novacane | griezmann

25 // ELLIOTT

Despite Antoine having repeatedly stated that there was something he wanted to tell me, I completely fell asleep as he began to say it—thus leaving me to not remember a single thing he was attempting to say.

I woke up the next morning on Christmas Eve to a rather disturbing noise—Antoine's phone loudly ringing—or, in other words, Drake singing Hotline Bling, and loud.

"Antoine," I groaned. "Make it stop." I forced my eyes open, presumably at the same time as the Frenchman—he smiled, kissed my nose, and reached across me in order to grab the phone.

"Sorry," He spoke, hovering over me as he checked caller ID.

I glanced up at him. "Who is it?"

Antoine sighed and sat up. "My agent." He responded, before answering his phone and sitting on the edge of the bed, his back facing me. I felt my face burn a little. Antoine has an agent! Often times I always managed to forget about who he was to the rest of the world.

I went on my own phone and didn't pay much attention to Antoine's conversation until he began to grow angry, rapidly cursing and speaking so quickly in French that even I couldn't understand him. Ultimately, he stood and got dressed; he frustratedly hung up the phone and carelessly tossed it on the bed. "Elliott, amour, I have to go."

I frowned. "Where are you going?"

"I have to meet with my agent, something has come up." Antoine kissed my forehead. "I'm sorry. I'll be back in an hour or two." He rushed out the house with that, leaving me to stare at the door in surprise. After all, I didn't understand why he couldn't just tell me what'd happened.

Maybe a huge team offered him a record breaking deal and they had to discuss it right away, I thought. Maybe someone died. I went to join Rosalind and Kevin downstairs for breakfast, listening to her speak as I plopped in the chair across from the two. "Where's Antoine?"

I shrugged. "He said he had to go meet with his agent. Kevin, you're a footballer...might you know what this is all about?" I glanced over at my brother in law, who had been silent.

"I've seen a few things, but I don't want to startle or worry you..." Kevin's voice drifted off. "Whatever it is, I'm sure Antoine will settle it."

"Well, define it?"

Kevin drank his tea and swallowed. "I really don't know if it's in my place to—"

"Kev," Rosalind rose her eyebrows. "Now you have me all curious—just tell the girl."

Kevin sighed. "Well, last night, I saw on the Internet that someone was accusing Antoine of being the father of her child. You see, it's nothing serious, I'm sure—"

"What?!" I stood up immediately, listening as my chair screeched against the tile flooring. "What do you mean, this is nothing serious?!"

"What I mean is that this kind of stuff happens all the time, especially with celebrities! It happened to me when I was starting to go professional—an old ex of mine grasped the opportunity to make money out of me once she realized I was making it."

Rosalind nodded. "Given Antoine's reputation, Valentine, I'm surprised that this is the first time someone's accused him of something like this."

I frowned and immediately took offense to my sister's words. After all, not only was she insulting Antoine, but me as well; making me seem as though I was stupid and naive for being upset. "Excuse me?" I spoke, crossing my arms. "What are you trying to say?"

Rosalind's voice was patronizing as she held her hand out. "Valentine, all I'm saying is this—Antoine's done some things in his past that I'm sure he's not very proud of. I think you know what I'm trying to say."

I didn't respond, but instead scoffed and stomped back up to my room. What does Rosalind know, anyways? She doesn't know Antoine, not like I do.

But when I sat down on the bed and put my head in my hands before googling this supposed rumor, I felt my mind spin with realization.

"How many women's virginities have you taken?"

"Only twelve."

Only. Did I ever dare to ask Antoine how many women he'd slept with, period? No. And even if I did, Antoine probably wouldn't be able to count them on his fingers if he had four sets of hands. I clicked on the first article I saw about this supposed pregnancy scandal and began to read it.

Sure, I had seen articles about random, obsolete, and irrelevant women accusing celebrities of being the father of their child. And, usually, it was always calmed down, eventually forgotten about. But that was when it came to the general public, and personally, I could care less about what the media thought—what mattered was the truth.

Was Antoine a father?

I didn't know what to do. I paced back and forth and stayed in the house all day until Antoine returned a few hours after lunch, looking just about as tired as I was. My face must've said it all, for he reached out to me and opened his mouth. "Elliott—"

I yanked my arm away from him and hissed. "Don't touch me."

"Elliott, just let me explain." Antoine was frowning. "I don't know this woman—I've never seen her before. I don't even recognize her name."

"That means nothing. Names mean nothing to you." I turned around and slammed the door shut behind Antoine before allowing my anger to get the best of me as I turned around and screamed; "God, Antoine, how can you be so stupid?!"

"Elliott, why are you mad at me? I've been nothing but honest and fair with you!"

"For the past month, maybe you have been. But not for the past five years. I'm the honest and fair one. You're the one who slept with anything that had a vagina and a face that was pretty enough after you'd had enough alcohol. Face it, Antoine—you were a total man-whore. Look me in the eyes and tell me there's no way you could've gotten one of those many women pregnant."

Antoine looked into my eyes. His blue orbs quivered and shook. He looked away. Exactly, I thought. I fell back onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. "You lied to me, Antoine." I sat up. "You said that you would only have unprotected sex with me."

"I wasn't lying." Antoine had his hands in his hands as he fell into the chair at my desk. "It was true when I said it, Elliott."

"But you said that on the plane." My voice was beginning to crack as it fought for room in my throat with the sobs that begged to escape. "And that was the plane on our way to France, and—and then there, in France, we finally—" I paused and shook my head. We finally what, fell in love? "Which can only mean that you cheated on me, you slept with another woman and I was stupid enough not to be able to realize it."

Antoine stood up. "But that's the thing, Elliott. I didn't—"

"—Antoine," I stood up, went to the door, and opened it. I was sick of Antoine always expecting me to believe anything he had to say, and tired of always sucking up to the Frenchman. "Go."

Antoine's face fell as his eyebrows knitted. "What?"

"You heard me, Antoine. Leave!" I was frantically crying as I grabbed his arm and tugged him over to the doorframe before pushing him out of it. He stood there and stared at me with his eyes wide and terror-stricken, as though he couldn't believe this was happening. But what could he expect after having done what he did? Before Antoine could say anything, I slammed the door in his face; I doubted that he would leave the house but I needed to be alone and to think.

Sure enough, I was right; I watched Antoine's shadow come to life as he sat against the door for what felt like forever, repeatedly attempting to find ways to grasp my attention. Each time, however, I would ignore him, and eventually I fell asleep—however when I woke up, his shadow was gone, along with his car, his suitcase—and his presence.