Forever, Yours ➹ Timothée Chalamet

12 | The Casual Thief

yes these are my baby
darlings Avery and Sam,
and I love them endlessly.

_

VERA

_

AFTER MY USUAL SHIFT AT THE BAKERY, I was surprised to see Timothée lingering outside the shop for the first time in a while.

He had a leather sachet hanging off his shoulder, tangled up in the sleeves of his blazer, and another one of his toothpicks dancing around in his mouth. Occasionally he'd turn towards the window, pressing his forehead up against the glass to wave at me while I organized pastries in the display case.

I was more than happy to wave back.

I'd be lying to myself if I said I didn't miss having him wait for me, and now that he was finally back, I felt my stomach doing somersaults and attaining perfect scores in the 'Emotional Olympics'—which wasn't a real thing, but it certainly felt like it was. Maybe it was that sense of stability I was talking about a few days ago. I'd developed the habit of holding onto him, and everything felt normal when he was around again.

"Vera," he said, once my shift was over.

"Timothée," I said back.

"Allons-y."

The next thing I knew, he had whisked me away to his University, pushing me down a familiar, dark hallway to get to a familiar room. If I hadn't already been there the day before, I'd be confused as to why the room was hazy with cigarette smoke when I walked in, but vivid images of two strangers with books answer any questions.

The book club.

Which wasn't really a book club at all.

"Vera, this is Sam Brontté and Avery Carelle," Timothée said, tossing his bag on the floor, "otherwise known as the other two idiots who are going to help me take back my inheritance."

The blond, who was apparently Sam, and the brunet, who was Avery, snapped their books closed as soon as I was pushed through the door. My suspicions about this being a real book club were immediately upheld once I heard Timothée explain who they were—idiots, like me, who were in on the plan.

Shrugging aside introductions, I was directed to sit on the couch in the back of the room. I watched with prying eyes, even as I lowered myself onto the cushions. I wasn't sure why I felt so awkward.

"I'll be back," Timothée muttered, waving his hand, "try to be civil, boys."

And before I could ask where he was going, my only source of stability strode out of the room, closing the door behind him. Now I was standing unbalanced in a room full of strangers. This sucked.

It wasn't until one of the men crossed the room, plopping down on the couch with a book in his lap. He held out his hand towards me, a cheeky grin on his face.

"Avery," he said, nodding his head, "sorry for your loss."

I took his hand hesitantly. "Loss?"

"Loss of freedom," he clarified, cocking his head towards the door, "once Timothée drags you in on a heist, you can't get out. That's how it works."

I took note of the boy's English accent, a sort-of proper dialect that made him seem almost a bit snooty with the way he said things. I wondered if he lived here, or if he was here on exchange. I didn't feel like asking.

"Is it really that bad?" I questioned attentively.

Avery shrugged.

"Depends on what you get out of it," he said, "personally, I like it. I get in with the Chalamet heir, get to do a bunch of cool stuff, live my life, and it gives me the chance to get with that daft idiot."