Forever, Yours ➹ Timothée Chalamet

11 | Murder, Lies, & The Elite

VERA

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I FEEL AS IF I'VE SOLD MY SOUL AWAY.

Timothée's a demon disguised by all good things, but at this point I've already let him clip my wings and draw me into his burning hell-fire plans. He'd left the room to grab something from the kitchen, barely even a minute after I accepted his offer, and I could hear the sounds of cupboards opening and closing from through the thin walls.

I couldn't help but wonder if I made a mistake.

I had felt so sure in the moment, yet now I feel like I've been tied to an anchor and left to sink into the ocean of doubt. He said it himself—he'd only stolen apples, butter, and insignificant things—so whatever plan he had cooked up to retrieve stolen money couldn't be too bad.

Or illegal.

Right?

I'm a complete idiot, my brain chided, what the hell did I just get myself into? I have so much riding on whatever explanation he's about to tell me, and if it ends up being horrible, I'm not so sure he'll let me back out so easily. He wanted something, he needed me to get it, and he didn't seem like the kind of person to let his plans fall through just because I chickened out.

"You'll need this," Timothée said, walking back into the room.

In his hand was a small shot glass, a honey-brown liquid sloshing around the rims as he dangled it in front of my face. My stomach dropped at the sight of it, and my tongue suddenly felt a lot dryer—but I knew better.

"What is it?" I questioned, taking it from his hands hesitantly.

He held up his own shot glass, taking a small sip. "Brandy."

"I'm not old enough to drink this."

Timothée furrowed his brows in confusion, before realization hit him like a truck speeding down a highway. He nearly spat out his own sip, plucking the glass back from my hand, and shaking his head. "Merde, I forgot you were American."

I laughed weakly, amused that he'd let the cultural differences slip his mind (I was nineteen, and even though the legal drinking age was eighteen here, it was twenty-one back in the US. I preferred to wait till then). Fumbling back into the kitchen, Timothée returned shortly after with a large glass of...

...milk.

"There," he said proudly, downing the rest of his brandy, "just drink that, you'll need something to keep you sane before I explain things."

I eyed the light brown milk in my hands now, noting that Timothée preferred chocolate milk than plain. That made me feel warm inside. Why? I don't know, but I was too busy preparing to deal with my future to dwell on it any longer.

As the boy carefully lowered himself on the bed, I shifted backwards at the sudden incline in the mattress. The empty shot glass was twirling lazily in his fingers, and he let out a stressed exhale, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth.

"I'm about to tell you something important," he mumbled, almost to himself, "it might sound confusing, or crazy, but you have to promise to keep it between us."

I nodded my head, taking a sip out of the cold milk he gave me. I had a feeling I'd be needing it.

"Here's something you don't know about Paris," he continued, "you know it for the art, the culture, and the food, but here's where things get tricky. When you're a Parisian with wealth—copious amounts of it, might I add—you get a little ticket into this club, of sorts."