VERA
_
TO SAY I WAS COMPLETELY ENTHRALLED BY HIM, WOULD BE A MOROSE UNDERSTATEMENT.
It was like the feeling of falling in love—though love was completely out of the question. I was falling into something. Something I couldn't describe, but still couldn't figure out.
The worst part about it was that I had to keep it to myself. Every stray thought of those olive eyes, and every fleeting memory and hope for our next meeting; things I wanted to talk about, but couldn't, because it seemed so wrong. Toni would smack me senseless if she knew I'd let myself fall so easily, and while that was smart on her end, I was too lost in the feeling of mystery to want to leave.
Where would he take you today? My brain asked myself, what will he say?
And my inability to answer was what made it so exciting. He was a spontaneous person, who said I had his attention—and the thought that I could have that from someone as beautiful as him, brought upon a feeling of worth— and I shouldn't need attention to feel worthy, I know, but...I still did.
From him at least, and I guess that's the price I pay for falling.
Toni didn't come home last night, but sent me a drunk keyboard smash and a thumbs up emoji that pretty much implied she found a place to stay and...vibe. I called her twice, and both times she told me to 'Stop ruining the moment' and to 'go to sleep', and then blocked me for two hours.
Oh, to be twenty and hot.
She'd probably text me later and tell me all about the person she managed to win over, and I'd nod enthusiastically while having no clue what to say in response. I never usually did, and when I tried to sound excited, it came across as weird—given that the topic was about...yup.
Okay, I'd rather not think about that conversation just yet.
Averting my eyes towards the window outside of the bakery, I bit the inside of my cheek when I realized Timothée wasn't there yet. The shop closed in ten minutes, and he usually came around two minutes early, so that gives me eight minutes to finish washing the dishes before I can go. Time management. Woo.
Now that I had come to the revelation that I was more than platonically interested in him (even just a tiny bit), I felt an eminent buzzing in my chest that I could only label as extreme anxiety. Maybe a little excitement, but more so the former. What if Toni was right? What if he ended up disappointing me in the end, because he was hiding some deep, dark secret that was potentially toxic and heart-breaking?
Okay, yeah, that's a little over dramatic, but still. I don't even know his last name yet, and I can't be seriously pursuing something without knowing him a little better first.
Today's goal: find out his last name.
Future goal: make him like me back, or something along the lines of that.
That's the plan.
➢
THE PLAN WAS FAILING.
It's been barely half an hour into our meeting, and I was already struggling to form coherent sentences around him.
It's that extra bundle of nerves you get when you first realize you're crushing on someone, and now you have to be 10x more aware that they're probably judging you everytime they glance in your direction. When I looked at him, I saw a man who had unfairly won at whatever game was played when it came to beauty. I wondered what words he'd use to describe me. I hoped they were at least somewhat decent.
"Timothée?" I questioned hesitantly, setting down the pencil in my hand, "can I ask you a question?"
The boy looked up from his sketchbook, his hair ruffled from the wind passing through the space. He blinked, nodding his head at me, before turning back to his work.
He had taken me to Trocadéro, a tiled section of ground that overlooked a brilliant view of the Eiffel Tower in what he said was the 16th arrondissement. It was almost like looking over the edge of a cliff and seeing a structure hidden away in the clouds of the approaching sunset, standing its ground even as the wind pushed through the sky. A few stragglers were milling about the space, most of them tourists, but it seemed like the two of us were in our own little bubble away from them.
Timothée told me to sketch the sights in front of where we sat, sitting on the closest set of stairs to the tower in front of us. 'Drawing will make it easier to describe things in your writing,' he told me as soon as we arrived, 'you'll know all the curves and edges of the view in your mind, making it seem more intimate and real'.
I hated when he said the word 'intimate'. It made me feel like he knew everything happening inside my brain, and was just teasing—almost as if he knew I'd caught feelings. I took his spare sketchbook from his hands, busying myself to seem less suspicious.
But after a while, I began to realize that I still hadn't gotten very far with my plan. I needed to know him better, staring off with small things like his last name, and I seemed to have gotten blown off course by the infuriating lines I'd scribbled into the portrait in my lap. I was never really a good artist, and I couldn't expect that to change in one hour.
"It's been almost a week," I said briskly, turning my head towards him, "and I realized I know almost nothing about you."
Timothée didn't say anything, glancing up briefly from the progressing artwork in his book. He made a clear point of not letting me see it until it was finished—something to do with an artist's pride, or whatever. I continued:
"I'm not asking for your deepest, darkest secrets or anything," I mumbled, tugging at the hem of my skirt nervously, "but knowing your last name would be a good start."
He finally stopped drawing, tucking his pencil behind his ear with a swift push.
"A good start to what?"
I hesitated. "A friendship, possibly."
I knew I wanted something a little more than that, but my common sense told me not to push it. Assuming we were friends seemed risky with him too. A girl could never be too careful when discussing labels with a man, because it often led to an unfortunate end if he wa anything less than kind.
"If that's something you want, I have no opposition to it," he murmured under his breath, "but you want to know my last name?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
"Is there something you want with it?"
Not expecting that sort of question, I glanced askance, trying to hide the embarrassment creeping its way to my cheeks. My suspicions of him knowing were growing more evident now, and the implications of his sentence was mind-boggling. It was like asking: 'are you implying that you want my last name'? And that was the last thing I was thinking at the moment.
I swallowed my spit nervously, shaking my head, "I'm just curious."
"What did I tell you about curiosity?" He hummed, turning back to his book.
"I can't seem to recall," I lied, my mind racing, "but if you wont even tell me your last name, one could think you're hiding something."
Good save, Vera, put the spotlight back on him.
"If I tell you my last name, will you stop trying to know everything about me?" Timothée asked, his eyes tracing along the edge of his pencil.
"Yes."
I saw a smile tug on the corner of his lips, but he seemed to shove it away as he took a fleeting look at the Eiffel Tower in front of us. He had to crane his neck a little to the right to see past my face, but then his eyes fell back on me with a satisfied exhale.
"Chalamet," he said.
And now my question was answered. I let it play through my mind on repeat, getting used to the sound, and pairing it with his first name. Timothée Chalamet, Timothée Chalamet, Timothée Chalamet... It was a beautiful name. French, as well, but I expected nothing less from a man who lived and breathed Paris.
He noted my lack of a response, placing his fingers at the top of his sketchbook and flipping it around to show me.
"Now that your curiosity is over, have a look at this," he said, "it's you."
Pressed into the cream pages of his portfolio, the familiar features of my own reflection were drawn out before me. My depiction had her head dipped down towards her own book, a pencil hovering near her lips as she silently drew. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't shocked—less so because I looked more beautiful in the picture than I thought I did in real life, and more so in the reason for why he had drawn me instead.
I should have said thank you, but I accidentally let my thoughts slip out.
"I thought we were drawing the Eiffel Tower," I blurted out.
Timothée gave me an odd look, before a grin slithered onto his slips. "Well we were, until you decided to sit right in front of my view."
It was only then did I realize I was sitting directly in front of him, and it smacked me in the face like a frying pan. It wasn't on purpose, and I only sat there because I had a better view of Paris from that spot, but apparently I was sitting in his way the entire time.
I widened my eyes. "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!"
He chuckled, "don't be."
"Why didn't you tell me to move?"
"Because you were more fun to draw," he shrugged, ripping the page out from the spine of his sketchbook. Glancing at it one more time for good measure, he smiled, handing it to me generously. "Keep it."
I did.
➢
THE NEXT DAY, Timothée took me to a quiet bank on the side of the Seine for a chat.
He'd haggled Bella earlier with the promise he'd buy her a new apron if she gave him the leftover macaroons from the display case. It was an amusing argument, but he won her over with his charm in the end—which is why he was currently picking through the lavender box in search of a sweet of his liking.
"Ah," he sighed to himself in satisfaction, pulling out a yellow macaroon, "parfait."
I didn't say anything, looking out at the flowing river in front of us as I pondered things through. To say the river reeked a little was an understatement, but the overarching shadows of the apartment buildings was a beautiful sight worthy of a few intakes of unpleasant air.
Being Timothée's official 'friend', as the label was acclaimed, was better than I thought. It was barely noticeable to the untrained eye, but since my observation skills were heightened to the max (due to my secret crush, of course) I noticed that he seemed to relax around me. No more snarky comments, teasing glares, or anything that made me see red flags before.
Instead it was just him being himself; a Parisian boy with a love of the arts, and a love of food.
It made it so much easier to look him in the eye. He seemed less god-like and prolific once he let his social mask down, and far more approachable. But he was obviously still the same, attractive person I'd seen from the very first moment he walked into the Bakery.
Still chewing on his macaroon, Timothée reached over his knees to grab his bag, unzipping it with a smooth tug, and pulling out a worn out book from the inside pocket. He flipped it open to a bookmarked page, burying his nose in it and ignoring the chattering of tourists behind us.
I took a moment to let him finish swallowing his snack down, before adding commentary to the conversation.
"I didn't know you liked reading," I remarked, nodding at the book in his hand, "or if you could read at all."
Timothée looked up with interest, an amused flicker dancing in his olive eyes. He was always one for a battle of wit, which I'd figured out early on from the very beginning (ex. the basement incident).
"Bold words from someone who can't even write," he shot back, chuckling to himself when my mouth fell open in offense, "and yes, I do read. Part of my reasoning for helping you is because I have indebted respect for those who can write.'
I cocked a brow daringly, "does that mean you respect me?"
"When you start writing, I will."
"What if I told you I have been writing?"
"Then I'd know you were lying," he commented snarkily, before passing me the book. His thumb was stuck between the spine, holding open two pages as he trailed his other hand along a specific paragraph. He stopped near the end of the page, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Now read this quote."
I ran my tongue over my teeth, bending my head down to see what he was referring too. In bold letters was an unfamiliar phrase, but it only took a mere second for me to read.
Poets die too, It said, but their words live forever.
"Beautiful," I said, "and dark."
"It's eye opening," he added, "it makes us realize that even though we idolize the great writers of literature in history, they were every bit human as we are."
"Were they?"
Timothée cocked a brow at my response, tilting his head to the right in bound interest. "Were they what?"
"Just as human as us?"
He pondered my response for a moment, before taking his pointer finger to his lips and pressing them against each other in thought. Staring out into the lake, I noticed him nip the skin of his knuckle unconsciously, and I sucked in a breath. Why do I have to find everything this man does attractive? It's not fair, and it's going to bite me in the back one day.
"Well, they lived through each day like the rest of us," Timothée said after a while, "they woke up, went to sleep, lived, breathed, and they have the same bones and heart when it all comes down to it."
I exhaled. "But we don't have the same mind."
"The same mind?"
"They saw the world differently. Good or bad, I can't say, but it's clear by the way they write that while the body was only human, they lived a life that was far from it."
Timothée smirked, "so you disagree with me."
"Maybe," I shrugged.
"I can't believe you disagree with me," he laughed to himself, crinkling his eyes as he shook his head.
I smirked. "Does it bother you?"
"No, no, not at all," he smiled, settling back to a calm, "it's just that you're the very first person to disagree with me on that."
"Really?"
"Oui. It shows me you were listening."
"Of course I'd listen."
"You'd be surprised at how many don't," he sighed into the air, a heavy sound that felt weighed down by his own thoughts. "I show them the quote, and they nod their heads and agree, just to seem like they care."
I blinked. "I care."
He blinked back. "I know."
➢
DAYS HAD PASSED since that afternoon by the Seine.
I found myself falling deeper and deeper into this whole charade, hoping that one day he'd look at me in the same way I looked at him—like he was the one thing I'd give everything to, because becoming his friend was the best choice I had ever made. The places he took me were always more memorable when he was there, and I found myself unable to think of anything else in the moment. He was forever inked onto the paper of my memories, and I just wanted him to think of me in the same way—but I still couldn't read him.
I'd known more about him, sure; his last name, his favorite macaron flavor, his favorite book, and all the things that seemed meaningless but weren't. I tried to make a list in my mind of all his subtle movements, hoping to catch him slipping and leaving a hint behind. Something that would help me know what he thought of when he thought of me.
Because I liked him.
And while I was an easy person to read, he was an entirely different language.
So when he asked me to dinner over the landline of Bella's bakery, I nearly collapsed to the floor in surprise. It wasn't in his casual way either. As soon as I was handed the phone, he said 'I'd like to take you out somewhere,' and followed it up with a 'dress nice'.
I ended up nicking one of Toni's dresses—the one with the navy blue halter that fell to my mid-thighs. I was trying to dress to impress, okay? And besides, I couldn't ask her for it, because she'd ask why I needed it, and I couldn't tell her I'd been hanging out with the guy she warned me about for nearly a month—not to mention the fact that I didn't pack anything nice to wear.
I thought I'd be cooped up in my apartment all year writing a novel, don't judge me!
I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but I hoped this was where all the nervous dancing around him would come to an end. Was this a date? Did he ask me out for dinner just as friends? See, this is the problem. I can't read his intentions in the slightest.
And it really did bite me in the back.
The rest of the night was a blur; I got out of my taxi, met him at the doors of some fancy restaurant, went inside, and muddled through some awkward conversation. He looked nervous throughout the whole thing, tugging at the collar of his shirt everytime it got quiet.
And I was about to question why, until he spoke up.
"I'm going to tell you something," he said, setting his napkin down on the table. "Is that alright with you?"
I nodded my head, although the curiosity was already eating away at my stomach. I wasn't sure what I'd be expecting. This could be the moment where he decided to tell me he wanted to be more than friends, or it could be the moment where he tells me he wants to stop being friends. Or he could tell me he's moving away to Sweden.
Literally anything.
Holding my breath, I watched as he placed his elbows on the tablecloth, leaning over to whisper something to me. He paused, before deciding to leave some space between us instead. I blinked, listening to his every word.
"Vera," he said, before relaxing back into his chair. "I'm a thief."