Page 14 of Paparazzi

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.”

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