ALPHA || TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET

005

Though I feel like shit, I walk the nearly twenty-minute trek down the Saturday morning streets of New York, finished with a short ride on the subway. The scenic view. My hangover continues making itself known with a growing lightheadedness.

I collect yesterday's mail from the little box next to my door, sticking the key into the lock with my other hand, pulling it open. Lara stands at the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee, eating a granola bar in her all-black hostess uniform.

"Hey you," she mumbles through a mouthful of granola, picking up a second mug of coffee from the counter and thrusting it in my direction, which I gladly receive. She quickly looks me up and down.

"Looks like you had a fun night." At her comment, I swipe a finger under my eye, and it comes back smudged with black.

"So?" she prompts, fingering the sleeve of the t-shirt I'm still wearing. His t-shirt. "Had so much fun you lost your own shirt?"

"I forgot to give it back," I say with obvious dejection.

"Just keep it."

"No!"

"Why not? Is it a shirt he likes? What a perfect excuse to contact him again."

"Um, no."

"Whyyyyy? You said it was worth it. I have it in writing." She holds up her phone.

"And it was," I say dramatically, taking another swig of black coffee and sliding onto the counter stool.

"So, what made it so worth it? It's the fact that you slept with an Oscar-nominated actor who also happens to be drop dead adorable, a hundred forty pounds soaking wet, but also drop dead sexy, right," she chimes.

When I stay quiet, sipping my coffee, I feel her tone change with the stillness of the air. "Did something happen?" she asks, concerned. "Marley, are you okay?"

"Lara, I'm fine," I say finally, smiling at her to confirm. "Really, I'm okay. Don't worry about me."

"Okay." She rests a hand on mine. "You know you shouldn't feel pressured to get back out there so quickly. Just. Take all the time you need."

"I know." I go to take another sip of coffee, but it's gone. "Also, I'm not 'getting back out there,' it's just sex." I smirk at her, getting up and walking to the coffee machine to pour myself another.

"Just sex, huh? You've got some luck. More action than I've gotten in weeks. Or, months now? Who knows. I gave up on that stupid dating app." She crumbles up her granola bar wrapper and throws it into the garbage. "But you. You fucker. You got lucky the first time you even downloaded the damn thing."

I'm leaning against the counter with my freshly filled mug, and I start giggling at Lara's ironic but true comment, and she's laughing with me in response. We're both doubled over in girlish, high-pitched laughs in no time.

"So," she musters out, catching her breath, "so, okay, was it good? Yes? Was it good?"

I pause from the laughing and then, with a hand on my forehead, scrunch my nose up into a smile that turns into more giggles. "Yeah, yeah, it was. It was really good."

"See? That's all I wanted to know." She's tied on her shoes and now she's grabbing her bag from the small coatrack next to the door. "Okay, did you guys talk about Call Me By Your Name at all? Lady Bird? Oh my god, he worked with Greta fucking Gerwig. Fuck, that's all I get to hear for now, or else I'll be late for work."

She scrambles to grab her coat and make her way to the door. "But tonight. Tonight you're telling it all! Also, we're exfoliating," she rambles, throwing the door open and letting herself out. "I love you biiiiitch," she calls from the door.

"I ain't never gonna stop loving you, biiiiitch," I yell back before she closes the door behind her.

After she leaves, I chug an overdue glass of water while sorting through the mail, pulling out this month's rent bill. The number on it prompts me to not eat breakfast from the nearly barren fridge, but to save my meal for lunch or dinner. Sometimes Lara and I can only afford to eat dinner two or three times a week. Just two nearly broke 22-year-olds, experiencing life after college in a small two-bedroom apartment in the middle of New York City.

Lara studied film, I studied writing. We were paired together as campus roommates freshman year, and the rest is history.

When Lara isn't working doubles at the busy Italian restaurant two blocks away, she's busy working on screenplays and working on internship applications for film studios. Then there's me, constantly submitting my resume to magazines and publishing houses for hiring as a writer, updating my business website, scribbling out poems and such in my free time. The rest of the time, usually, I'm at a nearby coffee shop I was lucky enough to get hired at, slinging lattes and cappuccinos for angry city folk. Contrary to popular belief, barista-ing isn't exactly the most "aesthetically" pleasing job.

After a second glass of water, I push the bills away and get up, making my way to the bathroom, finally taking a look at myself in the mirror. And I mean. It could be worse.

It's like an overnight smokey eye. My hair isn't as shabby as I thought it was. Water and cleanser on my face feel cool, washing the impurities from my pores and all the black gunk from my eyes.

The t-shirt. How could I have forgotten to give it back? I mean, he didn't ask for it back, either. Still, I feel somewhat shitty keeping it. I'd deleted the app this morning, so if he did try to contact me, I wouldn't see it. Not that I was assuming he would. He's Timothée Chalamet, and I'm no one.

It's just a shirt. Guys have lots of shirts, right? Did he let all the girls he slept with have a shirt? Why am I assuming he has a lot of sex? Maybe he does, I don't know. He did seem... experienced. Hadn't I ever held on to a couple shirts in the past? Why was I overthinking a t-shirt?

It's just a shirt, I conclude as I peel off my jeans and shoes, climbing into bed, unlocking my phone. I wonder what he's doing at this current moment, feeling like there's some sort of wall separating our worlds, like his A-list Hollywood status and my student loans, or just having no way to contact him. The other still exists, and so nearby.

"timothee chalamet," I find myself typing into the search engine on my phone. A series of photos appear, his now-familiar grin and curly brown locks planting that feeling back in my gut, because this is the actor I crushed on last week from a movie, and the guy I slept with last night.

"Chalamania: Is Timothee Chalamet The Next Leo DiCaprio?" a headline reads as I scroll.

And now I'm frustrated, because of all the guys I could've hooked up with from that dumb millennial app, it had to be him. It had to be this stupidly cute, stupidly sexy heartthrob actor who, I've just now come to realize, won't go away simply because I hurried out of his apartment and kept his shirt.

He was nominated for a fucking Academy Award, and I recall him telling me last night that he has two projects coming out this year. He's everywhere, and he will be for a long time to come. He's just who I had to get with last night, and he's not going anywhere. And whose fault is that? I scold myself.

I lock my phone screen and toss it to the side, closing my eyes, pulling up my legs. I slowly spread them, recalling just how he felt last night, kissing up my thighs and getting that spot so well. I pull the shirt collar up over my nose, inhaling deeply, realizing it still smells like him, or his apartment at least. Wanting to inhale every bit of it that's left. Recalling how it felt to have his body on mine, his lips on my neck, hands all over. Knowing all the right places to touch. How it felt when he was inside me.

I interrupt myself, opening my eyes and let out a deep groan, kicking my legs down, staring up at the ceiling. I leave the shirt fabric sitting on my nose for a little while longer.