Page 37 of Paparazzi

We’ve never been able to stay physically apart since the first day we met. This couple of feet separating us is like a stab wound to the heart. “What?”

“Did you sell Michael’s pictures to that newspaper? Did you take them?”

His voice is broken with anger, and I can’t breathe. “How the hell did you know?” Right now, no reasonable question can find its way to my lips.

“So it is true... The editor of the newspaper called Evan less than an hour ago. Giving your name. Was it really you?” he hisses again, increasingly impatient.

Ron. He wanted me to pay after our meeting, and he did it in the worst way. I didn’t think he’d burn me at the stake—he must have known more than I thought. That meeting was just confirmation to test my reaction. How stupid I was; he doesn’t need me anymore if I start protecting the people I should be photographing instead. I knew when Thomas found out he’d get angry, but to discover I was the one who almost lost them their careers was the coup de grace. What the hell did I expect? That this story would end well?

“Yes.” Lying again would be like stabbing him in the back, and I’m tired of hurting him. I can’t live hiding who I really am from him anymore.

Thomas releases half a laugh in disbelief. “Are you a paparazzo?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

He stares at me for a few seconds, then bursts into laughter and runs his fingers through his hair, clutching them hard in fists full of rage. “So you only slept with me because you needed a few juicy shots to sell? For Christ’s sake! I trusted you. I told you private things about my life that I don’t tell strangers. I even suggested you sell your photos to get more money!”

“Let me explain...” My voice is broken by the tears stuck in my throat that are now about to fall.

“No. I don’t want any explanation from you. I want you to stay away from me, or I’ll have you arrested.”

I don’t even see him turn around and get in the car because tears cloud my eyesight, and sobs shake my chest so much it hurts. Or maybe what I’m feeling is my heart breaking because, deep down, I was hoping I had found my fairy tale.

*

Emily looks at me, worried, as I sip the coffee she made and try to stop the constant flow of tears from falling. She ran to my apartment as soon as I texted her about Thomas. I tell her what I know. “Ron must have called Thomas’s manager and told him I’m a paparazzo.”

Emily clenches her fists in an angry ball. “That son of a bitch. If I ever see him again, I swear I’m going to hurt him. I’m assuming Thomas didn’t take it very well.”

I shake my head, thinking again of his disappointed expression. The worst was seeing the pain of betrayal in his eyes.

“Maybe when he realizes that despite having many chances, you’ve never sold a picture of him, he’ll realize you’re not like the rest of those paparazzi.” Her voice is uncertain. Not even she believes what she’s saying.

“Ron told him I sold him the pictures of Michael.”

“Oh…” The sorrow on her face tells me it’s finally dawning on her—there’s nothing I can do to remedy this mess.

“I knew sooner or later he’d find out. It was just a matter of time. How could I expect to keep playing this game? I’ve been telling him lies since I met him. Michael was just the icing on the cake.”

“Yes, but that time it wasn’t your fault. Michael doesn’t need to be doing that shit in a public parking lot.”

An almost hysterical laugh escapes my lips. “I know you’re trying to make me feel less guilty, but it was all my fault. That parking lot is private. It’s for the residents of that building and for the valet parking service of the club. I snuck in there by jumping a railing! And even if it was a public place, I had no right to capture Michael’s vulnerable moment on camera for all the gossip magazines to post. There’s no excuse for what I did.”

Emily’s silent for a while. “What do you think will happen now?”

I shrug and look down at my cup of coffee. “I don’t know. The interview with the Red Velvet Curtains will fall through, I assume. Then the day after tomorrow, I’m going to have to see him parade in front of the Met for the Christmas event. He had invited me. But just now he told me that if I approach him, he’ll have me arrested... I just hope he doesn’t keep his promise at the gala.”

“You think he’ll follow through with it, for real? And maybe the interview won’t fall through. Maybe they’ll decide to do it anyway. After all, they’re two different bands.”

I glance at her, and the grimace on her face tells me she doesn’t believe what she just said either. I inhale deeply and stare at my cup in silence. This is the mess I feared would happen from the first day I met him. What I didn’t imagine was how bad it would feel to have Thomas disappear from my life.

I’m not sure if I ended up in front of the Metropolitan Museum today or in the middle of a Christmas fairy tale. The stairway, covered by a vast white marquee that shelters the entrance, is covered with a pristine red carpet, despite people walking over it. But what makes the décor so spectacular are the giant Nutcracker characters that surround the staircase. Guards who look carved in ten-foot-tall wood stand beside Christmas balls the size of an armchair. Fake snow covers the entire area, giving the bright red and dazzling silver tones a magical, otherworldly feel.

The glitz has been meticulously displayed to make guests feel like they’ve stepped into a magical world. Tonight, high society’s most famous people on the globe, slipping into elegant, uncomfortable clothes in which they will freeze, come here to cough up considerable amounts of money. Everything will be done to make their evening beyond enjoyable—to let them know that large amounts of money have been spent on their entertainment so they’ll be more likely to open their designer wallets and sign fat checks.

But this is not a fairy tale, as the raw reality of the bitter cold air penetrates my bones. Despite being covered in countless layers of clothes, standing here waiting for the first guests to arrive has been like taking a bath in a frozen lake. Until a few days ago, I was supposed to be on the other side of the barricade, and now I’m groveling with all the nobodies, as if proving to Thomas what I really am. Just thinking about him makes my heart tighten in a grip.

Standing here for ten hours in front of the stairs to get an interview with the Red Velvet Curtains wasn’t a great idea. After Thomas’s outburst the other day, I thought the meeting would fall through. I was sure I’d get an email withdrawing the offer, and honestly, I expected it. I’m still stunned by our last meeting, unable to process the information that his ‘I don’t want to have anything to do with you anymore’ entails. I was used to seeing him pop over to my home at the most random moments, and my heart still hopes a little, despite reality.

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