Page 32 of Paparazzi

Iris smiles, and I feel something melt inside me, like a teenager in love. “Have you always wanted to be a musician? Or do you have any other passions from when you were a kid?”

“As a child, I wanted to be a lawyer.”

“Really?”

I smile at the memory as I sip to wash down a bite. “One day, an insurance lawyer came to our house to ask my father for something. I remember he parked his shiny black car in front of the house. I was maybe seven or eight years old, I didn’t know what kind of car it was, but I clearly remember thinking it was expensive. Our family never had much money, and for a while, I believed being a lawyer was the way to buy things for my family, not just a car.”

“Then you started playing and discovered your calling?”

“No, my mother told me I would have to memorize a lot of laws to be a lawyer, and I wouldn’t see a courtroom or the real money before I was thirty. My passion for that profession died there.”

Iris laughs. “Can’t say you’re not honest.”

I smile, scared at how easy it is to talk about my family with her. A dangerous subject that I’m dealing with too lightly. “Then I found out I’m good on drums, and I make more money than a lawyer,” I joke.

“But you didn’t buy the luxury car! Or did you?” she asks, puzzled.

“No, living in New York, I don’t even think about buying my own car. Do you know any New Yorkers who have one?”

“I actually know several who don’t even have a driver’s license.”

“See?”

“But from what you tell me, you haven’t always lived in New York... did you have one before?”

This is the question I was hoping wouldn’t come. Iris is brilliant. She doesn’t miss a detail. “I started this job so young that I didn’t need it.” I’m so comfortable with her, I don’t feel the same nervousness I normally do when giving answers about my past to strangers. “You, on the other hand, had some childhood dreams? What did you want to do be when you grew up?”

Iris smiles and shakes her head. “A ballerina. I started in dance class, but I found out very quickly that God gave me the coordination and grace of a person with two left feet. My dreams of glory and joining Juilliard were shattered at an early age,” she says with humor, and I laugh with her.

What’s so great about this girl is that she’s down to earth and grounded and, at the same time, she knows how to laugh at herself. For a moment, it almost crossed my mind to tell her about my past. Stupid idea, since it would not only be my story, but my friends’ whose trust I could never betray.

For the first time in my adult life, I find myself spending an afternoon in complete harmony with a woman, with clothes on and stomach in a turmoil of excitement. It’s not so much her clothes I want to strip off in these moments, but rather the protective layers she carries around her heart. Sharing glimpses of my life, I find that she opens up about hers, and I treasure this information like gold. Minute by minute, I find myself lost in a maze of emotions from which I no longer want to escape.

I’ve pulled a box of photos out of the closet that I had put aside when the reality of life required all my attention. Thomas is flipping through them, taking an infinite time between photos, and I’m watching him with my heart in my throat, fearing his judgment. In this moment, my passion for photography doesn’t disgust me like it usually does when I work as a paparazzo, and the feeling is so pleasant I can’t stop smiling. Snuggled up on my bed, he analyzes every composition, questions me, marvels, makes me feel like the center of his attention, of his world, and I find it difficult to get used to it.

“Wow, this one of the Romeo and Juliet statue in Central Park is amazing. How the hell did you find a moment when there were no snow prints on the ground? Did you cover them?”

His expression is so incredulous it makes me laugh. “No, actually, this picture was taken at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning in December, after a snowstorm. It was dawn and the snow had stopped falling for less than half an hour. An hour later, the prints were already there. There wasn’t much light, but a tripod and long exposure can work wonders.”

He’s about to say something, but we are interrupted by a knocking on the door. “Are you waiting for someone?” he asks, intrigued.

I cover my face with my hands and curse. Wrapped in this bubble of happiness this afternoon, I completely spaced out on my plans for the evening. “I forgot about dinner with Emily and Albert.”

Thomas pulls his phone out of his pocket. His eyes go wide. “It’s already eight o’clock.”

Emily knocks again violently.

“I’d better go open before the neighbors call the police.”

He giggles behind me as I get out of bed and catch up with Dexter, who’s already in front of the door. When I open it, I find Emily with a huge pizza in her hands and Albert right behind her with two bottles of wine, one tequila, and six beers. I raise a perplexed eyebrow. I wasn’t going to get drunk tonight.

“Finally!” my friend yells as she enters. “Were you getting off staring at a picture of Thomas? Oh! I see you have the real deal right here.” She admires Thomas, who is fastening his shoes sitting on my bed.

“Emily!” I scold her, certain my cheeks are burning with embarrassment.

“Look, it’s not my fault you take a lifetime to open the door. One can only imagine what’s going on behind closed doors.”

“Emily, stop it!” I try to sound stern, but it comes out shrill and desperate.

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