Paparazzi by Erika Vanzin
Iris looks around at my living room in wide-eyed wonder, like a child in a museum—the museum of science and technology, to be exact. It’s so different from her apartment she might as well be on another planet.
“Is that a chair?” she points at the Space Shuttle.
I smile, amused, and nod. “Yes. If you sit on it and turn fast enough, it shoots you into orbit.”
She laughs and does it, playing like a little girl. “It’s true. If you stop suddenly, you find yourself splattered against the window. But you get a fantastic view of Central Park.”
I approach her and sit in the other chair, which, thankfully, remains stationary, anchored to the floor. “Right. It’s the only thing I like about this apartment,” I admit with sincerity.
“Why do you live here, then, if you don’t like it?” Her question is straightforward, curious.
“Because it’s a good investment. I saw the pictures, it was in a good location, I bought it.”
“You never saw it before you bought it?” she asks me incredulously.
I laugh and shake my head. I guess for her, and for any normal person, that sounds absurd. A few years ago, I would have thought so, too, but now I understand what matters most in life, and this apartment is without a doubt an investment, and that’s it.
“I didn’t care, it was a property that would gain value over time, and my consultant told me it was a great decision to buy it.”
“So you didn’t choose this furniture.” More than a question, it sounded like a statement, and she’s relieved when I shake my head no.
“I found it this way. I’ve been wanting to furnish it more to my taste, but in the few weeks I’m home, doing nothing, honestly, I don’t have the energy to take it all apart. I keep putting it off so it’s stayed exactly as it was when I bought it. I swear, some things I just haven’t figured out yet.”
Iris listens intently, like I’m telling her the secrets of the universe, and I’m starting to get embarrassed. I’m like a kid babbling on about random things in front of his first crush, and with horror, I realize it isn’t the first time this thought has crossed my mind.
“Don’t you want it to feel like it’s yours? Like a home?”
I shrug and think about it. “For me, a house is the people who live there, the love that’s created inside the walls, not the walls themselves. Any place is home when the people I love are with me.”
“The Jailbirds,” she whispers.
I don’t respond. This is a minefield; sooner or later, she’ll ask about my past, and I don’t know if I’m ready to go into detail with her.
I try to change the topic with a bad joke that might make her smile. “But how come you didn’t want to go out to dinner tonight? Not that I mind making you dinner, trying to get into your panties by showing off my cooking skills, but you seemed pretty tense when I texted. You didn’t even want me to send Max to pick you up.” Her eyes don’t light up at my light tone like they usually do, and it worries me.
“You know Ron? The man I sold Lilly and Damian’s pictures to? The other night he stationed himself in my garage and saw you leave my apartment. He’s definitely realized there’s something going on, and even though I’ve denied it, I’m afraid he’s going to send some of his people to stalk us. I’m sorry I dragged you into this,” she admits miserably, as if it was her fault.
I can’t help but burst into laughter. “You dragged me?”
“If I didn’t work with Ron, he would’ve never figured it out. I’m no one special in Manhattan. He only found out because he keeps an eye on me.”
“Trust me, every step I take is monitored. You should know that. If you hadn’t worked for Ron, do you think our date would have gone unnoticed?”
“If we were careful, probably, yes.”
“The places I’m used to going, waiters would sell their souls to the devil—or Ron, in this case, for a story. It’s part of the game, and if it doesn’t bother you, it’s not a problem for me. Does it make you uncomfortable to go out with me?” I ask her when doubt assaults me.
Now it’s her turn to laugh, and I find myself getting lost in the melodious sound that sends shivers down my back.
“No, how could it bother me? I’m certainly not used to the attention since I’m usually on the other side of the lens. But that didn’t stop me from meeting someone I really care about.”
Her confession makes me happy and scared all at once. Soon, she’s going to want to know more about me, and I won’t know how to answer her. “Good, because tonight you will experience my famous lasagna...and no, don’t make that face, that’s not an analogy for sex.” She laughs, and I get up to go check on the oven.
“What are these? Why do you have hundreds of decorated cookie packages?” she asks, puzzled when she sees the boxes on the couch.
I feel embarrassed. I forgot to hide them in the guest room before she arrived. I don’t want her to react like Lilly when she discovered Michael likes to carve wood. “I made them,” I admit.
She looks at me dumbfounded for a moment, as if expecting me to tell her it’s a joke, but then she picks up a box and looks at them carefully.
“Did you really make them? Even the decorations? They look professionally made—like at a bakery!” she exclaims, impressed, and my chest swells with a bit of pride.
“When I was a kid, I used to make them with my mother. She taught me how to make the icing, and I always had a certain artistic side to me, so I took to it easily. I usually make them when I need to blow off some steam. Staying focused on decorating distracts my mind from my problems…like a fight with the girl I like,” I admit sheepishly.
“Oh...then it’s my fault that your house has turned into a pastry shop.”
I laugh. “You helped make the holidays much sweeter for all the homeless people in the city.”
“What about those?” she asks, pointing to more cookies sitting in front of the stove where I’m busy cooking.
“Claire, my assistant, packed them up to donate them to a charity that raises money for a foster home in Queens. They need a new roof, and they’re running out of cash.”
“Wow. They’ll have a line out of the store when they know they’re your cookies.”
“No one knows they’re mine. Not even my friends. It’s something I do anonymously...something that only Claire, and now you, know about.”
Her blushing rosy cheeks almost make me melt. “And I thought you couldn’t get any more perfect.” She looks at me with a dreamy glint in her eyes.
And now I’m blushing, but in shame. I’m anything but perfect and, even though she keeps saying it, I can’t hide the guilt I feel for deceiving her.
*
“It’s amazing. Did you really make it?” she asks me, her eyes wide.
I smile and nod while I pour another glass of wine for her. “Yep, do you really like it?”
She nods and takes another bite as if it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted. “Did your mother cook this too, besides gnocchi?” she asks, and I shake my head, happy to have an anecdote about the Jailbirds instead of my biological family.
“Actually, no. During our first European tour, the band finished our gigs in Italy and, since we didn’t have the obligation of more shows, we stayed on for a two-week vacation. I fell in love with the cuisine and lifestyle there. The flavors were spectacular! And it seems like my taste buds have a mind of their own because sometimes I’ll remember eating something there and my brain shouts at me to cook it instantly.” I laugh at my twisted explanation.
“I think your taste buds are right, and I also think you’ll have to cook for me more often because these are the best dishes I’ve ever tasted in my life.” She laughs and it’s contagious. I find myself watching her cleaning that perfect mouth with the napkin, and I just want to kiss her.
And that’s what I do. I lean over the table and kiss her on the lips, savoring the taste of the sip of wine she just drank. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist.”
Iris smiles as she looks down. When it comes to my displays of affection, I find her blushing, like a young girl, incredibly sexy. “Don’t apologize. I’m glad.”
“What’s your specialty?” I ask. “What do you make when you have to win someone over with your cooking?”
Iris thinks about it for a second. “I think cottage pie.” She nods like that’s the right answer.
“Really? How come? It’s not a very American dish.”
Iris shrugs and takes another sip of wine. “My mother is Irish. She moved here when she met my father and then they got married. It’s a dish from her childhood; she used to make it for me a lot when I was a little girl. I’d cook it for her when she started showing the first signs of dementia because it seemed to trigger some memories. Maybe, as you say, taste buds have memories that activate the brain. Unfortunately, that trick hasn’t worked for years.” Her smile is melancholy.
“That explains your complexion,” I say without thinking.
“What?” She frowns.
“Your pale skin, red hair, green eyes, freckles…it’s all very Irish or Scottish.”
“Oh, right. My dad didn’t give me much from a genetic point of view. I don’t look like him at all.” She laughs amusedly, and I can’t even imagine what her father could be like. “And you? Who do you look the most like? Does your sister look like you?” she asks as panic begins to take over. What the hell do I tell her?
I inhale deeply and then put a massive bite of lasagna in my mouth to buy some time. Her eyes are on me, expecting an answer. I take a sip of wine. “I have my mother’s eyes, but otherwise, I look like my father. My sister...I don’t know if I look like my sister.” I stop short. The last time I saw her, I was just a kid. We’ve both changed a lot. At least, I know I’ve changed a lot, physically and otherwise. I’m sure she has, too, since she’s a mother of three children I’ll never know.
“Don’t you know if you look like your sister?” she asks, puzzled.
Iris isn’t an idiot. She knows this story of mine has holes all over the place, and she’s probably annoyed that I haven’t told her everything, though you couldn’t tell it from her expression. This is why I never wanted to be in a relationship—sooner or later, you get to know each other beyond the sex, and I have nothing to say. I have a history that I want to keep in the past, for my own sanity, and therefore have nothing to offer anyone but lies and evasion. The problem is that with Iris, I’m beginning to think this “us” thing could work, and as much as I tell myself to stay away, it’s just impossible to do that.
“We don’t call each other very often, and I don’t see her much. She doesn’t live in New York.”
My answer is nowhere near complete.
“Where does she live? In the same town where your family is?” She sips some wine casually and rests her gaze on me. I feel suffocated.
“No, in Australia. She moved there ten years ago.”
“It must be hard to live so far away...even if you’ve never been particularly close,” she points out, and I can’t tell if she’s saying it because she knows it’s breaking my heart in two or if she’s trying to find a way to make me smile again after noticing my jaw tighten.
“Are you finished? Do you want more?”
Iris seems caught off guard by my change of topic. “No, thank you. It’s delicious, but if I eat any more, I’ll explode.” She smiles, massaging her stomach.
I grab the dishes and take them to the sink, rinsing them before putting them in the dishwasher. She follows me, bringing the two glasses of wine still half full.
“Thomas, you know there’s nothing in your past that you should be ashamed of, right? That I would never judge you... Jesus, I’m the last person who has a right to judge anyone. I want you to know that you can trust me,” she says earnestly.
I can’t take my eyes off what I’m doing. I know if I look at her right now, I’ll lose it. All my resistance would melt. But I can’t do it. With this whole situation, it’s not just me I’m protecting but also the three guys who have been with me for years. Before I blurt out, “We’ve been in prison,” the least I can do is ask them for permission to share our secret with her.
She’s not the problem. It’s me, my past, that I can’t make peace with. So far, I’ve simply ignored it. I changed my life. I changed my name. It’s like I erased that night over ten years ago, and that stupid kid who thought he was so tough was just someone I met when I was a teenager and lost sight of.
“Yes, I know. I do trust you. I just have a hard time talking about myself. I haven’t done it in a long time, and I have to get my confidence back with all of this.” I tell her a partial truth.
Iris nods and slips the glass of wine into my hands. I drink some and watch a sincere smile appear on her lips before she sips from her glass. “Okay, so if you trust me, do you want to tell me the real story about how you ended up in the middle of a pile of diapers and toilet paper when you were just buying milk and cookies? Or about the half-pants at the festival, if you like.”
I burst into laughter, grateful she wants to steer the conversation toward a completely safe subject. “Have you ever had hot milk and cookies? Really, it’s the basis for every happy evening. Sofa, TV, and hot milk and cookies. There’s nothing better.”
“Lucky for you I didn’t eat any more lasagna, so you can give me a live demonstration.”
Her proposal is so simple and disarming that I feel the air leave my lungs and return with difficulty. Sleeping together is one thing, preparing her dinner, a little more private but certainly not intimate like spending the evening watching a movie on the couch eating milk and cookies. That tastes like home, feels like family, something I lost years ago.
“Go pick the movie on Netflix while I prepare the meal of the gods.”
Iris laughs as she walks away from the kitchen, and I’m glad she didn’t hear the panic in my voice. I grab the phone as soon as she’s out of earshot and try to call Michael. He’s the only one who can reason with me and make the panic that’s settling into my stomach disappear. His phone goes directly to voicemail.
“Shit!” I whisper, setting mine on the kitchen counter.
*
I enter the dark living room, illuminated only by the moon. Iris is in the bedroom, sleeping, but I couldn’t fall asleep. The evening slipped between the warmth of a blanket, a cheesy movie, and the comfort of something I did as a child with my family. Sharing such a heartwarming moment with Iris brought me closer to her in a way that I didn’t think possible. In my heart, it feels like this red-haired girl, with her sarcastic humor, has been in my life since I was a kid. Back when I was happy. Sharing this piece of happiness with her was so natural it frightened me. Because Iris is now a fundamental part of my heart, she helped transform my survival into a joyful existence, and I wish I could savor this joy with my family. I can make love to Iris as many times as I want, but sex with a woman can never fill that void that family fills.
I sit in the spinning chair and look at the darkness that is Central Park right now, hoping to make sense of the thoughts that crowd my mind. I look at my phone, and without thinking about it, I start scrolling through the names. I get to “S” for Sarah, a name that no longer exists in the registry, but will always be the one I said a million times when I was little. My sister is now called Margaret, a name I never liked and will never be able to accept.
The temptation to press the call button, hear her voice again, is strong. I haven’t done it in the last ten years. At least not personally; I’ve always pushed my lawyers forward, and I’ve always found a wall on the other side. Again, like every other time, I turn off the phone before I can change my mind.
It will soon be Christmas and, like every year, I’ll find myself wandering around FAO Schwarz on Fifth Avenue among thousands of toys I’d like to buy, and I’ll eventually leave empty-handed. I don’t know anything about my nieces or nephews: their age, their names, their tastes. Every now and then, I wonder if they look like me, if they like music, if they’ve ever listened to anything of mine. We’re famous worldwide, even in Australia, but I don’t know if my sister has ever told them about me. I wonder if she changes stations when they hear our song on the radio.
Iris brought back a flood of feelings that I can’t handle. Memories I want to forget, wounds that have never healed. It was hard watching the movie with her tonight because she snuggled up by my side, eating milk and cookies, like I used to do with my sister when we were kids. We watched Christmas movies, and she was always angry because I thought they were stupid. I basically liked them, but I wouldn’t admit it out loud. There are so many things I’ve never said to her, like ‘I love you’ or ‘Thank you for taking care of Mom.’ As a child, I was ashamed to say certain things. Now, I wish I could shout them from the window of this building, so loud it would reach her on the other side of the world.
I’m staring into Central Park as tears cloud my sight, then fall down on my cheeks and turn into sobs that shake me until I’m trembling in this chair.
“Hey,” Iris’s whisper almost sounds like a cry at this time of night.
I’m so surprised to see her here that a sob dies in my throat. She rests a hand on my shoulder as I wipe tears on my arm.
“Do you want me to help you bake cookies?” She smiles as she sits on my legs, wrapped only in a light blanket she found at the foot of the bed.
I smile at her attempt to save me from embarrassment and make me feel better. “No, Claire will kill me if I bake another batch.” A half laugh escapes my lips as Iris caresses my hair, kissing my head and making my sadness slip away.
I grab her hips and scoot her further into my lap, resting my head on her shoulder and holding her tight, chasing away the fears that grip my chest.
Iris puts two fingers under my chin and forces me to raise my head and look her in the eye. She lowers toward me and, with light kisses, wipes the tears from my cheeks. My hands slip under the blanket to caress the soft skin of her hips and the curves of her butt.
Her lips rest on mine, and what begins as a chaste kiss soon turns into a clash of tongues and desire that awakens every part of my body. My fingers sink into her flesh, pulling her against my erection in an almost primordial need. Her lips blend with mine in a kiss that leaves us breathless.
When I caress her opening with my fingers, I find her ready to welcome me, releasing a guttural groan that makes my chest ache. Iris slips her fingers into my hair and, with a decisive gesture, pulls me toward her bare breasts while the blanket falls on the floor at my feet. I rush to the pale skin of her breasts, her nipples, teasing them until she gasps and, when I sense that neither of us can wait any longer, I lower my boxers just enough to free my erection and sink into her with a single decisive movement.
A cry slips from her lips while, helped by the movement of the armchair, Iris moves sinuously on me, dictating a rhythm that leaves me no choice but to follow. She doesn’t feel like playing, pausing, and prolonging the pleasant agony; her movements are determined and make me sink into her like never before. She is the first to orgasm, with her eyes closed and her lips open in an expression of pleasure so sensual I plunge with even more vigor until I explode.
Panting, she slumps on my shoulder, her breasts against my bare chest. I wrap her in a hug and hold her tightly, thanking her in silence for not asking me more about my tears, for not forcing me to confess something I wasn’t ready for.
I get up from the chair with Iris in my arms and, taking her back to the bedroom, I lie next to her, clutching her to my body until we both fall asleep.