Forever, Yours ➹ Timothée Chalamet

7 | It's Become A Dance

"Right, because you're a thief," I mumbled to myself, "and you're a rotten liar too."

Timothée sighed. "Are you scared of me now?"

"No," I lied.

"You forget I can read you easily, Vera," he said, lowering his voice. We were still in the restaurant, surrounded by a swarm of other people dining at will, but I felt like they were all watching us. Watching him confess his true intentions. Watching me make a fool of myself. He placed his hand under his chin, resting his elbow on the table. "You think I'm one of those people that steal willy-nilly, break into houses, and hurt people, don't you?"

I gulped. "No, I don't—"

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize either," he said, "you have every right to be scared, and I understand. Just listen to me, Vera."

I should have walked right out then and there. Shoved him away. Put it to rest and be done with it.

But I could only say: "okay."

Timothée's eyes flickered around the restaurant again, dipping down to his plate of pasta, and then back up to me.

"I steal things for practice, not for gain," he began to explain, "I take small things. Apples, butter, nothing harmful. I always pay for it the day after, hence, the reason why I always put euros in Bella's tip jar without reason."

I allowed a flicker of memory to pass through my mind, noting that he did put a euro in the tip jar that day. I thought nothing of it, but now I know he was just covering up a con. Was he in the basement that day too? How many times was he slipping through windows without anyone knowing? I had so many questions, I could write a novel on those themselves.

"But why do you steal then?" I said, pushing my chair further away, "why can't you just pay for it?"

Timothée gave me a disappointed look. "You aren't listening to me, Vera, I said I do it for practice."

"Practice for what?"

"I'll explain that later."

"Explain it now," I said, "why are you telling me this?"

I wanted to be at home right now. I wanted to be curled up on the sofa, watching cartoons with Toni as she told me about her day. I wanted to be anywhere but here, because I felt like an idiot who was out on display to anyone who bothered to look.

And if Timothée said he could read me so easily, I don't understand why he didn't care that I was scared. This whole time I'd been spending hours traipsing around Paris with someone who lied about who he was, but that didn't seem to bother him.

So why was he telling me this?

"Because we need each other Vera," he answered for me, picking up his fork nimbly from the table and twirling it through his fingers."You need someone who can help you write, and I need someone who can help me get something done."

"Something done?" I hedged.

"Yes," he said, "now I'm giving you a choice. You can back out of this and go to the police, but you can't prove anything. Or, you can stay and help me, and I guarantee you'll walk out of this with the novel you've been trying for."

My novel.

I forgot about the novel.

I always assumed he was taking me around the city for the benefit of my writing, but now I realize it was just an excuse to use as bait. A con. To trap me into whatever plan he needed me to complete, because I was desperate to find that sense of purpose I had lost for so long. He knew I needed this book.