Page 30 of Paparazzi

“Well, I don’t know...I mean, not knowing what you like, I just bought some random stuff,” I admit nervously.

Suddenly, I’m afraid she hates everything I put in that bag, but she surprises me and takes me by the hand, guiding me to the fridge. The shock of touching her skin is so thrilling I almost smile like a goofy kid in his first crush. When she opens the fridge, I see completely empty shelves, aside from half a lemon, and some off-brand of ketchup that’s been out of production for five years.

“You practically saved my life,” she says with a half-smile, then blushes, embarrassed. Her reaction makes me realize something I haven’t considered. Maybe she thinks I’m mooching off of her. When she made coffee yesterday, I noticed she hesitated before doubling the grounds she put in the filter. I got the impression she normally used half that amount. When I offered her a drink at the club, I saw her covertly counting the money inside her wallet, grimacing with concern. I recognize those signals—in my family, there were many times we struggled to make ends meet. Even with the Jailbirds, when we were nobodies, we’d split a coffee in fourths. I wouldn’t want her to take my intrusion the wrong way, reading a message I don’t want to send.

“I’m glad I did something good,” I smile as she closes the fridge and approaches the bag.

She peeks into it and smiles as she starts pulling out what’s inside, studying everything. I watch her, gripping my hands on the kitchen counter to keep myself from moving her hair away from her face to see it more clearly.

“I love these cookies,” she smiles as she pulls out the package and puts it on a shelf. “And how did you know I like Froot Loops?” she wonders out loud.

I point to one of the two windows where there’s an empty box of cereal in which she stores paint brushes.

“Oh.” She smiles awkwardly. Maybe she didn’t expect me to notice so much about her apartment since we’ve been busy with other things. She doesn’t know that everything about her attracts my attention, like a kid in a playground.

“Santa Claus cupcakes and bagels in a reindeer bag?” She looks at me amusedly.

“You know everything is Christmas themed right now. It’s impossible to find normal packaging. Even the mayonnaise looks festive. I know because I bought it without looking at the label, thinking it was ketchup. Who the hell puts mayonnaise in a red container?”

Iris bursts out laughing as she puts the blueberry jam and a can of crab and potato soup on the shelf. “You’ve also thought of coffee. You’re my hero. I finished it. I love this! Cream cheese on bagels always drives me crazy. But when you order it in coffee shops, you get those tiny packages that only give you a thin layer of cheese. I like to slather it all over that hot bagel!”

“Me too. Have you tried the veggie cream cheese?”

Iris shakes her head.

“Then I’ll bring it next time I see you!”

“Gnocchi and pesto?” she asks with a puzzled expression then an amused smile. “I understand you’re a rock star, but do you really have someone who cooks Italian at home? It wouldn’t even cross my mind of buying something like this.”

I laugh at her confusion. “First of all, when I’m home, I do the cooking. I’ve been living alone long enough to know how to cook a fair number of dishes and not starve,” I say, feeling proud when I see she looks pleasantly surprised. “Second, I don’t usually cook Italian. It’s a dish my mother always made on Sundays for lunch—the ‘Sunday meal’—and every time I cook it, it reminds me of when I was a child.” I can’t hide the bit of melancholy in my voice.

Looking at her face, I think she understands how I feel. She smiles. “Does your mother have Italian roots?”

She’s intrigued, there’s no malice in her question, and I’m a little bewildered because I usually never get to talk about my family. “No, absolutely nothing can connect her to Italy. I don’t think she’s ever left her home town, actually, so no travels to the other side of the globe. She fell in love with her neighbor, they got married and lived two houses away from where they grew up.” I say this with a bit of hesitation, biting my lower lip to force me to stop. Even Damian doesn’t know this story.

Luckily, she is smart enough to understand that the topic makes me uncomfortable and finds a way to lighten it without interrupting the conversation. “So no Italian origins, but I hope you know how to cook it because I don’t even know where to start.”

I take the packet of gnocchi in one hand and the pesto sauce in the other. “Now? I was hoping you’d say yes, but I thought you’d already eaten.”

“Why not? Do you have anything against gnocchi at two in the afternoon?” she asks me with a raised eyebrow, and I wonder how long she’s gone without eating. This girl didn’t even see the shadow of a lunch.

“Absolutely not. Tell me where I can find a deep pot,” I reply, despite still being full from the salmon and avocado I ate for lunch.

She points to a lower cabinet, and I pull out the pot, fill it with water, and put it on the stove.

“Do you have salt?” I ask her, and she looks insecure about what to do.

“Isn’t there salt in the sauce already?” she asks, handing me the jar.

I smile with the bravado of someone about to show off their heavy artillery in front of a woman. And for once, surprisingly, I’m still dressed. It’s pleasant surprise I’ve never experienced before. “It’s used to salt the water for the gnocchi, so they get more flavor.”

She looks at me like I’m a Michelin-starred chef.

“Don’t make that face. It’s not like I’m sending the Space Shuttle into orbit,” I protest when her admiring eyes embarrass me.

She passes me salt and takes one of the two cups of coffee I brought her “This isn’t black coffee, is it?” she asks before sipping it.

I smile at her while I pull out a sauce pan and dump the pesto in, too runny for my taste, and start to thicken it by lighting the low heat under the pot “To be honest, they’re both the same. I asked your friend to give me two of what you like.”

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