Paparazzi by Erika Vanzin
“Is that Thomas Simons?” Emily asks me incredulously.
I’ve been staring at him for so long that it became awkward. “Yes, it’s him.” My voice is trembling. What the hell is he doing here?
“I have to admit, you’ve been meeting a lot lately.”
I turn away from Thomas to face her, and panic grips my stomach. “Can you ask the others not to say a word about my job? I don’t know why he’s here, but I don’t want him to find out, please.” I’m so confused I forgot I came to this club for my blog, not to shoot compromising photos of unfortunate celebrities.
Emily smiles and hugs me, then puts her hands over my shoulders and looks at me straight in the eyes. “You’re becoming paranoid. The others won’t say anything, don’t worry, but you’ll have to tell him sooner or later. I have no idea why he’s here tonight, but it’s clear that these encounters aren’t random. He’ll find out sooner or later.”
My conscience materializes in front of me in the form of Emily. She’s sweet, she’s not scolding me, but she makes me face the cold, hard reality. Should I just pretend I haven’t seen him and continue my night, thus ending this unhealthy game I’m playing with him? But then I remember the lost expression on my face and the ginormous surprise when our eyes met, and I realize I can’t ignore him. It would be immature and cruel, especially after he was so sweet to retweet my blog post.
I turn around again to meet Thomas’s lost and slightly embarrassed look. Maybe he expected me to confidently walk to him, not turn my back on him and talk to my friend. I take a deep breath, raise the corners of my mouth in a sincere smile, and approach him.
“Hi! It seems we meet a lot lately.” I smile, and he reciprocates with one of those expressions that lights up his face, even if he does still look awkward.
“Yes, Manhattan seems to have become a small suburban village where everyone knows everyone and bumps into each other...” He stops himself. “I’m just talking bullshit, right?” His insecurity makes him adorable, and I find myself smiling like a teenager in love.
“No, I agree. It’s a fact that I’ve never met you before, and then we’ve bumped into each other three times in two weeks.” I wanted it to sound like a joke, but it comes out more solemn than I intended, and I notice him tense slightly.
Why did it get so hard to talk to him? We were in perfect harmony until yesterday. What the hell changed in such a few hours? I know he’s not here by accident. The truth is, I’m flattered by his attention but also terrified. I’m afraid the 16-year-old in me—the one who’s always been in love with him—is under the illusion that there may be something real between us. My heart is split in two: one part beats excitedly at the idea that my teenage crush has noticed me, but the other is terrified to indulge in emotions that could crush me. Life has taught me that dreams are impractical. They’re beautiful fantasies that help you live in a much less fascinating reality. What are the odds that my dreams about Thomas will come true?
“Are you here to listen to the bands? Do you know them?” I venture when he doesn’t say a word. He lowers his head and looks at the floor. I didn’t know he was this fidgety. They all seem like boasters with huge egos, but the guy in front of me now is sweet, sensitive, and all too attentive to how he appears in public. He doesn’t like to seem vulnerable and gets defensive when his emotions take over. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s just a pickup trick to appear to be a regular guy.
“Actually, no... I saw on your Instagram you were here, and I wanted to come and thank you in person for the article you wrote. It’s an excellent piece. Is that creepy? Because now that I’m saying it out loud, I feel like a crazy stalker,” he chuckles, rubbing his hand behind his neck.
I smile, amused and some of my tension goes away. To be honest, I’m ecstatic. As much as I’m afraid this situation will become complicated, I would be a hypocrite not to admit, at least to myself, that I am flattered by his attention. The part of my heart that beats excitedly is taking over the terrified part.
“No, it would have been creepy if you had had no reason to come here, but thanking me for the article seems to be a more than honest motive to do so.” As the tension slips away, my voice becomes playful.
“You make my behavior seem almost decent. Thank you!” Thomas laughs, much more relaxed than before.
“No, I have to thank you, tweeting the link of my article literally blew up my phone with notifications from people who started following me and writing to me. I have to keep it constantly connected to the power outlet, or else it shuts down.” I point to a spot behind the bar counter where my cellphone sits.
“Sorry?” he asks me uncertainly. I don’t think he understands that this is a good thing.
I laugh out loud and lay my hand on his arm, immediately realizing what I’m doing, how close I am to him, and distance myself again. A mixture of fear and excitement squeezes my stomach: I’d like to be even closer, and at the same time I’d like to put a wall between us before he hurts me. “Don’t apologize. It’s a good thing.”
The first band takes the stage and starts playing.
“I’m sorry, but I have to work tonight,” I say with a grimace. The truth is, I have no desire to do that. I would like to stay here and talk to him all night about music and their new single, tell him how much I liked the old albums and how much they stepped it up on the new songs. But when I turn to Emily, Albert and Jasper, I find myself catapulted into reality. My friends are open-mouthed at our interaction and remind me that our two worlds are so far apart we might as well live in two different galaxies, and this encounter is pure illusion.
“Can I follow you, or do I bother you?” As soon as the words leave his lips, he seems to regret the question. It gives me the impression that this situation, this way of approaching me, is new to him too. He doesn’t seem comfortable. I have a feeling that it is women who usually chase him and not the other way around. My hesitation at his attempts makes him insecure.
I smile and beckon him with my head to follow me, without ruining this moment with awkward words.
We approach the stage with some difficulty. The place is chock-full but, either because of the cap he’s wearing or the dim lights, no one gives Thomas a second glance. I wouldn’t be able to handle it if people started freaking out about his presence and took pictures. I know what it’s like to be on the other side of the camera, and I don’t want to end up on all the Google searches because I’ve been photographed with one of the most famous drummers in the world. Ron would immediately pressure me for some juicy gossip and ruin my life.
“They’re not bad at all.” Thomas’s warm voice in my ear brings me back to reality, and a pleasant shiver runs down my back.
At this distance, I can smell his scent. It’s not very strong, as though he put a little on in the morning and then let it soak into his skin. It’s not as aggressive and masculine as I usually imagine on men. It’s almost sweet, a delicate fragrance that makes me think of freshly baked cookies. And he’s like a cookie: good, sweet, irresistible. He’s that sin you gladly indulge in when you’re on a diet, but regret later. A sweet, pleasant torture you don’t know how to resist.
“Yes, they’re really good even if they are so young. They maybe need some experience on stage, but they’re not bad. I came here to interview them when they’re done. Do you want to come with me?” I propose without overthinking about the consequences. Being with him makes me almost reckless, as if this perfect bubble we’re in protects us from the outside world. Thomas has this incredible ability to turn off the rational part of my brain that warns me from getting too attached to him.
“Gladly.” I notice that he opens his mouth to say something else but then closes it immediately.
People start dancing, and Thomas’s chest ends up pressing against my back. The shock that comes to life along my spine makes my hair stand up on my neck. It takes considerable effort not to lay my head back onto his shoulder. People move to the beat, and we’re almost forced to follow the flow. Thomas’s hands rest on my hips, and when he slips his fingers under my shirt, stroking my skin, I almost struggle to breathe. My hands wrap his, dragging them to the front, on my belly, inviting him in a hug that tastes of forbidden intimacy. His head drops and touches mine. His lips taste my neck with kisses so light I’m afraid I’m just imagining them. His arms hold me, his fingers search for my skin. His tongue gets bold, reaching that spot just below my ear that makes me moan with pleasure. The warmth invading my body intoxicates my senses so much I forget everything around us.
“Get a room!” Albert’s voice falls on us like a cold shower.
I move away from Thomas just enough to get back to reality, to the concert, to Emily smirking, looking at us. Jasper’s mouth is wide open, and Albert looks disgusted. I turn slightly toward Thomas to try to understand what he’s thinking. His eyes are glued to mine, and I can read in them all the passion and frustration he’s feeling right now, reflecting my own. Confirmation that my teenage crush is more than alive. In fact, it’s grown to the point that it’s become a physical necessity. My brain, telling me to run away, is alone in this fight. The rest of my body wants him.
The concert continues in a sequence of songs I find challenging to follow. My senses keep searching for Thomas, who is still behind me but has not come any closer than before. I, who am usually famous for my rigorous attention to the band I’m reviewing, find my mind wandering to those few intimate moments with Thomas earlier. Finally, the band greets the audience and gets off the stage. I wait for them all to get to the green room backstage, then I catch up with them to do the interview.
“Iris!” Seb, the guitarist and leader of the band, welcomes me with a hug.
I met him during the classes I sat in on at the university, and I found him to be a cheerful guy, full of enthusiasm for his own music. I’m happy to spend time with him and talk about what he does with his band.
“You were great up there,” I say, pointing to the door behind me where the stage is.
Seb bursts out laughing and puts his hand on his chest in an almost theatrical way. “Whew! I must admit, I was afraid you might rip us. You’re very technical and detailed when you have to review something you don’t like.”
Everyone laughs, including Thomas, who’s on the sidelines.
“That’s not true!” I pretend to be offended, but I know I’m a bit of a pain in the butt in that regard. I just can’t lie if I didn’t like something; I can do it calmly, giving my reasons without tearing down other people’s work, but I certainly can’t shut up or write something that’s not true.
Some of the guys look over at Thomas, who I almost forgot was in the room. I introduce him, finally addressing his presence.
“This is Thomas, my...friend,” I say, choking on the last word because I don’t know if he considers it an exaggeration. I glance at him and he smiles, reaching out his hand, first toward Seb, then to everyone else who shakes it, and unceremoniously introduces himself.
They recognize him, of course, but they’re all professional enough, or perhaps intimidated enough, not to comment. I mentally thank them because I want this to be their moment, their interview, their space.
“Shall we begin? Do you mind if I also take some pictures for the blog?” I ask before sitting on one of the sofas in the room and pulling out my camera and notebook with the questions I prepared in advance for the occasion.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Thomas leaning against a table scattered with takeout containers and water bottles, crossing his arms and watching my every move. He’s discreet about it so it doesn’t bother me. On the contrary, I like that he witnesses what I consider my actual work. Maybe I’m looking for justifications for my lies. I’m hoping that when he finds out I’m a paparazzo, he can tell the difference between what I do for the sake of music and what I do just to survive.
*
“Do you want a beer?” he asks when we leave the green room. The second band has almost finished playing.
“Yes, I do.”
We both sit at a tall table away from the stage. It’s sticky with old liquor. Thomas nods to the waitress, gives her his credit card, and invites me to order first. I’d rather him not pay for my beer, but I have no choice, since my credit card is at the limit this month and I don’t have enough cash in my pocket. When I accepted, I didn’t know Manhattan bars prefer credit cards and don’t like cash.
When our orders arrive, I pull out my wallet, but he glares at me. “Don’t even think about it. I asked you if you wanted a beer, and I intend to pay for it.”
His voice is calm but firm. He wants to make a nice gesture. I bite my tongue and put aside my eternal battle about equality. Women and men should be free to pay their own way on dates without the unwritten obligation that the guy should pay for the whole night. But this isn’t a date, right?
“Thank you.”
Thomas smiles and sips from his beer. “You’re very professional when you do interviews. I hardly ever see journalists pulling out a prepared list of questions. They usually use the standard ones they’ve memorized without doing research on the band they’re interviewing.”
His words make me blush. It’s nice that he realizes I put commitment and passion into what I do. I’m proud of how I run my blog. “I like my job, I like music and, honestly, the most beautiful part of the interview is just getting to know the story of the people behind the songs. When I ask them questions, I want it to be like talking to a friend because I’m really interested in what they have to say. I don’t want it to be just a simple sterile question and answer, without any human contact, without emotions. After all, music is emotion. Why shouldn’t I put it in my articles when I talk about it?”
Thomas looks me straight in the eye, nailing me to my stool with those ocean-blue eyes. A smile forms on his lips, and his gaze lights up when he glances at my mouth. I didn’t realize I was so close to him until I feel his breath caressing my face. Thanks to the darkness of this corner, it feels like we’re alone. People crowd around the stage listening to the third band, but I don’t even care. All I can look at right now are Thomas’s eyes, loaded with desire, and his face inching toward me. His lips crush mine in a kiss so perfect it makes my toes curl. His hands slip into my hair, grab me tightly, and pull me toward him in a kiss full of desire and despair. It’s like he’s been waiting for this moment for a lifetime.
His tongue caresses mine in a mixture of frenzy and sweetness, releasing those butterflies in my stomach I thought I’d managed to numb when I was sixteen. In fact, I thought this entire moment was just the impossible dream of a little girl in her first crush. My hands slip under his jacket, pulling his shirt until he gets off his stool. He presses his hot body against mine, letting out a little groan when my fingers slip under his shirt, caressing his skin, the muscles flexing under my touch. He takes a moment to catch his breath, but then his lips pounce desperately again on mine as he intensifies his grip on my hair. I groan into his mouth.
“Iris, we’re going. We’ll leave you here if you don’t move your ass now!” For the second time tonight, Albert’s voice interrupts us, and I’d like to kill him.
We’re still panting when we separate. Thomas can’t take his eyes off mine. I reluctantly look at my friend, and reality hits me like a landslide crushing my heart. The disgust on Albert’s face brings me back to the truth of who I am and what I do for a living. I grab my bag and jacket and, without one last look at Thomas, I walk away quickly. Thomas’s voice calling me sounds almost like a mirage.
We reach the others in the parking lot in silence, Albert pouting like a child, and I with the most conflicting feelings in my chest.
“What the hell happened?” asks Emily as soon as she sees us.
I look at her begging her to let it go, but Albert jumps right in. “God, I didn’t think you would become the groupie of the first rock star you met. How low can you stoop?”
His words hurt, but I try not to show it. “What the hell is your problem?”
“You stuck your tongue in the mouth of the first jerk you meet who has a little fame.”
“Did you kiss Thomas?” Emily’s incredulous voice makes me turn toward her to find a smirk painted plainly on her face.
I nod with half a smile, but I don’t tell her anything. I don’t want Albert to ruin this moment by making me feel guilty.
“He was practically fucking her on the table.”
“That is not true!”
“Really? When will you see him again?” Emily asks.
I give her the stink eye. “No, it’s not true, and I won’t see him again.”
“Did you give him your number?”
“No, I didn’t give him my number. It’s bad enough that I kissed him.”
Emily rolls her eyes and walks away from the parking lot.
“Where the hell are you going?” We all look at her perplexed.
“I forgot something inside. I’ll be right back.” She runs away and doesn’t give us time to call her back or follow her.
“So, are you fucking the rock star?” chuckles Jasper.
“No, no one’s fucking him.” I smile.
“Of course not. If I hadn’t arrived, he’d already have his hands between your legs,” Albert mumbles.
I turn to him, annoyed. “That’s not true. We kissed. Period. Don’t exaggerate things just to prove you’re a jerk,” I attack him a little too harshly.
The truth is, I’m not mad at my friend. I’m mad at myself for completely losing control with the only person I should stay away from. And what worries me the most is the whole time it never crossed my mind that I was doing something wrong. Everything about that kiss and his hands on me seemed right. But my fantasy is based entirely on my lies; if Thomas knew what I’ve done in the past, he’d be disgusted with me.