Page 35 of Paparazzi

One thing, though, I remember distinctly: Albert had my computer on his lap all evening, doing moronic searches on Google. It bothers me to think he read my emails. They’re mostly work-related articles I’ve written, concerts I’ve been invited to. I have nothing to hide, but they’re still private. I don’t want to share them with anyone, let alone Albert. I check the browser history and am surprised when I find it empty. Before Thomas arrived, I remember working. Is it possible I didn’t open any internet pages? I grab my phone and text Emily. ‘What the hell did Albert do last night with my computer?’

She answers almost immediately. ‘Nothing, I think. He was looking for stupid videos of penguins, as far as I can remember. Is there a problem?’

‘My browser history of the last twenty-four hours is gone.’

‘He must have watched porn while we were drunk. It’s Albert. I wouldn’t be surprised if he downloaded some naughty videos.’

The mere thought makes me search the download folder, and, luckily, it’s empty. I go back to look at my emails and realize that not only were a couple opened, but those that contained some concert tickets were forwarded.

I furiously text Emily: ‘That asshole went through my email to get into some concerts with my tickets! That’s why he deleted the history, so I couldn’t see which links he clicked on!’ I curse between my teeth. Did he think I wouldn’t notice? He was so drunk he didn’t even delete all the outgoing emails to his address. I swear that’s the last time I invite him to my house.

Something else occurs to me. ‘Albert didn’t ask me to give him those pictures of the Jailbirds I secretly took, did he?’

‘I don’t remember exactly what we talked about, but it wasn’t really about the band. He asked you a few questions about Thomas but nothing special.’

My heart pumps into my chest. ‘Questions like what?’

‘If you know where he lives or if you’ve ever been to his house, I think. But he was disappointed when you said no.’

Some of the tension that knots my stomach disappears. Just to be sure, I check some folders where I keep the photos I send to Ron. I hope he didn’t snoop in those too. But they’re all protected by password, and he’d have to go deep into my computer to find them because I don’t keep them in plain sight.

I’m so focused on checking my computer that I almost jump out of my chair when my phone starts ringing. I look at the name flashing on the screen, and anger sends a wave of bile up my throat. Apparently, Albert is the lesser of two evils today.

“Ron, what a pleasure.”

“Can we meet at the usual café?”

Whenever I talk to him, in person or on the phone, I’m always surprised at how rude he is and how little consideration he has for me. Does he not know he’s supposed to say hello to people when he calls them? Then I remember how much of a crook he is, and realize there’s probably no part of his brain that understands these kinds of feelings.

“Are you offering me lunch?”

I hear him hesitate for a few moments, and my anger grows. I bring him photos worth thousands of dollars. I shoot at his command every time he snaps his fingers. I spend hours in the worst places in Manhattan in the sun, rain, or snow. I think I deserve at least a lunch.

“Coffee?” he tries to bargain, and I almost laugh in his ear.

I hang up without even considering answering him. Less than thirty seconds later, his name flashes on the screen again.

“I think the line went dead,” he tells me as soon as I pick up the call.

“No, Ron, I hung up on you. I don’t leave my apartment for less than a lunch.” I say this more because of my headache and not wanting to cook a decent lunch than because I want to see him.

“Okay, all right. In half an hour at the café,” he demands without waiting for an answer.

He must have something vital on his hands if he caved on lunch and called me twice. I’m dying of curiosity, but I wait in my apartment doing absolutely nothing for exactly half an hour, just to piss him off and arrive twenty minutes late.

*

The coffee shop doorbell rings and Ron’s head immediately snaps in my direction. I’m wrapped in a huge jacket over a heavy sweater, a scarf pulled up to my nose, and a cap dropped over my eyes to protect me from the freezing cold and snow-threatening gray sky,butRon’s eyes immediately find me. I can hide under endless layers of clothing, butthatman will always find my face in the middle of a thousand others. His gloomy expression tells me he’s mad at me, and I can’t hold back a satisfied half-smile when I see him. I may need him, but I don’t want him to think I’m his lapdog, running wagging every time he whistles.

“Punctuality is not your forté,” he complains when I sit down.

“No, Ron, it’s that you have a bad habit of demanding things without asking. I arrived when my schedule allowed me to do so,” I calmly tell him, reaching out my hand with my palm facing upwards. He looks at my fingers stretched out, and frowns trying to figure out what I want.

“Your credit card. First lunch, then we talk.”

He looks at me wide-eyed, like I’ve just told him I want to see him dance naked on the table.

“Are you serious?”

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