Paparazzi by Erika Vanzin
I’m an idiot. Here he came back, despite my lies, and I managed to make him angry again with my refusal to accept help. I peek into the bag again. The camera is top of the line. I could never afford it, even if I saved for the next hundred years.
I walk to the door and thrust it open, ready to chase Thomas down the street, but I’m surprised to find him in front of me. “Sorry...I shouldn’t have treated you like that.” My voice sounds uncertain.
“And I shouldn’t have left like a little kid. Let’s start this conversation again and pretend I never brought you that camera?”
I invite him to come in, and he doesn’t think twice. He grabs Dexter, who seems invigorated by his presence, and takes him to his chest, cuddling him. He sits at the table, and I sit in front of him.
“I owe you an explanation.” I start.
“Yes, you owe me a lot of them.” His voice is not angry, it’s more like an observation.
“Do you want to ask me questions? I don’t know what you know about me.”
“Why are you doing this job?”
“Because I need money. More than just what it costs to live in Manhattan.”
“Do you have a drug problem or something?”
I burst out laughing, the pain in my ribs flaring up, but I hide the groan that closes my throat. “No, nothing illegal. Believe me.”
“Did you call the ambulance when you found Michael?”
I didn’t expect that question. I didn’t think anyone knew I did it. “Yes, when I realized the situation was serious, I left the garage and called the ambulance. I waited outside until they arrived and guided them to the floor where Michael was. When I saw the foam coming out of the girl’s mouth, I realized they didn’t just fall asleep in the car. She overdosed.”
“Why didn’t you take pictures of her in those conditions?”
“I took a lot of pictures, believe me, but I didn’t sell them. I was desperate, but I have a limit, too. I thought about what a mother would feel to see her daughter overdosed on the front pages of all the newspapers.”
“You had to be close to see those details.”
I see him tightening his jaw. He’s testing me, he wants to know the truth, and I owe him the truth this time. “I was next to their car door, but I decided to sell only those from afar with some reflections of the glass... I didn’t want the world to see that scene up close. Michael would never have survived the scandal after those photos.”
“Can you show them to me?”
I hesitate for a moment. I would never want to see pictures like that of someone I love.
“I’m sure,” he insists, noticing my hesitancy.
I get my laptop, access folders protected by two different passwords, and look for pictures of Michael. Thomas brings his hand to his mouth as he scrolls through dozens of photos I took but never sold. They’re raw, desperate, of two people who look like they’re dead. I see his eyes watering, and I can hear him clearing his throat before closing my laptop.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
I don’t know if he’s thanking me for showing him the pictures or not selling them. He is particularly shaken, and I prefer not to probe any further.
“Why don’t you move somewhere less expensive to live?”
“Because famous people live here, and I need this job.”
“Can’t you move to a city where the cost of living is lower? Where you can do a normal job and get a decent apartment without having to climb over drunk people to get to the front door?” The irritation in his voice is almost palpable.
“No, I can’t do that,” I snap at his insistence.
“Why? That’s what I can’t understand. Is it because you like New York clubs, the good life?”
“Because there are other people who depend on me and the money I bring home!” I reply angrily.
The silence that follows is tense. “Explain,” he whispers almost in prayer.
“I can’t explain it to you. I have to show you.”
“Really?”
“If you want to see it...understand why...”
“You told me it’s nothing illegal, so yes, of course, I want to understand.” His tone is almost sweet, as if he were clinging to this explanation to have a reason for our existence.
“You’re a rock star. Shouldn’t you be the one who always lives on the edge? The one who feels the thrill of living on the verge of lawlessness and transgression?” I tease him to lighten the heavy atmosphere, but I immediately regret it because, for a second, I see pain veiling his eyes before he tries to bring back a tired smile.
“The life of the rock star is not that exciting, trust me. It’s all tours without a moment to take a breath. After that, you go to the studio to record an album, then you start with promotional parties where you don’t have fun at all. Then you go on a new tour to promote the album. It’s an endless wheel spinning, spinning, spinning, and we’re the hamsters running inside it, desperate not to be fired out like missiles. That’s why Michael succumbed to cocaine at first.”
“Have you all done it?” I’m terrified at the idea of him doing drugs.
“No. Just Michael, but he’s been clean for years now.”
I nod and smile, getting off the stool and grabbing my jacket. “I thought your life was more exciting. Sounds to me like it’s not exactly a life I’d want.”
Thomas gets up and puts Dexter down, who meows disappointedly, and helps me slip on the jacket. “Don’t get me wrong, I like the life I have. I love being on tour because the guys are like brothers, and we have a lot of fun. I love making music, and I don’t think I can do anything else in life. But you always have to be focused, present, active, deal with everyone. It’s not like you can be a rock star and say, ‘Okay, I don’t want to do anything today, I’m going to stay in bed all day,’ because that’ll be the day there are at least ten people who depend on you, on your commitments, on your decisions. That’s all.”
The glossy, over-the-top image presented in the media and on stage is nothing like the serious, laid-back, sweet guy who fills this apartment with his humble presence. “Okay, you’re making me want to write a documentary blog post about the real life of a rock star,” I admit with sincerity.
He smiles and nods. “We can talk to Evan about it. Why not? It might be interesting,” he suggests, and I’m worried he may think I brought it up to get a successful article out of it, not because I’m really interested in his life.
“I don’t want to take advantage of this. I’m sorry,” I look down, ashamed.
Thomas gently rests a finger under my chin and makes me lift my head until I meet his big, blue, sweet eyes that make my legs tremble. “I know you didn’t say it to take advantage of this conversation. If you wanted to exploit me, you’d have done it already. I know you didn’t approach me to get a story. I honestly thought of at least twenty occasions when you could have used your position to your advantage, but you didn’t. I said it because it really could be an interesting idea to explore and you’re a great journalist, never underestimate that. And don’t tell me you’re just a blogger simply because some of your articles don’t get published in the papers.”
“I’ve never majored in journalism.”
“Why is that?”
“I was able to get into Columbia and New York University, but they cost too much, and I couldn’t take on hundreds of thousands of dollars in loans, besides the ones I already have.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you’re much more qualified than many journalists who write important articles every day. Those schools lost a great student.”
His words, so sincere and completely unexpected, make me blush and look away from embarrassment.
“Are you ready to go? I have to call Max to pick us up.” Thomas changes the topic, and I appreciate the fact that he didn’t press me any further.
“I thought I’d take the subway. It’s only a few stops from here,” I suggest, puzzled.
Thomas lowers his gaze, tucking his hands into his jean pockets and nervously rocking from his heels to his toes. “Well, one thing someone with my fame can’t do, if he doesn’t want to be assaulted by fans, is take public transport,” he explains with a half-smile.
“Oh,” is the only sound that comes out of my mouth like a perfect idiot. I had not considered such an eventuality at all.
“I know, I didn’t think about it at first either and went about my business, driving Dave—our head of security, and Max, our driver—crazy. They had to come and pick me up from the most stressful situations,” he chuckles while he texts a message.
“Like what?” I’m as curious as a kid with a gift she can’t open.
“Like the time they fished me out from under a mountain of diaper packages and toilet paper because I went alone one night to get milk and cookies at the supermarket. Some of the clients recognized me, and I found myself running away from a small crowd who wanted photos and autographs.” He laughs at the memory, and I laugh with him.
“Milk and cookies? I thought at least a six-pack of beer or a bottle of whiskey,” I tease him.
“Are you kidding? I can’t sleep if I haven’t finished my day with a hot cup of milk and cookies,” he says, pretending to be shocked.
I burst out laughing when I realize that, in our own way, we’re working things out.
“Not a rock star, you have the lifestyle of a Teletubby,” I tease, and he rolls his eyes, nodding toward the door.
“Come on, let’s go meet Max before you kill my dignity completely.”
*
I climb into the black Range Rover with darkened glass parked in front of my house, and immediately I am met by Max’s greeting and smile.
I tell him the address, and he flashes his gray eyes in the rearview mirror to seek the silent approval of Thomas, who gives him a slight nod of his head. He starts the car and heads into the light traffic of my street before diving into the chaos of the rest of the city.
We exchange a few jokes on light topics in the car, perhaps because even Thomas can sense the nervousness that begins to churn in my stomach and makes me silent.
“Do you know what surprises me the most right now?” I ask, looking away from the city out the window and turning toward his smile that beckons me with a nod of his head. “That I have been coming to this place for years, but I have no idea what the city around it is like, the neighborhoods nearby. I’ve always reached it by subway. I know every detail of the stations where it stops, but I have no idea what’s on the surface.”
Thomas smiles at me and nods. “I know, and maybe that’s the beauty of New York, Manhattan in particular. Though you’ve been living here for years, it’ll always surprise you by showing you a corner you’ve never seen or slightly changing some place you haven’t been in a long time. The great thing, though, is that it always manages to make you feel at home, even though it’s never the same.”
I know the feeling. I’ve lived all my life in New York, and I think I could never call anywhere else home. Strangely, when I walk here, I always meet people I’ve never met before, but I feel like I know them. Eight and a half million people, and it still seems like everyone is part of a large neighborhood.
“We’re here.” Max’s voice recalls us to reality, and when I look out the window, I realize that the gates have opened and we are slowly entering the parking lot that I never use, despite being entitled to it.
I turn to Thomas and notice the attentive and perhaps even worried look when he realizes where we are. We get out of the car, and I tell him to follow me into the clinic. When I look at the nurse behind the counter, she looks up, and immediately her worried gaze rests on me.
“Oh, honey, are you okay? I saw on the news what happened at the Gala, and I was scared to death.” The concern is heartfelt in her voice and on her face.
“I’m fine, really, just a little pain in my shoulder but nothing more.” I try to minimize it when I feel Thomas’s eyes on me.
She rounds the counter, takes my chin between two fingers, and moves my head to look at my bruises more carefully. Her serious glance, from my face to the arm stuck to my chest, makes me realize that I couldn’t convince her.
“You know that if you need physical therapy, you can come to us, right? We can find room in Liam’s schedule, and you don’t need to pay,” she adds when she notices how slowly I sign the register.
I smile and nod, then turn to Thomas and look at him doubtfully. “Is it a problem for you to sign the guest register? They don’t let anyone in without a signature.” Maybe he doesn’t want his name on a long-term illness clinic list.
“Of course, no worries.” He approaches the desk, smiles, and takes the pen from my hands, short-circuiting my brain when our fingers touch.
We greet the nurse at the entrance—who lingers longer than necessary on Thomas’s slender figure—and reach the cream-colored room where my mother is sitting alone in her usual armchair in front of the window overlooking the garden.
“Hi, Mom, how are you today?” I whisper to her as I go to gently kiss her head, pressing my lips to her hair that smells of vanilla and baby powder.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Thomas carefully following my every move, his eyes glued to me, to my hands as I untie the braid that keeps her long hair gathered and start brushing it. I beckon him to approach, and he does so slowly, weighing every gesture with sweetness as if he could somehow disturb the stillness of this place. I see him inhale deeply and hold his breath. His eyes are glistening and he can’t hide the pain on his face. I wasn’t prepared for his reaction—it’s as though he’s suffering physically at what he’s seeing, at meeting her for the first time. When he sees me watching him, he tries to recompose himself and gives me a half-smile, but his eyes can’t hide the pain he seems to be feeling since entering this room.
“This is Thomas, the guy I told you about. The one whose arms I literally fell into. Do you remember that?”
Thomas smiles.
“She hasn’t answered me in years, but I like to keep her up to date on my life,” I explain.
He nods with a smile more confident than before and warmth in his eyes.
“He’s a famous drummer. I know you only consider the drum noise, but he’s definitely good.”
I can hear Thomas chuckling as he sits in a nearby chair. “What happened to her? If you don’t mind me asking.”
I place the brush on the bedside table, and I go back to braiding her hair. “Senile dementia.”
“Really? I thought she wasn’t...I mean, your mom looks young to me.”
I nod and smile. It seems impossible to me, too, that she’s in this condition. “Apparently, you can get it even at forty-five, and when it takes you so young, it’s very aggressive. It’s a rare case, but it can happen. Her brain stopped working properly; the disease has a complicated name, but the reality is straightforward: she’s shutting down. She needs someone to assist her twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. At first, I tried to take care of her, but it’s almost impossible on my own. Now, you see her catatonic in front of this window, but sometimes she wakes up in a confused state, doesn’t recognize anyone, and gets very upset. I can’t stay with her all the time. I once found her wandering the neighborhood streets just in her robe at six in the evening on my way home from work. It was a struggle to drag her back into the house,” I explain without ever looking him in the eye.
“Can I ask what happened to your father?” he says almost in a whisper.
I look up and find tears threatening to fall down his face. It leaves me breathless and suddenly I want to wrap my arms around his neck.
“He left us almost seven years ago. He said my mother was crazy and he couldn’t be with her anymore. In a way, it was true. The first signs of dementia were already showing up. Sometimes she would scold me because I hadn’t done something she’d never really told me to do. In hindsight, I understand why he left. Anyway, I never had a great relationship with my dad. The first few summers, I went to visit him on vacation in Florida, but then he started a new family, and I stopped going. I felt unwelcome. He doesn’t even know my mother’s like this.”
“Why don’t you tell him? Maybe he can help you.”
My bitter smile makes him frown. “Because he’s not doing well, either. He’s always given me about two hundred dollars a month to help with expenses, which he still does, even though I’m twenty-four years old and don’t need it. I know how much effort it is for him to get that money out, and yet he’s always on time for payments. At Christmas and on my birthday, he gives me a hundred more. He has never missed a date or anniversary. He’s not a bad person, he just never realized that my mother’s condition was due to illness and not because she had changed from the woman he fell in love with. It can be really exhausting to live with someone who has this condition. It wears you down, day after day, little by little, until all your energy is gone.”
Thomas nods but says nothing. He seems lost in his thoughts as he glances between my mother and me, perhaps realizing how much we look alike. Or wondering if one day I’ll get as sick as her. I’ve often wondered it, too, but I resigned myself to the belief that I can’t control it. I’ll think about it if and when it happens to me.
“Scared?”
He raises his blue eyes and gives me a reassuring smile. “No, I was thinking about how much a place like this must cost.”
“A lot, trust me. I have some assistance from the state and some charities that help with elderly care, but the remaining tuition is still really expensive. That’s why I do the work I do.”
He barely nods, his eyes fixed on my mother’s profile and his gaze earnest, as if he’s considering how to miraculously heal her from this state. Despite my lies, despite what I do for a living, he’s here, with me, and trying to understand my world, choices, and difficulties. I’m glad Ron told him everything because he lifted a weight off my chest. I was exhausted from the lies and secrecy, living in a limbo between happiness and fear.
*
We walk into my apartment, and Thomas helps me take off my windbreaker, careful not to hurt me.
“Have you been able to eat since you ended up in the hospital, or are you fasting?” he asks, halfway between worried and scolding.
I smile and look down guiltily. “Sometimes I order out, sometimes Emily brings me something from the café.”
“But more often than not, you don’t eat, do you?” I don’t answer. It’s impossible to hide the truth when your stomach grumbled all afternoon. “Sit. I’ll cook something.”
I watch him tinker with eggs, bacon, cheese, butter, and bread. He is the perfect mix of sweet and sexy that makes my heart melt so much I have a ridiculous smile on my face. So this is what it feels like when you’re genuinely happy.
When he turns to me with the two plates of sandwiches he has prepared, he looks puzzled. “What?”
“No, nothing, you’re just perfect. A rock star, good in the kitchen, great in bed... So, where do I sign on the dotted line?” I joke, trying to lighten the heavy day we’ve had.
He shrugs and smiles, embarrassed. “I’m not that perfect, trust me, but I like to take care of you. I know you’re independent, and you’re doing great on your own, but making dinner makes me feel useful.”
I’m not used to this attention, but I can put aside my pride for at least one sandwich. “Okay, alright, you’re not perfect, but this sandwich is amazing. Just saying.” I devour the two slices of toasted bread and butter with little grace and I’m stuffed.
“You also said I’m great in bed, don’t forget that part.” He winks at me and smiles.
“Damn it, I was hoping you missed that!” I laugh as I finish the last of my dinner and wash it down with a sip of water.
Thomas gets up, catching me by surprise, and puts his arm under my knees and behind my shoulders to lift me up. He walks to the bed and carefully sets me down as if I were a fragile package. Dexter, napping on the pillows, gets up, jumps out of bed, and takes refuge in the bathroom, looking annoyed.
“Let me remind you how good I am even away from the stove,” he whispers in my ear and then kneels in front of me to take off the shoes that I struggled to put on this morning.
The comfortable mood of our dinner changes, unleashing an electricity that usually sparks just before we end up between the sheets. Thomas keeps undressing me: first my socks, pants, panties, and then my sweater and t-shirt, leaving me naked in front of him. He helps me lie down, then undresses without ever taking his eyes off mine and lays down next to me, covering us with the warm quilt. He comes closer and kisses me softly, taking his time, sliding his hands over my bare skin, stroking me with the delicacy of a feather, igniting my desire.
He’s a different Thomas than the passionate one I’ve gotten used to, but no less sensual. He kisses the skin of my neck and then descends to my breasts, leaving a glowing trail on my body. Butterflies spring from my belly when, with light kisses, he slowly approaches the center of my pleasure. I want to tell him that I need to feel him inside me, to feel him move in me to feed my mounting pleasure that needs release, but my voice doesn’t come out—it’s stopped by my lack of breath and my brain wrapped in oblivion.
He slips his tongue between my legs and awakens my desire. He kisses me, taking care of my pleasure with a slowness that both tortures me and makes me shiver with pleasure. He takes me almost to the apex, with kisses and light touches. Then he stands up, and, after sticking on a condom he finds on my bedside table, gets on his knees between my legs and sinks into me slowly, savoring the moment and throwing back his head with closed eyes, lost in the sensation. I watch him as, with slow movements, he sinks deeper and deeper into me, filling me with his presence and persistence. Thrust after thrust, though careful not to disturb my sore shoulder, he takes both of us to a deep orgasm that leaves me exhausted.
I look at him, getting lost in his blue eyes gazing at me, still intoxicated with pleasure. It’s a vision I’d like to imprint in my mind and relive every day of my life, but my eyelids get heavy, and as Thomas kisses me and snuggles closer to me, I close my eyes and sink into a serene sleep.
In the morning when I open my eyes, his side of the bed is empty. Last night I felt a kiss on my forehead, then the front door closing soundlessly. I thought I dreamed of it, but I realize Thomas is gone. My heart sinks into my chest when it occurs to me that maybe he regrets our reconciliation and doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore.
I sit up and find a note on the nightstand: ‘I couldn’t stay. I’ve already made coffee. Just turn on the machine. Have an awesome day!’ And I smile.