Forever, Yours ➹ Timothée Chalamet

9 | Book Boy

VERA

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"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.