Forever, Yours ➹ Timothée Chalamet

3 | Let's Make A Deal

VERA

_

❝BOYS AINT' SHIZ,❞ Toni says, walking into the room.

Her lack of foul language takes a shred of passion away from her words, but I give it a pass, because I've known her long enough to know she hates bad language—which is understandable in her case. Bad words make my mouth feel dirty, she'd say, and I like having a clean mouth. I didn't press for more information, although she seemed happy to talk about it for another hour.

When I returned from the basement of Plaisirs De Bella's, I was met with the tidbit of information that Timothée had disappeared out the front door long before I returned. Which sucked. But, according to Bella, it's not the first time he's climbed in through the basement, and he always leaves a euro in the tip jar to account for whatever he took.

That may have cleared him for being a thief, but I still didn't appreciate the abrupt cold-shoulder he gave me when he left.

"To be fair," I mumbled, sinking into my chair, "I did accuse him of being a thief."

Toni looked offended. "There is no 'to be fair', he literally climbed through a window."

"Which he does a lot, apparently."

"And to be fair, you didn't know that, so he shouldn't have left you picking up those apples alone." She frowned. "So, to backtrack what I said, boys ain't shiz, and that's why I only love fictional ones."

The sound of Toni's mug hitting the table was almost deafening (which only highlighted the cramped apartment space we shared), so she mumbled an apology when the noise caused me to flinch.

"So what did he do exactly?" She continued, "like, what did he say that was so cold?"

I shrugged, "He didn't say anything, to be exact, but I felt the vibe in the room."

Toni frowned. "The vibe?"

"The vibe. He got really close to me at the end, and got in my face, and told me he was leaving."

"Sounds like harassment."

"No, it wasn't," I sighed, rubbing my face with my palms. I didn't know how to describe the situation entirely, because I couldn't remember much of it, other than the way his smug look disappeared into offense when I called him a thief. "But he seemed so confident before, and then I threatened to hit him with a bread loaf, and...jeez, Toni, I don't know what the hell happened."

She took a sip out of her mug—Earl Grey tea, her usual. "You never do."

"Excuse me?"

"I've witnessed this a million times, Vera," she noted, "you see a cute guy, assume all these wonderful things about him, and then you try to push out the disappointment of your assumptions being wrong and pretend like you forgot."

"I don't do that."

"You do."

I do.

Call it the writer in me, or something, because I over dramatise the little things and pretend like I'm living in a book-world where everything has a happy ending. But what was I expecting? I wouldn't know a happy ending unless it hit me in the face, and I can't even write at the moment.

Thank you, Toni, for calling me out.

"Life's a ditch," she said, purposely avoiding another cuss word, "don't let this bakery boy ruin your day."

I groaned. "But he's so pretty..."

"Pretty rude, if you ask me."

"And his eyes..."