The next morning, I can't remember if it was a Sunday - but it felt like one, I sat smoking on his fire escape as he lay in bed, reading a script perched on his shoulders. We weren't listening to any music, it was an overcast sky. I was swallowed up by a mohair jumper I'd bought in Italy. His hands raked through his hair occasionally, he did that when he was trying to understand the inflection of a sentence. I was reading a book, I'd found a week before at a used book store in Bushwick.
"I got a call from Harry." I spoke into the silence between us. Timothée looked up. "Well from his assistant, Meg." I clarified. I didn't say anything more, just stared at the smoke twirling from the ember at the end of my fingers. My book still opened.
"Oh yeah?" I looked at him, to see he had put his script down.
I nodded.
Timothée sat up, chucking his script away and came outside. "What does he want?" I cornered my page and put the book down, moving over - wanting him to sit beside me. He remained standing, watching me smoke.
"He wants me to listen to the album, approve some lyrics - pay me for my work." I shrugged, raked a hand through my hair, pulling it out of its hair tie.
"Why are you crying?" He sighed. Pushing my hair back off of my face and kissing my head. I hadn't realised that I was, until when he spoke, a sob I must've been hiding in my throat escaped.
I shook my head and wiped my tears away, mad at them for being there on my cheeks.
He kissed my head again, holding my face up to look at him. I couldn't look him in the eye. "Why are you crying?" He whispered again. "Hmm?" He muttered into the corner of my forehead. His lips barely pursed, just resting on my skin.
"I don't know. I don't know." I muttered - and again I repeated myself half laughing, "I don't know."
Timothée inhaled, a long breath - the kind that made you tired just hearing it. "What's wrong, cheríe. Are you unhappy with me?"
I didn't say anything. "Are you unhappy with me?" He repeated himself - more insistent.
"No!" I shook my head, looking at him, I got up and walked past him back into his room. "No, I'm not unhappy with you. I'm just," I sighed, frustrated at myself, "I'm upset."
"Okay," he followed me into the kitchen, "talk to me. What's going on?" He insisted, leaning on the counter as I turned the tap on waiting to fill up the kettle.
"I'm confused." I answered. I felt pathetic, I didn't know how to explain to him how I felt, let alone what it really was that was bothering me so much.
"Confused about what? If you made the right decision, if you miss him?" He asked rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
"No." I put the kettle on. "I'm confused because, he's already released songs that I wrote with him but they're my stories - Ever Since New York, that's how I felt - that felt like it was mine." I sighed.
"What if all he wants to release are the songs I wrote. The world's never going to know. Nobody cares who I am on the writing credits everyone's just going to assume what those songs are meant to be about." I covered my face in my hands rubbing at my head.
I could hear relief release into the atmosphere as Timothée came behind me, rested his chin on my shoulder and kissed my neck. "You don't owe him anything." He muttered. "If you don't want him to release anything - you shouldn't let him."
I held onto the sides of the sink, "he's going to be there." I whispered. "In the room, I said I didn't mind if he was there, so he will be." I felt his arms loosen around my waist and his breathing get caught in his chest - pressed to my back.
"I'm so scared I'm going to lose you." I admitted.
"I love you Cara, and I trust you." He reminded me.
"I was so scared that if I told you all of this you'd leave." I felt him smile slightly, his lips curving against my shoulder.
"No," his arms tightening around my waist again and I rested my hands on top, leaning back on him. "Je t'aime - cet amour, notre amour - est éternel, immortel, je suis à toi Cara - pour toujours."
I smiled and turned my head to kiss his shoulder. "I love you. This love, our love - is eternal, immortal I'm yours - forevermore." I translated.
"Mhmm." He mumbled into my cheek, nuzzling his nose into me.
"What do I do?" I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose.
"You'll go." His words surprised me.
"Sure, I hate the thought of you anywhere near that fucker - but you'll go," his voice calmer, "and you'll listen to what he wants to use and you'll give yourself time to think before you make any decisions." He turned me to face him. "Because they're your words Cara, no one can take that from you."
I nodded, wrapped my arms around his neck and let him lift me up, wrapping my legs around his waist as he carried me back to the bedroom where I fell back asleep, too tired to think. When I woke up he was gone.
