ALPHA || TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET

043

I slide my finger across the glass, a black screen appearing as the call connects, and I place my phone to my ear. My other hand sits in my lap, curled around a warm mug of tea, my legs criss crossed on my bed.

"Hi," I say into the phone, the sleepiness of my voice making itself known with a slight crack.

"Hey," Timothée says, so resonant and clear that he might as well be sitting right next to me, tenderly speaking right into my ear.

**********

When I'd woken up that morning, my head pulsed with a hangover, dizzying as I sat up. I found Lara in the living room, who informed me of what had occurred the night before, more specifically, what happened after my last concrete memory — making my way back to the bar for another drink. I somewhat recalled having fallen asleep at the bar, but everything that occurred afterwards was a blur.

"Don't worry, we went home immediately after you woke up. Nothing too embarrassing happened." Her face changed after she says this, like she was reconsidering what she said.

"So we went straight home?" I furrowed my eyebrows, prying into a sea of drunken blurred memory.

"We did. You got sick a couple times on the street though."

"Oh. Yeah, I remember that."

"Do you remember anything else?"

"What are you insinuating?" I asked, noticing her change in demeanor. I collapsed my legs under me as I sat on the couch.

A comical grimace appeared on her face, and after a brief second, she informed me of what I didn't remember from the night before. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. I closed it again, and reached next to me for my phone, and my fingers couldn't click or type fast enough.

Surely enough, an unanswered text from Timothée was at the top of my inbox. And in my documented phone call history was an incoming call from Timothée, one that lasted around three minutes.

"Don't be too worried, alright? He seemed fine. Worried, actually, when I told him what was going on."

"So he knew I was drunk, right?" I searched for further confirmation.

"Yes, I already told you."

"And you told him where we were?"

"Yes, he knows. I told him I was getting you home and that you would talk to him tomorrow."

I stared at my lap, fingertips touching my forehead as I absorbed all of this. "Jesus. I'm a basket case."

I knew I shouldn't have been that worried. But a drunken phone call that I didn't remember, with the guy I deeply like, whose status with me has been hanging in the air for some time, if not now more than ever before —

"I didn't talk to him for long, right? The call was barely three minutes. I didn't say anything stupid, did I?"

She smirked, shrugging. "Who's to say?"

"Lara!" I whined.

"I'm not getting that deep into y'all's issues. That's for you to figure out."

"You know you're fucking scaring me, right?"

She threw her hands up, getting up from the couch. "My part here is done. I gotta get ready for work."

"Thanks for coming with me last night. And I'm sorry. And also, thanks."

She shook her head, smirking. "You're lucky you're my best friend."

I decided to switch out coffee for tea this once, and filled my electric kettle with water. As I waited for it to boil, leaning against the counter, I stared at the text thread at the top of my inbox with Timothee's unanswered message: "can we talk?"

I stared at my phone until I was almost staring through it. I almost hit my lock button, but stopped myself, and opened Safari instead. "timothée chalamet," I typed into the search bar. The results are a handful of news articles announcing the cast of The King. Some articles celebrating his success as a Hollywood newcomer and rising A-list actor.

I opened his Instagram, tapping on his newest post: a mirror selfie, wearing his Ellen shirt and holding a glass of orange juice, his hair in his face while he displays a smug smile. A selfie he'd first sent to me recently; I replied I know you won't instagram that, after a heart emoji, to which he replied bet.

And as if it's all calculated, my phone buzzes in my hand, a message appearing at the top of my screen.

Timothée, now
hi marley

And before I could let myself hesitate, I hastily tapped on his name and hit the call button.

****

"How are you?" I ask, immediately placing my palm to my forehead and mouthing "fuck" at my copout question.

"I'm good," he says, like he's playing along. "How are you?"

"I'm good."

And a pause.

"So you make it home okay? Did you have a good night?" he says, a hint of a smile on his voice, and I hope it's a real one.

"Yeah." I'm trying not to think about whatever stupid drunken things I must have said to him. "Yeah, it was really great. And thanks."

"Yeah? Tell me more about it."

I can't tell if he's trying to avoid the tension by asking me questions, or if he genuinely wants to know. Still, I tell him about getting to dress up and going to an elite New York party held at the museum, seeing A-list celebrities from across the room and feeling flushed with starstruckness.

"How are you? Tell me about you," I tell him after.

"I mean, nothing that new, really. Just keeping busy with the pre-production, though I have some time off today. We start filming in two weeks."

"I'm really proud of you," I say after he finishes. I almost blurt it out, like a question to probe the tension.

There's a pause, and I'm nervous that it's a hesitation.

"You know I'm prouder of you," he says, and there is a sense of ease on his voice saying that maybe things are okay after all.

I realize I've been clenching my jaw, and my shoulders are tight. "I'm sorry," I say.

"No, me. I'm sorry I snapped."

"Maybe both of us?"

"Yeah. Maybe."

After a silence, I say, "I'm sorry that I keep doing this. This isn't fair to you. You deserve so much better. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize for this."

"I do, Timothée, because I've been so shitty to you and you don't deserve it." My voice raises.

"Marley, it's not your fault. It's just the circumstances that have been thrown at us. And — I don't know. I don't like thinking about what I might be doing to you."

"Timmy, you haven't done anything, really." I know exactly where this is coming from. "You're a person to me, you know. A whole human. Not some celebrity or movie star. That's not how I see you. You're Timmy."

I hear him exhale, followed by a brief pause. "I miss you."

"I miss you," I reply, my eyes closed.

"By the way," he says, "don't take this the wrong way. But you're really cute on the phone when you're drunk."

And we talk longer, taking advantage of the extra time we both have this morning. And for the first time, I'm feeling certain. More than ever. Not worried about the outcome or the future, but certain. Certain, more than ever before, in knowing that I've never had anything like this. Certain in Timothée. Certain in myself.

"So. What now?" I say.

"Well. In a week, you're getting on a plane and flying to France. And as soon as you get off that plane, I'm going to kiss the shit out of you."

**********

author would like to THANK you for your patience