Timothee.

chapter eleven. adele.

He had walked me out of the door the next morning, his hand on my lower back. Everything was more intimate between us after that night. I had my coat draped around the clothes he gave me to wear.

I tucked my nose into my shoulder a bit, smelling the way he smelled. The dream I had that night almost made it embarrassing to even look at him. Especially since I knew that he knew exactly the kind of dream it was.

We stopped at the front doors of his apartment building. His arm was now wrapped around my waist. "Tell me what your dream was about Adele... We can talk about it over coffee." He had said this in french, again much more intimate. "I should be heading home... my mother's probably worried about me."

My face was hot as I sat on the subway. The urge to kiss him while we had stood there together in front of his apartment was so forceful. It was demanding. It was even painful to not kiss him. At least in my dreams, I knew how soft his lips were though I'd never seen them. I could only imagine. I crossed my legs on the subway, covering myself more with my
coat in embarrassment. Flashbacks, I guessed.

Before unlocking the door to my family's apartment, I took in a deep breath. I held it, and walked in. My dad was sitting on the couch. Things were broken, torn clothes on the floor, picture frames shattered... What the fuck?

"Adele..." My father stood up. He was covered in sweat and he reeked of vodka. As he walked closer to me, I stepped back until my back was against the wall. The deranged look in his eyes said it all. "What... Where's mom..." He shook his head, "Don't worry."

I pulled my phone out of my pocket, below his waist so he couldn't see me. I opened moms contact but as if right on cue, he had smacked it out of my hands and onto the floor. "Dad!"
"Your mother is a whore, Adele. You should know what she did. You deserve to know." As he got closer the smell was unbearable. My mother a whore? There was no way, she was always so humble, quiet and shy.

"What's this?" He backed up looking at the clothes I was wearing, the same deranged look had been spread across his face more though insignificantly crazier. He examined my clothes, pulled me close by my shirt and smelled the cologne radiating off of it. "So that's where you were all night, huh?" He scoffed, "just like your mother." Before my eyes could well up with tears, I was left speechless. The way he had looked at me in that moment, the way the words spit out of his mouth like fire. I could tell how much he hated me. I squatted to pick up my phone, hearing him curse at me, spit on me. I left hurriedly before he could do anything else.

I dialed my mothers number, hearing it dial and go straight to voicemail. Each and every time I called her.
Panic rose from my stomach and into my throat, I ran to the nearest bin and threw it all up. Still, anxiety in my chest. My head now hurt from crying. The only person I had left to call was Timothée, so I did. He didn't pick up.

Timothée
Hey, I'm in a video
chat meeting right now.
I can only text. What's up?

Me
Oh   nvm.

Timothée
No. What's going on?

Me
It's a long story
just a lot to process.
I'll be at our coffee shop.

Before I could turn around I was bombarded with flashes in my face, people yelling questions at me, calling me names. I was confused. It was all yelling and my mind was blank from the flashes in my eyes.

The only thing I heard was, "What's it like dating Timothée Chalamet?"