Forever, Yours ➹ Timothée Chalamet

10 | Guess, Darling

VERA

_

"IN HERE," Timothée said curtly, pointing at the door to his right.

The walk from his college to his apartment was awkward, and neither of us really spoke. When we did, he didn't use words—shrugs, grunts, glowering broods—like he was bothered by my questions. I only asked him simple awkward questions everyone uses, wondering how his day was, and if it was good or not.

We used to never speak like that. When we did speak, that is. It was always 'guess what I'm thinking, Vera' or 'I picked the perfect destination, Vera' and never any of those basic icebreakers. But now that I knew he was a thief, and now that he knew I hadn't accepted it entirely, maybe that's what bothered him.

He resigned himself to a shadow; silent but still haunting as he followed me through the streets.

We stopped in front of a large building, a giant mahogany entryway towering over us as I stared up at it. Timothée wasted no time. Tapping in a quick password into the digital lock on the outside of the wall, he exhaled, a soft clicking noise ringing out from behind the hatch.

"Where are we?" I questioned, ducking as he held open the door.

"My apartment."

Short, concise, uninterested.

I wanted to slap him for acting like he was better than me on so many levels, just because I accepted his offer. We were friends, after all, he said, although I'm beginning to think he forgot to add, LOL, just kidding, see ya' at the end. But I kept those thoughts to myself, even as I found myself being led up a staircase and into a small apartment space that overlooked the Seine.

"Bed," he said abruptly, as soon as I walked into his room.

I froze. "Excuse me?"

Timothée gave me a confused look, until realization flashed across his eyes like a flicker of light. He gave me a disappointed sigh, waving around the mint-green area as he tossed his keys onto his vanity.

"Sit on the bed," he clarified, "Sam broke my chair when he was here last, and unless you want to stand, make yourself at home. Just take off your shoes if you're going to put your feet up."

Letting those words roll off his tongue so nonchalantly—as if it wasn't at all weird that I was in his room—make me feel a little bothered. He wasn't being hostile or impending, or anything, he was just being unusually calm. Still cold, don't get me wrong, but also unaffected by anything else.

I made my way to the bed hesitantly, plopping down by the headboard as he leaned against his dresser on the other side of the room.

There was silence.

It was crushing at first, but then there was a shift in the air, as the boiling pot of my emotions finally started to overflow and spill onto the ground underneath us.

"Why are you acting so reserved?" I blurted out, narrowing my eyes, "I know you're not shy, Timothée, and I didn't come all this way to have you treat me like you don't even know me."

Something flickered in his eyes.

Not saying a word, he kept his eyes glued on me as he reached for the knob of the drawer beside him, dragging it open. Painfully slow. Well acquainted with the contents inside the drawer, he didn't even blink as he wrapped his hands around a small box, taking it out and popping it open with the flick of his thumb.

He took out a toothpick, sliding it between his teeth with a shrug.

"Oh, I know you alright," he said, dropping the box back into the drawer, "you're the one who doesn't know me."

"I'm willing to doubt that," I shot back.

A deep chuckle escaped from the back of his throat, and he crossed his arms against his chest, flicking the toothpick with his tongue. "Don't be gullible, Vera."

"I'm not being gullible."

"But you're being trusting," he said, "the guy you met in the basement that day wasn't really me. That was only to make sure you didn't run away from my approaches, because I'm sure you'll find the real me can be a lot more..."

There was a heavy pause, as he kicked himself off the drawer, the handles rattling as he crossed the room towards me. Falling onto the other end of the mattress, he let his back hit the wall, his curls falling over his eyes as he smirked in my direction.

"Take a guess," he pressed, "what do you think the real me is like?"

I sunk into the pillows. "A thief?"

"Keep guessing," he laughed.

"Mean?"

He frowned. "Mean?"

"Cruel."

"No, darling, think a little harder," he sighed, "I may be a thief, but I can still be a gentleman."

I let my eyes roam around his room as I thought it through, noticing the slivers of personality he kept around the space. The window to my left was pushed open for all of Paris to see into his life, the walls were littered with postcards and sketches, and the whole place was drizzled with glass. Mirrors on the dresser, mirrors on the walls, a hanger of glass jewelry resting on his desk—which only brought one thing to mind.

"Fragile?" I guessed.

Timothée shook his head.

"No, Vera," he sighed, taking the toothpick back into his hand, "the real me can be dangerous. The reason why I've been so cold towards you, is because I'm not entirely sure if you've made the right choice."

I furrowed a brow. "What do you mean?"

"You rejected my offer the first time. Are you sure you want to do this now?"

"I'm doing this for my book."

"No, Vera, you can't subject yourself to this because your only interest is something you want," he frowned, his head hitting the wall, "this offer is about helping each other. You can get your book, but I still have to get what I want in return. Don't do something unless you're absolutely sure of it."

"But how can I be sure of it?" I frowned, "you still haven't told me what your plan is."

"I did tell you my plan. Getting my money back from my Uncle."

"Why would your Uncle have your money?"

"I can't answer that unless you answer my question," he said, staring me down, "are you sure you want to do this, Vera?"

He wasn't wrong when he said the real him was dangerous. Maybe not in a way that seemed obvious to everyone else, but I could see it in his eyes right now. A fire burning in the back of his mind, ready to set everything ablaze if I handed him the match—if I said I'd help him.

He was a boy who was fascinated with glass. He wore it on his necklaces, his rings, and decorated his room with mirrors, but yet he didn't seem to be offering me complete transparency. He wasn't fragile. Whatever his plan was, and whatever this had to do with his Uncle, was more risky than he was making it out to be.

But in some twisted way, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up at the thought of it.  I wasn't scared this time. I didn't feel restless or lost anymore, because something else was rising into my chest and keeping me from walking out that door.

I was intrigued.

"I'm sure," I said, holding out my hand, "and I'll do it."

_

put your seatbelts on, this is where the thriller starts.