip so they can take their own adventure up north to see the leaves changing. It’s a bit late for it, but there should be some good moments, just the same.
Ivy doesn’t say much about her own relationships except to tell me how much she loves her ballet students and how she’ll never get over seeing them in their baggy tights and slippers that never seem to keep the bows tied. They’re already practicing for their Christmas show, and I promise I’ll attend. She and I met in ballet class and took classes together all throughout high school. After I had some problems with my hips and things picked up at the bakery, Ivy kept dancing and spreading that joy with our town. I could never imagine a different life for her.
Lucy makes good on her promise to keep refilling our milkshakes, and with my friends, I’m able to eat a proper meal for the first time since Rafe left. My heart sinks thinking about him.
It’s only when we’re laughing about the latest shenanigans from Lily’s adventures on a dating app that I admit to what’s been brewing all along. I can’t seem to find the words to describe what this man has done to my brain and to my heart.
The thing is, Rafe is like the difference between the famous The Great British Bake Off (it’s the UK title) and the French version, Le Meilleur Patissier .
I love the British one. I’m obsessed with it. But then you see the French one, and you honestly can’t believe they’re amateur bakers. They make American baking competitions look like school art projects. And I don’t even mean that to be condescending, because I don’t know if I could last in the French one ...and I own a bakery. But, yeah, Rafe is like that. Like every other version of a man I've seen is just a hint, scratching the surface of what's possible.
He must’ve thought the way I communicate is through a lack of words and croissants. My grace and elegance seemed to erode whenever he was near, because I was apparently undone by a man who called me “Sugar” and used to send me GIFS of French bulldogs wearing striped shirts and berets. He also used to send me GIFS of Joey from Friends , usually from when he tried to speak French.
So, let’s talk.
Let’s talk about the fact that I want to run into his arms, wrap my legs around him, and hug him so tight I know what it’s like to be cling wrap. My body is itching to do it. He’s like a magnet. And the more I’m pulled away from him, the more powerful the feeling becomes.
It’s like there’s a remote control somewhere that’s exponentially increasing my attraction to him. So much so that when he would leave and come back before, I’d be incrementally more excited and simultaneously more gutted when he left again. What is this enchantment?
I remember every detail of those days with him. His hands that were too big for the tiny coffee cups we use, so his thumb always stuck out a bit when he tried to pick it up. The eyebrow with the scar through it, lifted when he was trying to determine what kind of mood Lily was in. His eyes would flash whenever he saw me for the first time ...and he did it every time. Even when I came back and forth from the kitchen to the front of the store, it happened (I checked). I remember the way he ran his hand through his hair when he was writing new music and the lyrics were frustrating him. The way he laughed nervously when something was awkward. The way his stubble crossed his face like a master artist had drawn perfect shadow lines across his features. The way he swallowed whenever I got close to him.
Blast. This man has single-handedly redefined my definition of love.
“I really messed up,” I whisper quietly. So softly I don’t think anyone heard. But there’s an immediate clanging of forks and spoons as they drop on the plates and table. Lily has a forkful of pie hovering near her mouth, which is currently half open. She lowers the fork slowly and then reaches for my hand. I avoid her eyes, not wanting to see pity, but when she clears her throat, I look up. There’s only warmth there and a bit of a fierce look that lets me know she means business.
“You did. But the question is, do you know why?”
This is ...not what I was expecting her to say. I look up to Ivy and Grey, who look surprised by this question as well. But the more I ponder it, I do know why.
“Because I thought hiding was safer.” I shrug my shoulders. “You were right.”
“I’m always right,” she says as she lets me go to wave her hand like that’s the most obvious conclusion anyone could come up with at this moment.
We all laugh a little, except Lily, who just has a grin on her face. She motions for me to continue.
“And I was scared.”
“There it is!” she yells in the diner. Some customers look at us but then go right back to digging into their breakfasts-for-dinner and burgers.
“Why were you scared?” Grey asks kindly, a hint of something in her eyes like she’d like to know the answer to some questions she’s been asking herself.
“Well ...” I begin. “Because he was more than I ever expected.” I move the straw around in my milkshake, chocolate swirls blending with the whipped cream. “And when love was right in front of me, I didn’t think I was worthy of it.” I swallow, but it’s challenging to not let emotion get in the way.
“What do you love about him?” I look up at Ivy, who’s sweetly waiting for my response. I grin and think of all the ways Rafe has changed my life.
“Apart from the fact that he’s gorgeous,” Lily adds.
“Yes, he is.” I smile, thinking of the secret behind his scarred eyebrow and the laugh lines that only deepen when he’s really happy. From his nervous tics to his forest stare, I’m his. “Everything,” I whisper. “I love everything about him.”
Just then, my phone pings with a text, and as I reach for it, I nearly drop it.
Rafe: I’m sorry.
My heart rate keeps time with the three little dots. After days of silence, he’s responding.
Rafe: Tu me manques.
He misses me. I cover my mouth with a surprised laugh as I bolt upright. Part French, part English. So us. My fingers shake as I type, my friends squealing their approval.
Sparrow: Are you here?
I bite my nails and wait for the response past the dreaded three little dots.
Rafe: Nashville. Recording for the next week.
The three little dots appear and disappear.
Rafe: Save a dance for me, Sugar.
I lean back, my head falling to the back of the booth, and feel the smile overtaking my face. I pull my phone up to my face and type out my response without overthinking.
Sparrow: Always.
Rafe: Fais-toi confiance.
Trust yourself. Hope beats hard and fierce within my chest. Maybe what was lost won’t really be gone after all.
“Lily.” I look right at her, courage growing in my heart. “Can you watch the store for a few days?”
She lifts a hesitant brow while Ivy and Grey lean back in their seats. “Yesss,” she drags out.
“Great.” I grab my purse and start to put on my coat, catching the faintest hint of Rafe’s cologne on one of the sleeves. I swallow. “I think it’s time I visit Nashville.”
I’m running out of the diner when I hear Lily yell behind me, “But you’ve never been on a plane!”