When my ex-girlfriend, Jenna, left us four years ago, Emmy was the only reason I got my act together. My daughter needed me. I quit the self-destructive behaviors I was stuck in and learned to sew. I replaced date nights with daddy-daughter movie nights. I found out that I actually like the color pink and the smell of watermelon toothpaste.
Currently, I need something to settle the angst I feel at the sight of the woman I could have loved. I step into Sparrow’s Beret, and the patrons inside look up at my entrance. The French bakery and café has amazing croissants, I’ve recently discovered. I can eat five of them in one sitting.
“Bonjour—oh, hello!” the woman behind the counter says kindly. She’s elegant, with soft movements and features.
“Hello,” I say, trying to take the gruff edge out of my tone before I speak but failing, if her slight flinch is any indication.
“I know just about everyone in town, but I haven’t met you yet,” she says. “Are you new? My name is Sparrow. My husband, Rafe, is a musician. I’m sure you’ll see him out and about around town too.”
I give a quick nod. My insides protest when I register the table near me, holding cups of the best-looking cup of hot chocolate I’ve ever seen. At the sight of the tempting drinks, I try to voice something nice, trying to recall how old Jace might’ve responded if he had just walked into this bakery during his first visit to Birch Borough.
“My daughter would like it here,” I finally manage. “May I get one of those hot chocolates to go?” I nod toward the table, feeling the catch in my throat as the scent of peppermint andchocolate brings back a very specific memory. Clearly, I’m self-inflicting my own discomfort. And yet, here we are.
Sparrow’s eyes warm at my effort. “I’ll throw in a cookie for your daughter, on the house.”
I clear my throat. “Thank you.”
“It’s perfect in this kind of weather.” Her warm smile allows some of my tension to ease, but I can’t fully relax.
Suddenly, I hear clanging. Something sounds like it’s breaking in the back, but Sparrow holds up a hand.
“That’s just Lily, my best friend and the co-owner here. She’s fine. This is her process.” Sparrow is steaming milk and pouring melted chocolate from tiny pots into a to-go cup. Speaking of chocolate, a spoonful of it hits the window of the door leading to what must be the kitchen.
I wince.
“Son of a nutcracker!” a muffled yell comes from the back. Sparrow just laughs. Everyone else in the café keeps working or talking, apparently immune to the chaos happening in the back of this store.
“Do you know someone in town?” Sparrow asks over the sound of French Christmas music playing on the speakers.
“Yes, my brother, Edgar—” I begin.
“Oh! Edgar! Yes, I know him.”
“Angie is also my sister.”
Her mouth drops open. “Of Angie’s Pies? We love her! She mentioned having another brother, and here you are!” She studies my face. “Yes, of course. I see the resemblance now. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it right away. Your siblings are wonderful people.”
“Yes,” is all I can manage to say. Without Edgar and Angie, I could never have gotten through everything that’s happened in my life; their strength was a steadying force even while they were grieving themselves.
“Welcome to town! Here you go.” Sparrow places the hot drink between us, the whipped cream already starting to melt at the edges.
This looks like it may contain magic. The thought brews before I break it, and I feel a hint of the version of me I can’t seem to restore. But before it can take hold, I feel the frown on my face and register Sparrow’s brow dipping in concern.
As I take the to-go cup, I move to pull my wallet from my coat, but Sparrow gives a small shake of her head.
“On the house.” A bag of cookies appears in front of me, and she smiles.
“Thanks. I’ll bring my daughter, Emmy, next time.”
“Please do. Stay warm out there!” She waves and moves to clean up the hot chocolate mess she had made. “Oh, and this is a good place to find some hope if you need it. Stop by anytime.”
I hear her pleasant voice call after me as I turn and walk away. I want to go back and ask if she knows Ivy, but I can’t seem to bring myself to form the words. Ivy has been an elusive dream. I always pictured her living in New York, never dreaming that she’d return to Birch Borough. But now that I’ve seen her again, I can’t imagine she’d be anywhere else but here. This small town suits her. I saw her for only a few moments, but I know this town brings a strength to her I can’t imagine she found in the city.
As I step into the frigid winter air again, I remind myself that one of the greatest regrets of my life is leaving our chances to fate, since fate punched me in the face.
The past eight years have been challenging. When I first lost my chance with Ivy, I would drive from a few towns over and go back to the spot of land that held the makeshift ice-skating rink, the place where we were last together. For four months, I’d appear at the same time I met Ivy, in case she ever visited from New York. Four months. When questioned, I told my friends andfamily that I just liked to be there to think, when, truthfully, I hoped to see a glimpse of her again. In vain, I hoped that seeing her would bring me back to the man I felt slipping away more and more each day.
When she never came to the ice-skating rink, I started to wander through town. Once, I went into the Four Leaf Cookies shop and asked the owner about her. When I said her name, a man sitting at a table in the corner looked up, and the first thing that struck me was that he had the same coloring and the same eye color as Ivy. It turned out that the man was her brother.
