Chapter Thirty
Rafe
Sparrow and I stop at the market in town to get some things for dinner. We both had a photo shoot today—her for pictures for her upcoming cookbook and me for new headshots for my music. I used to think those things were miserable. But they got my best side today, for sure, since I was looking at her the whole time.
She’s been adorably talking about Paris, and for the first time in a long while, I really do feel ready to go back again. My father has not reached out since our run-in in Boston, but my mother did ask about my address. In her note, she mentioned that it was no bother to send me some sweaters from their last collection that didn’t sell as well, but I recognized one on the top of the pile that was featured on their most famous model. I took that as a sign that she was trying.
Speaking of trying, Sparrow and I have been scouring the aisles for the last ten minutes. It’s taking us ages to walk through this tiny store as we keep stopping every few ingredients or aisles to look into each other’s eyes and talk about nothing. It’s not productive at all. I love it.
“How about a picnic?” I ask, my eyes focused on her chocolatey eyes.
“In the freezing cold?” She grins, a knowing look that tells me she knows I haven’t been paying attention to our mission in the least.
“We could have one on your living room floor. Play music. Grab some wine. It will be great.”
“Honestly, sometimes you’re just so ...” she trails off.
“French?” I add with a smirk. She’s laughing as I grab her hand and push us through the aisles until we’re standing in front of a giant section of assorted cheeses, les fromages . “Charcuterie?”
She nods as I start to find the best options for us tonight. “You know, I have a few recipes of my own I can make.”
Her eyes light up as she grabs a block of cheese without looking at it. I know she won’t like that one, but it looks like she’s not paying much attention either.
“Oh! Like coq a vin , or tarte tatin , or crêpes ? Can you make crêpes ?” Her expression is positively elated at this possibility.
Because I can’t help teasing her, I furrow my brow. “What? No. I was thinking about escargot and foie gras .”
“Hmm.” Her color lightens a shade, and I try to hold back a laugh.
“I mean, you are French too, right?”
“I suppose.” She’s now studying the block of cheese like it’s a magic portal to take her away from this conversation.
“Don’t let him tease you too much, darling,” I hear over our shoulder. It’s Angelina, an older woman who often visits Sparrow’s bakery when she’s in town to visit her grandson. She moves with the elegance of royalty and the fashion sense of a runway. Her accent is strong but poised—the beautiful French I’m used to hearing and probably would’ve sounded more like before I made it a point to get rid of all traces of it when I speak English.
As if she seems to know what I’m thinking, she reaches out to Sparrow for the kiss on each cheek, or la bise , and does the same to me.
We easily begin speaking French, and Sparrow’s eyes fill with a look of pride. She’s happy that I am owning this part of myself once again, and I’m grateful to her for making me realize that not all of me was tainted from another life. Even the best cities of the world can be challenging if you’re not whole when you’re there.
As much as I was trying to sound very American while in the States, I realized I have a deep love and pride for being French, even if it’s been hard for me to process all that took place in my homeland. It was a place of great pain, and I needed to leave for a while. Some memories needed time to heal, but Sparrow is helping me to reframe my past with her love. Now, I can see the noteworthy moments previously overshadowed by grief. The taste of croissants when you’re breathing in the air of Paris. The look of the Seine in different facets of light. The glow that hovers across the boulevards and bridges every evening. The distinct sound of ambulances and mopeds meeting the tune of conversation and clinking of coffee cups. The faint scent of tobacco and fresh bread lingering in the air. When I see Sparrow, I suddenly miss it all.
Angelina picks out a different cheese for Sparrow and gives me a warning look. I laugh as Sparrow just shrugs in her adorable way. She looks us both in the eyes, one at a time, and says, “ Je suis fière de toi. ” I’m proud of you.
She starts to walk away but not before turning over her shoulder and saying, “Save me one of your cookbooks when they’re ready, yes?” Sparrow nods and reaches for my hand.
We’re not much closer to having dinner put together when Sparrow grins at someone behind me.
“What’s for dinner, you two?” It’s Graham. He’s dressed in his impeccable business attire, a grin hovering on his mouth.
“Oh, this and that,” I say, reaching for a nearby jar of apricot jam.
“What’s up, lovebirds?” Lily yells from the other end of the aisle. She’s rushing toward us when she stops in her tracks and gives a look that would put the fear of God in anyone. All her energy is focused on Graham. I take a step toward Sparrow, who looks at me with wide eyes. This should be interesting.
Trying to lighten the mood, I decide to finally discuss what it has taken us ages to talk about. Turning to Graham, I ask, “Did you really hit on Sparrow at the train station?”
His mouth gapes open as Lily gives what can only be described as a wicked grin. Sparrow is holding back a laugh so intensely that tears are starting to fill her eyes.
“He did,” she barely gets out as Graham says, “I did.”
Lily gives a slight roll of her eyes, her jaw flexing as she looks between them, a hint of mustered bravery in her voice. “Can you imagine these two together? Please. Winnings is far too much of a corporate man for the likes of our sweet, French American girl.” Her confident smile says she’s teasing, but her eyes seem to really be asking if it’s a legitimate option.
“We never would’ve worked,” Graham says quietly while nodding at Lily. He turns to give Sparrow and me a full smile.
“You’re a lovely man, Graham. And I’m honestly surprised we never met sooner,” Sparrow says, her arm lightly touching his. She’s too much of a giver to have him feeling bad for too long. And she’s right. As much as I’m grateful she didn’t say yes—more because it would’ve been torture to see them together—he’s a good man. I’ll give him that.
“Did you just growl?” Sparrow looks at me, incredulous. I didn’t realize I had, but I guess just the thought of them together still has me on edge.
“Don’t worry, D’Artagnan. You’re the only one who’s ever gotten through to her.” I give Lily a grin as she picks up a round of Brie cheese.
“The only one who ever could.” Sparrow’s chocolate eyes melt into mine. I kiss her forehead and breathe her in.
“Enough already! We get it. You love each other, blah, blah, blah,” Lily says. That brings another laugh as Lily also picks up a bottle of champagne. “We’ve got a picnic to have. Winnings can come too, I guess, since he’s suddenly everywhere I go these days anyway.” She pauses, an eyebrow raised in challenge.
They’re in a stare-off. Sparrow and I could leave now, and I don’t think they’d notice.
“You go ahead. I’ve got work to finish elsewhere.”
Lily nods and forces a smile. “We’ve got a trip to Paris to plan for you both. Let’s get to it.” She turns away and starts to walk to the front of the store.
“See you around, Lily,” Graham says quietly.
Lily freezes but doesn’t turn around. Pushing her shoulders back, she gives a brief shake of her head. “Don’t count on it!” she yells, resuming her steps toward the checkout counter while clutching the Brie and champagne like a lifeline.
“All right,” Sparrow says cheerily without commenting on Lily’s odd departure. “Graham, it’s been lovely to see you again. I would like to have you over for dinner sometime. Especially since we’ve now made the connection that you’re the best friend and now the manager of this guy.” She grabs my arm and looks up at me so sweetly I can’t help but smile back.
“Definitely,” Graham says while he stares off at Lily, who’s now outside the store, pacing. I see the look of disappointment etched across his face. Maybe it’s because Lily never uses his actual name. Graham doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t let on. But I do.