Epilogue
Rafe
NEXT FALL
I stand in our kitchen, the stove light creating a soft glow within the space. It’s cozy and comforting and reflective of my days and nights since Sparrow and I started our life together. I listen as the espresso drips into the cups we bought in Paris last spring. Seeing her light up in the City of Light felt like the first time I really saw Paris, and it’s all thanks to Sparrow. I smell a sunflower I pulled from our petite garden this morning and set it on the wooden breakfast tray. It’s a little late for breakfast, but I know she’ll appreciate the gesture.
My girl is waiting for me upstairs. And if what I smell is correct, she’s got a bath running and some candles burning. I smile to myself and run my hand through my hair, the fire that she sparks in me kindling at the thought of us being able to spend the rest of the day together—preferably under blankets.
Sparrow is my everything, my home. I waited for someone to really see me, and she didn’t just see me, she saved me—from loneliness and especially from myself. I hum one of the songs I’ve written for her recently (because they’re all about her now) and brush my hand over the scruff on my face.
The oven timer dings. I timed it perfectly. I pull out the warmed French muffins that have made our store and my latest album famous and nearly burn myself. I put my thumb to my mouth and wait—can’t have myself burnt. Worse than this pain would be not being able to feel Sparrow underneath my fingers.
Satisfied that I’ll make it, I pop some muffins from the tin and allow the steam to melt pats of butter through the cut pieces. As it melts and flows onto the dish, I dip my finger in the melted butter and cinnamon-sugar mixture and savor it with contentment.
To imagine that my life at this point last year was me hightailing it out of LA to find the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen passed out on a train and then to spend the next several weeks trying to win over her heart ...well, I never saw it coming.
My eyes catch on the pictures of us on our refrigerator because, yes, I am the man who is sentimental enough to get them printed at our local pharmacy just so I can stare at us every time I get cream from the fridge.
There’s a photo of Sparrow when we first went to the diner, and she looked at me over her shoulder. One of the two of us on Halloween when I played the piano, and she sat beside me (Lily took that one). One of us at Thanksgiving, passed out on the couch (Lily took that one too).
Then, there are more recent photos. One of us in Paris, in Montmartre, holding the illustration an artist drew of us. One of us in Nashville, attempting to line dance. One of me laughing with my eyes closed as Sparrow kisses my cheek so hard that my face is squished. One of us in Boston Common, sitting under a willow tree and drinking coffee. One of us in LA, at the Hermosa Beach Pier near the Pacific Ocean. One of me as I play the guitar while Sparrow hugs me from behind. She does that a lot these days and snuggles her face into my shoulder each time. One of me on one knee in front of Sparrow, on the local train platform, with a ring box in my hand. One of us as we make vows to each other under hanging lantern lights in an old stone church.
Ihear a quiet humming and gather the tray so I can make my way upstairs. I love looking at pictures of us, but seeing her face in real time is even better.
∞∞∞
Sparrow continues to hum softly, the sound echoing throughout the bathroom. It greets the door where I stand on the other side, adding to the richness of her voice. I crack open the door and hear the gentle splash of her surprise.Holding up the tray as an offering, I gently put it on the counter near the towels.
Her eyes warm toward me, and I feel the swirl of love within my stomach. The gritty kind of love. The one that’s going to love this woman even when we no longer look like ourselves from the weathering of age.
A candle flickers on the corner top of the tub, casting warmth throughout the room. The diamond on her left finger sparkles in the firelight, briefly catching my attention before my mouth goes dry. The scent of rose combined with her sweet skin arrests me, and I’m not leaving her side. No chance.
“Hello, darling,” she says softly.
“ Mon c?ur ,” I respond. My sweetheart. I often speak to her in French because she may have lost the sound of it in her life for some time, but she’ll always have it now with me. I’ll make sure of it.
Her eyes catch mine, and we linger there, a dance of who will make the next move. Without hope of a standoff, I move toward the tub and crouch down, my jean-clad knees touching the porcelain. Her breath catches, and her hands quickly try to coax the bubbles over herself. Even though I can’t see anything, it’s no use. My hands have already memorized every part she’s trying to cover. Even my semi-burnt thumb pulses now. Her body is a magnet, so I slowly dip my finger into the water as if osmosis might work this time and get me even closer to her.
I slowly turn my face toward her mouth and focus on the bright pink of her lips, deep rose in the candlelight, then the curve of her neck arching against the arc of the tub. Her pulse gently greets me under her neck, and I grin. She inhales slowly.
“What are you thinking?” she whispers.
I hesitate. Allowing myself to fully feel what I do for this woman is still somewhat new, even if I welcome the discomfort.The candlelight flickers on her features.
“I’m thinking that I need you.” My voice scratches through the air. “How I always need you,” I add. Her eyes widen, and I swallow. “But I think you already know that.”
“Oh.”
Her eyes trace the outline of my face, landing on the parts she says are her favorite. My scruff. The dimple on my right cheek. The scar on my left eyebrow. She looks in my eyes for a fraction of a second before sliding closer to me. The sound of the water gently flowing around her curves has me frozen. I feel the heat of the water turn cool as her hand wraps around my neck, casually dripping bath water down my back.
“So sorry.” She hesitantly moves her hand, but I catch it before it returns to the water.
I lightly grip her hand and slowly kiss the center of her palm. Her eyes flutter closed as she leans closer to me, and I pause to hungrily take in her face. No matter how much I stare at her, I’m still willing to find out more, to see another angle I’ve missed.
“And I’m thinking that we never did finish that book,” I say with a grin. She smiles back at me, resting her arms around the edge of the tub. We’ve started a tradition where I read to her while she takes a bath. Sometimes, it’s a fantasy book. Other times, it’s a classic. And lately, it’s been poetry. Love poems.
I stand and move the wooden stool from the corner to place it beside her. I pull the paperback from my back pocket, already prepared for this moment, and settle in, reading to her in French as the candlelight flickers off the porcelain tub and the millions of tiny bubbles surrounding Sparrow.
Later, when we’re sitting on the couch, another day tucking away into the quiet of evening, I strum my guitar and listen as Sparrow hums beside me. I don’t even know if she realizes how much she sings lately. I carefully place my guitar on its stand near where we sit, Sparrow twirling one of my guitar picks between her hands. With her hair pulled casually into a low bun, dressed in my shirt and some oversized grey sweats, she looks like comfort and hope.
I lean toward her, lightly catching her bottom lip with my own. Wrapping my arms around her, I slide my hands around her ribcage and down the length of her spine, now curved toward me. I bury my face in the side of her neck, the feel of her warm, soft skin unlocking my reason. I can’t be this far apart from her for another moment.
“Sparrow?” Slowly sliding my mouth up her throat, I lightly place a kiss on the pulse point that was calling to me earlier.
“Mmm?” She happily sighs.
“Let’s go on an adventure.”
She lets out a laugh that’s laced with desire. “Ready when you are,” she whispers.
I sense how shy she still is in this way when it comes to me, but when she kisses my scarred eyebrow, I know that’s my cue. Without hesitation, I scoop her up, and she squeals, some coffee in a cup spilling onto the little table. I don’t care. I’ll clean it up later.
I set her down in our bedroom, the vulnerability in her eyes a lightning bolt. She still doesn’t know how desirable she can be. Still. But it’s okay. I have the rest of my life to show her.
A candle flickers on the bedside table and on her features, one side of her face now more lit than the other. She stares at me openly, almost reverently, and I don’t want to waste this sacred moment. My eyes burn from the emotion threatening to come through, so I pull her even closer, until our breath is one.
“Je t’aime, Sparrow.”
She closes her eyes and softly kisses a trail along my neck and collarbone. I tuck my chin down to meet her gaze. Hovering her mouth near mine, she kisses me slowly, smiling against my mouth before deepening the kiss. I can’t get enough of her. She tastes like croissants, Nutella, and dreams. Lots of dreams.
Sparrow breaks the kiss only to catch my eyes again, the light between us branding my heart. Pulling at a piece of my hair falling over my forehead, she slowly twirls it between her fingers before letting them outline my jaw. Grinning, she rises on her toes to get closer to me and softly inhales.
“Rafe?”
I nod slightly.
“I love you too.”
“In French?” I mumble, barely able to wait before I plan to capture her sweet mouth once more.
“O ui .” A slow, soft kiss. “ En fran?ais .”