I've been trying to keep my distance, but in an instant, you break me down. I know better than to want you, but I succumb to you without a doubt. Now the water is rising, and I'm too tired to swim; and my lungs just can't take it, but I keep breathing you in, so tell me lies, tell me painted truths; anything at all to keep me close to you. Pull me under the way you do; tonight, I wanna drown in an ocean of you.- Martin Garrix & Clinton Kane, Drown
There was a difference between being ashamed of one's actions and being discreet about them. This was something Lea had learned recently. She hadn't given the distinction much consideration before, but then she had gotten an additional best friend.
Lea had two best friends; one made sense and the other—the recent accrual, the one that both required and practiced discretion—did not.
As a broke college student, it made sense for her best friend to be Sam, another broke college student she'd known since they were attending kindergarten at the all-girls school where they'd met in North Carolina.
One could perhaps count her older sister, Lina, as another best friend, and her younger sister, Ari, as a third, but for one, they were her sisters; for two, Ari was in California; and for three, they would've made perfect sense.
Lea's actual other best friend was Tim. This made no sense for several reasons. Firstly, Tim was a guy, and Lea had never had many guys involved in her life, what with the aforementioned all-girls schools and her mother's choice to deliberately isolate their family from anyone of the male persuasion on account of the hell her father had wracked upon her mother's life.
Secondly, Tim was not a college student. He didn't live on campus, and he didn't live in her building. He did, however, live not too far from the tiny New York apartment she shared with Sam.
Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, Tim was, to the majority of the population, known as Timothée Chalamet, Academy Award nominated actor. This was, in a word, bizarre. In three words, it was really fucking bizarre.
Like. Her best friend was a major celebrity. Her best friend was considered the most talented actor of his generation (not hers, though. She was a Zoomer). Her best friend had been called the most well-dressed man in the world. Her best friend was considered an international sex symbol. Her best friend had been nominated for ninety-four different awards during the course of his increasingly illustrious acting career, and had won thirty-nine (she'd checked Wikipedia at one point). Her best friend had made out with Saorise Ronan and Selena Gomez and Zendaya and Jennifer motherfucking Lawrence. He'd dated Madonna's daughter in high school—high school!—and then Johnny Depp's daughter and he acted like it wasn't even that big of a deal. Her best friend had a net worth of twenty million dollars and it was climbing fast, having outright doubled in the past few months alone.
And, oh yeah, minor detail, but she might also maybe possibly be in love with him.
Oh, alright. So she was totally head over heels crazy in love with him. Sue her. What was she supposed to do, not fall in love with the sweetest living being she'd met in her entire life who also just so happened to be intelligent and funny and talented and had the appearance of a Greek fucking god? Yeah, unlikely.
She'd never had romantic feelings for anyone before and had fully intended to keep it that way on account of her mother's less than stellar romantic example, but y'know. Whatever.
Not like anything was gonna happen anyway.
He had technically asked her on a date the second time they'd met (she'd tailored two suits for him, the second of which he'd requested her by name for), but things had since been strictly platonic. She figured that once he'd actually gotten to know her as a human being, he'd decided they were better as friends.
Never mind the fact that he got her random presents that cost hundreds of dollars. Never mind the fact that one of her Christmas presents was literally first class plane tickets home to North Carolina. Never mind the fact that he held her hand constantly, cuddled with her under a blanket when they watched movies, or that he insisted she sleep in his bed with him holding her close whenever she stayed over.
Those were all normal friend things. Or normal Tim things. Or normal guy things. She wasn't sure. Either way, no matter what anyone said, there was no way in hell his feelings towards her were more than platonic.
This was, of course, totally fair. It was also most definitely for the best. It hurt like a bitch, though.
But honestly, it would never work. Zendaya was super nice and even had a boyfriend, but like. How could anyone compete with Zen-fucking-daya, even if all romantic and/or sexual interactions were in a work context?
Zendaya had become a friend at Tim's twenty-sixth birthday party, yeah, but she was also a source of insecurity for Lea.
She was everything Lea wasn't. Zendaya was tall. Lea was 5'¾" of an inch on the best of days. Zendaya had perfect skin. Lea was covered in freckles and turned lobster red if she spent more than an hour and a half in the sun without SPF 70. Zendaya had a team of people managing her hair. Lea was lucky her dark red curls didn't frizz up every day. Zendaya was skinny. Lea was... well. Not. She couldn't even afford a bra in her size and had subsequently been wearing the same two since she was fifteen.
In any case, Tim had girls like that at his disposal, and she knew for a fact he had a long history of casual hook-ups and flings. They'd never work. It really was for the best that his feelings for her were strictly platonic.
There was one more minor reason that things must remain platonic between them. Well, okay. There were several reasons, but they were interconnected. It all started when, a few weeks into their friendship and she was hurdling head-first into romantic feelings territory and fast, she'd been hit with what she thought of as the Big Reveal.
"Your what?" Lea had sputtered at him over the pizza he'd ordered.
"Huh?" he paused in his story. "I was just saying that my wife—"
She dropped the pizza outright then. "Your wife," she repeated back to him.
He stared at her for a few seconds, then seemed to recall something. "Shit, right, I haven't told you, huh?"
"Apparently not," she said uncomfortably, her appetite completely gone now. "You're, uh... you're married?"
He nodded. "Few years now."
"I'm confused," she confessed. "You asked me out at first. You said it was a date."
Tim smiled at her indulgently, and her heart thudded in her chest. She wished it wouldn't, though, because he was fucking married, apparently.
"We're polyamorous, sweetheart," he told her gently. "We both have plenty of girlfriends, some of them shared." He paused. "Plus a few boyfriends on her part."
She'd heard of that. She couldn't imagine the appeal of wanting more than one person at a time. She didn't get why he did, and she was insanely jealous of the girls he was with and most especially his motherfucking wife, but to each their own, she supposed.
"You said girlfriends," she observed. "As in, like. Plural. More than one. Multiple."
He nodded.
"How, uh. How many are we talking here?"
He thought for a moment. "Eight, I think? Yeah, eight."
"Eight?" she squeaked out. He was dating eight girls? In addition to his wife?
Her mind was reeling, and she leaned back against the couch. She felt queasy.
"Where's... where's your wife?" Lea wanted to know.
"Her and Elle are both in a house not too far from here," he said casually.
"Who's Elle?" she asked, her head spinning.
"I've really never mentioned them?" When she shook her head, he finally put his own pizza down, wiped his hands on his sweatpants, and pulled out his phone. He scrolled through his pictures for a few seconds before turning his screen to show her a picture of a grinning little girl who couldn't be much older than two.
She had Tim's hair. And Tim's eyes.
Lea gaped.
"My daughter," he explained before putting his phone back in his pocket.
"You have kids?" She was trying really hard not to hyperventilate.
"Just the one," he assured her hastily. Then, "Well— for now. Olivia's pregnant and she says it's definitely mine. Another girl, which is cool."
"Olivia?" Lea squeaked.
"One of my girlfriends, yeah," he brushed her off. "Lea, are you okay? You look pale."
"I'm always pale," she reminded him shortly.
"Are you upset?"
"Of course not." The words were too forced for someone who knew her very well to believe, but Tim didn't know her mannerisms super well by this point, plus she was a costume design major and had taken her share of acting classes. She couldn't very well tell him she was actually quite upset because of how she felt about him, now could she? "I have to get home, though. I have homework." She stood and went to get her purse.
"I thought you'd finished it," he pointed out, frowning in obvious disappointment at her earlier-than-usual departure.
"I just remembered I have to edit an essay."
Tim outright pouted at that. "Why don't you enroll in online classes next semester?"
She paused, turning around to face him again as she slipped on her shoes next to the couch. "Why?"
He shrugged, grinning up at her. "So I can take you places we wanna go together."
She wanted to ask what his wife, daughter, and eight girlfriends would think about that. Instead, she just nodded once and said, "Yeah, okay."
He took a final bite of pizza before standing up, towering over her as per usual, and handing her her coat. "You sure you have to go?"
Lea nodded again, more firmly this time. "My essay is a mess," she lied.
He sighed. "Okay. C'mon, then." At that, he started towards the elevator out of his fancy rich boy penthouse.
"Oh, uh..." She gulped, desperately trying to think of an excuse to refuse his obvious assumption that he was driving her home. "I can take the subway."
He looked at her like she'd lost her mind. "Yeah, no. I'm driving you."
Deciding that arguing would be too suspicious, she only nodded again, trying not to blush at how sweet he always was as she put on her coat. Why'd he have to be so fucking nice? If he weren't so fucking nice, she wouldn't have gone and done something as stupid as catching feelings for a married man.
When she turned to shoot a polite goodbye smile at him before exiting his car, he grinned that heart-stopping grin at her, leaned over the console, and pressed a swift kiss to her cheek.
And that's when she knew with absolute certainty that she was a goner.
She told herself his life when he was away from her didn't matter. It didn't impact their friendship. He talked about his daughter sometimes, and when he did, it was with obvious love, but he hardly ever spoke about the other girls in his life.
Not that she considered herself a girl in his life. God, to be a girl in Timothée Chalamet's life. But no, she wasn't. He spent money on her, sure; more money than her mom did outside of her schooling, even. But it was pennies to him. Pennies compared to what he must spend on his wife and various girlfriends.