Pink light is stretched across the white covers. A ray of gold peers through velvet curtains and rests on my face. I squint at the light. Coming to, I discreetly push myself off the bed, walk to the window, and lift the curtain back just a pinch.
The sky is hues of pink, baby blue, and peachy orange, reflecting on the glistening Mediterranean coast. My eyes dart to the vacant beach below, the sand washed in an orange cream hue, and the still, therapeutic soundtrack of waves. Bliss.
I turn, looking behind me at the sleeping body under the covers topped with a messy brown mop. I creep gently back onto the sheets, perching myself next to him, sitting on my heels. I lean over his head, brushing the brown waves enough to see his face, and plant soft kisses along his cheek and jaw. He's curled on his back, his cheek just barely resting on the pillow, his complexion glowing. Angel boy. I lay down, facing him, tucking some hair behind his ear. My palm rests on his chest and my leg swings up over him. With the lightest touch, my finger grazes his jawline.
"Hmmmm," he groans, eyes still closed, and his hand comes up to rest over my forearm.
"Timmyyyy," I croon, vying him to open his eyes. Playfully, my index finger taps at his bottom lip.
"Hmmm?" he says, turning to face me. One eye peers open, then shuts. He rotates onto his stomach, slings his arm over my midriff, and nuzzles into my neck. I kiss his forehead.
"Timmy," I croon again, tucking a strand behind his ear, fingers nested in his hair. "Let's go see the sunrise."
"Mmmmm...justsnuggle..." he groans, half-conscious.
"Tiiiimmyyyy," I hum.
"Hmmm." He opens his eyes and lifts his head, coyness on his face with a lifted grin, breaking my heart. He looks towards the window and back at me.
I straighten onto my knees, sitting on my feet, holding his hand. "Come on. Let's go down to the beach and see the sun."
He sits up in bed, his eyes puffy from sleep. His hand tousles my messy hair, and I ruffle my hand through his. He leans in to kiss me, and my hand flies over his mouth. "Fuck no, go brush."
So we brush our teeth and pull on warm, cozy clothes. I wear his black sweatshirt over cycle shorts, and he throws on a baseball hat with a hood pulled over, and in minutes we scamper out the door and into the elevator. Standing side by side, I latch my arms around his waist. His forehead rests against mine, and he kisses me like sweet morning coffee.
When the doors open, I break into a brisk walk, pulling his hand behind me until we're under the now pink-and-orange sky. Our shoes are off once we hit the sand, and I burst into a run for the still, swirling waves.
White ocean foam meets my toes, and the the cool sea tickles my bare skin. I wade until the water is mid-calf. I cross my arms, hugging the sweatshirt to my skin as the chill breeze nips at my knees. The stillness allows me to process thoughts, how a month ago I would have never predicted attending Festival de Cannes, much less a spontaneous flight to France planned in just a short few weeks.
I turn around, looking at the most unpredictable thing of all. From a few feet away, I catch him looking at me, lips pressed together in a grin. I gesture him over, and he sloshes out next to me.
"It's so fucking pretty here," I say.
"Yeah it is," he says, and he's still looking at me.
"Absolutely not. None of that." I cringe and step back, giving the water a playful kick, and he laughs as he throws his hands up in reflex.
"She thought the – wait, no, he thought the view was pretty, but she thought he was prettier," I mock, drenched with sarcasm.
He scrunches his nose. "Yeah, that is pretty bad."
He pulls me by the front of my sweater to kiss him.
We walk just along the shore, talking, laughing, taking a couple pictures of the view, of course. I sneak some of him, too. With his foot, he traces T + M in the wet sand, and then innocently pretends he didn't. Whenever he's looking at the sky, I'm looking at him.
A cool breeze sneaks up, turning into wind, and we run to huddle together, my arms around his neck, and we nearly both topple over. I let out a squeal and giggle, the cold nipping at our wet feet, and we sit on the sand together. His arms are propped on his knees. Inches from his face, I examine every curve and freckle that have become so familiar and intimate. His lips and cheeks are pink. His arm curls around behind my back and around my neck, and he buries his lips in my hair. I kiss his hand in front of me, learning into his small frame.
"I like that you fit right here," he says into my hair, breath warming my neck.
You're my best friend, I want to say, but the words freeze before they leave me. Words aren't needed right now. All I know is that I feel safe with Timmy, and my heart grows more achingly fond of him with each passing day.
I feel safe. I inhale his sweater, and his hold tightens.
******
We buy coffee at the downstairs cafe before heading up to shower and wash each other's hair. While we're talking, as I wash his back, we discover that we're both unfortunately experienced in shower sex, and have equally found the experience to be awkward and largely uncomfortable.
So it's not until after that he is undoing my robe on the bed and pulling me onto his lap, kissing the crevices of my collarbone with his arms holding my back as he thrusts. I pant into his wet hair, shuddering and letting out moans as his hands canvass my skin, his shoulders jerking slightly as he climaxes. We lay in bed for the rest of the time left.
He's washed up and has started getting dressed for his day when there's a knock at the door. Iris comes in, giving enthusiastic greeting and engaging in conversation with Timothée. I feel only slightly embarrassed, standing at the kitchen counter in my robe, taking a bite of my toasted bagel.
"I just need to get dressed, I'll be just a second," says Timothée, and disappears back into the bedroom, leaving Iris and myself. She sits in one of the armchairs, pulling her phone out and typing. I notice my energy changing, and I feel a need to justify myself in her presence.
"So did you two run off somewhere this morning?" she says, startling me. I look up from my phone.
"Yeah! We went down to the beach early this morning for the sunrise."
Her bright response seems superficial, but I subscribe to the friendly discussion.
"And how did you two get to know each other? Where did you meet?" She rests her chin on her knuckles.
"Oh—through friends," I blurt out, suddenly awkward about the truth, hoping she doesn't press. As I navigate the conversation she tells me how she began to work with Timothée just at the start of Call Me By Your Name press.
"And what do you do?"
"I'm in journalism. Actually, right now I'm interning with the New York Muse. I also make coffee." The former doesn't stir a reaction from her as I hoped.
"Listen," she starts, "I don't completely know what's going on between you and Timothée. But I was wondering if you have some idea of what you're getting into."
The sentence blindsides me, and I open my mouth to talk, then close it.
"You understand what I mean, yeah?"
"No, yeah, absolutely." It comes out much more high-pitched than intended.
"My main concern is Timothée, you know," she says. Her voice has lowered. "It's a rare thing with him, how far he's gotten and how much his celebrity has grown with it. It's just all delicate right now, and we just don't want anything to detract from where he's going. We just-" she presses her lips together – "We don't know anything about you, you know? We don't know what your intentions are, much less what the press will assume."
My tongue is frozen. Delicate? His celebrity. My intentions.
"I'm not – I'm not trying to use him, if that's what you're implying." I fail to veil the edge of irritation.
"No, definitely not. I apologize. I truly just want to look out for you. This is my job. All I'm saying is that I'm in charge of his media image. You're an unknown. And for lack of better words, my job would be much easier if you were a big name, or if he was with someone who was."
She's saying all of this with such pleasant demeanor that I can't decide how to interpret it or respond. I think I've shrunk two sizes.
"I'm just trying to help. I have seen this happen before. The press are going to eat you for breakfast. I just hope you have some idea of what you're getting into."
Timothée's voice grows in volume, and she drops the subject as he enters the room, unbothered, having heard nothing. He kisses me goodbye before he follows Iris out the door. She doesn't give me another word or look.
******
was singing delicate by taylor swift in my head during that last half lol
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