VERA
_
"I WAS WONDERING WHEN YOU'D ASK," Bella said, clicking her metal tongs in my face, "you've been moping about all week."
The shop was empty today, greying skies lingering above Paris like a blanket, and I assumed everyone was too busy rushing to beat the rain to buy pastries. Not that I minded, of course, that just meant I'd get off early.
I had sucked up my pride a few seconds ago, hiding behind a basket of baguettes as I asked Bella where I'd be able to find Timothée if I was to go looking for him (which I've decided I will). It occurred to me that he always came to find me, instead of the reverse, so I had no clue where he spent any of his time outside of our past adventures.
"What day is it?" She asked me, swivelling around to cast a useless look at a clock.
"Tuesday," I said.
"He'll be at his book club, then, they meet on Tuesdays at six."
Tuesdays at six. I didn't need to dwell on the idea of him in a book club, given the fact that he had a book with him on many occasions, but I did want to dwell on the idea that we'd hung out on a Tuesday before. I wondered if he missed his book club to spend time with me—no, sorry, con me—and that ignited a soft flicker of hope. If he was willing to skip out on his own errands just to fuel his plan, that meant one of two things:
One, he's seriously devoted to whatever mission he tried to rope me into.
Or two, he actually enjoyed my company.
My wishful thinking was pathetic, really, and my hope for the latter made me feel strongly disappointed. More than usual. It was hard enough to go find him, and now I had to deal with my feelings. Ugh.
"Merci mille fois," I said to Bella, heading towards the door, "get home safe."
During my internal monologuing, she had slipped me a postcard with an address on it, waving me out the door in a hurry. I never asked if she knew about Timothée's secret, but it was something I wondered.
The address led me through a great expanse, swerving through unfamiliar streets, ducking under bridges, and sweltering under the heat of my jacket by the time I reached the destination.
Which was a University.
What?
Coming upon the school was a giant shock, because I was unaware that Timothée was still in college. I was on Gap Year for my American studies, yet the knowledge that he was not may have slipped my mind.
I shuffled in through the giant black gates, feeling shadowed by the looming bricks of the old school, it's vines creeping along the cracks like weeds in a field. Other than that, it was well kept and proper, donning an aura of superiority to any stranger walking in. The giant dome at the top of the columned base was glinting off the foggy sunlight, preparing to wash away the rain I knew was coming, and the students milling about were already scrambling inside.
I kept walking.
"Timothée Chalamet?" I said, once I came across an information desk, "I'm looking for the book club."
The woman at the desk was bewildered at my English, and I felt a pang of guilt wash over me. I needed to work on my French. She didn't know what I said, but thankfully she recognized the name, and pointed over her desk to a staircase behind her.
I gave her a botched attempt of a thank you, but she just twisted her face in fake gratitude before returning to the game of Solitaire pulled up onto her computer. To each their own, I suppose.
Climbing up the steps of the stairs, I kept my eyes peeled for any other sense of direction that could lead me towards the boy I was looking for. Surely, the desk woman could have at least made an attempt to give me more information, but she didn't. I had to fend for myself.
Once I reached the second floor, I stepped into a wide hallway, looking both ways nervously. The walls were all the same dark shade of brown, polished and glossy in a way that screamed 'PRIVATE SCHOOL' in bold letters. Not that it was a bad thing, of course, but I felt more intimidated by it all.
A hoot of laughter echoing from down the hall caught my attention, and I turned my head to see the door to a room cracked open slightly. A stream of sunlight was filtering onto the wooden floor, glimmering off the side of a bronze plate tacked onto the door. Nearing it cautiously, I squinted at the French words inscribed onto it, before giving up and deciding to look through the crack.
Good idea.
In the middle of the room was a cluttered desk, books folding over themselves, displaying forgotten pages, and limp under tracing fingers as they were observed by the person holding it tightly. There were two boys—neither of them familiar, with their messy hair and pointed noses—and they were laughing with each other as they flipped through the paper beneath them. I couldn't understand the entirety of their conversation, but the tone was evidently in ridicule. They were almost laughing at the text.
Pushing the door open a little more, I noticed a leather couch pushed into the very back of the room, the light of the window casting a rectangular highlight over the shiny fabric.
Timothée was reclined on the couch, one arm propped up on the cushion, and his legs sprawled out over the rest of it in a lazy haze. The top few curls of his hair were tinted a lighter shade of brown from the softening sun glares, and the dust specks floating through the air whisked around his face as he busied himself. No one had seen me yet.
Both of the unfamiliar men were smoking, dangling cigarettes from their free hands as they read, but Timothée seemed more involved in his own book. He was scribbling something into it as the others talked.
I decided to knock.
Everyone—except Timothée, as luck would have it—looked up at the rasp sound, furrowing their brows in utter confusion.
"Qui êtes-vous?" The man on the right said sharply.
He had dirty blonde hair, which was ruffled and untamed in a way that screamed 'post-make-out-session' like it was a personality trait. The boy across from him was more put-together, his brown hair combed back and the uniform he was wearing crisp and almost stiff looking.
I stared at them weakly.
"Oh, you don't speak French," the Blond remarked, although his accent was so thick, I barely noticed he switched languages. "The American, I assume."
"American?" The Brunet questioned, exhaling a puff of cigarette smoke into the hazy room.
"Je comprends maintenant." The words were muttered under the breath of the stranger, as he set down his book and turned towards the couch in the back of the room. He waved his hand impatiently, "Timothée, the American is here."
So, they've heard about me before.
Timothée finally looked up once he heard his name addressed, but his expression was still plain when he turned to look at me. Snapping his book shut, he tossed it on the couch, standing up and walking over to the door where I was lingering. The two other men widened their eyes at each other deviously, but I ignored it, because I was more focused on the fact that Timothée had already made it through the door and was pulling it closed behind him.
Soon it was just us in the narrow, dark, and empty hallway.
"Vera," he said flatly, "what do you want?"
I flinched at his cold tone. "To talk to you."
"Regarding?"
"Your offer."
He paused, before resting his back against the opposite wall. The floorboards made an unwelcome creaking noise under the shift of weight, making the silent and tense encounter a hell of a lot scarier. I decided to distract myself by looking elsewhere, afraid he'd say something I didn't want to hear.
He was wearing a sort of uniform that I didn't realize before, the navy blazer hanging slack open over a white button down, while the collar popped lazily over a maroon tie. The jacket had a peculiar crest on the left pocket, a lion and a phoenix imprinted over a collage of blue and gold. The University crest.
Because, like I'd failed to assume earlier, Timothée was in college.
"Go on," he finally said, turning his head towards the shut door, "Avery and Sam will probably start killing each other the longer I leave them alone in there."
I didn't come here with a planned out script of what to tell him, because I was still hesitant on coming here, and I didn't expect him to still be so cold towards me. There wasn't much to say. There wasn't much to do that would make this any less awkward. I decided to piggyback off the mention of his two friends—Avery and Sam, apparently—as a lifeline.
"Do they know?" I asked.
Timothée blinked. "Do they know what?"
"About you..." I mumbled sheepishly, "about you being a you know..."
"A thief?" He frowned, "you can say it, Vera, I'm not afraid of a word." There was a horrible pause in between his words, as he let his eyes flicker over me in observation. He pursed his lips, admitting, "and yes, they know."
"Oh."
I wondered whether or not they freaked out when he told them, because it was definitely understandable. I also wondered if he conned them too. Timothée had an ace up his sleeve, but a deck of cards in the other, so it wasn't unusual to get played.
"Are you here to accept my offer, or decline it again?" He said, snapping me out of my daze. He had pushed himself off the wooden panels, now hovering over me as he placed his hand on the wall beside my head. One of his curls nearly brushed against my forehead at the lack of personal space, but he continued: "if it's the latter, I'll be disappointed you wasted my time."
He was close to me now.
How do I move my legs? It is strange if I breathe? How do you breathe? Is it inhale then exhale, or exhale than inhale, or which way does your stomach inflate between the two—
I'm getting flustered again.
"N-no, I'm here to accept it," I stuttered, pressing myself away from him nervously, "b-but I'll have you know that this is for the benefit of my book, not because I'm crawling back to you."
Upon hearing my words, Timothée's mouth twitched into a grin, but he suppressed it with a shrug.
"Fine," he said curtly, backing away from where he had me cornered, "thanks for letting me know."
I froze. "Is that it?"
He seemed awfully at ease by my confession, like it didn't matter to him. Almost like he didn't believe that I accepted it.
"In case you didn't know, you interrupted me in the middle of my book club," he yawned, adjusting his blazer, "meet me outside in half an hour."
"Okay," I mumbled.
He went to open the door, his hands grazing against the metal knob, but stopped himself. I swore I heard him sigh, but then he turned around and gave me a glazed-over look.
"It may not seem like it, but I did miss you," he muttered, although the words sounded a little forced. "We were friends, after all."
I blinked. "I thought you said it was never about being friends"
"It wasn't." He let those words ring out into the empty hallway like a gong, brushing his curls out of his face as he clicked open the door with a smooth push. "Half-an-hour."
And then he disappeared behind the mahogany wall, leaving me with more confusion then I'd had the day he told me the truth in the restaurant. Before, he was perfect—a charming boy who loved the arts, loved Paris, and almost made me think he could love me—then, he was an arrogant jerk who couldn't handle rejection, and now...
...now he seemed cold and reserved.
Not that it should matter anyways, I was here for my book, and I couldn't care less. I should care less. It was the only reasonable thing to do to a boy who'd had me wrapped around his string like a puppet, but unfortunately my mind had other plans. I wanted to run after him and ask him why he changed personalities like the Earth changed seasons—sunny one day, but ice cold the next—but I didn't.
So, the door shut with a click.