Page 39 of Paparazzi

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The following morning my body feels traumatized. Not a single bone or muscle isn’t sore. I open my eyes and realize I’m in the same position I fell asleep in. This time, though, Dexter is next to me and hasn’t even started in on his dose of dry food.

“Then you’re not always an asshole.” I smile at him as I carefully get out of bed and start getting ready for the interview.

With everything that happened, I didn’t even have time to get anxious about it. Normally, I would have spent the night awake thinking up an excuse to cancel the interview. As soon as I get to my computer, I see a new email from Lilly confirming their location and telling me to feel free to cancel if I’m not well.

In the bathroom mirror, I see I might have a legitimate reason to back out. The left side of my face, where someone kicked me, is purple under the eye and on the side of my nose. I look closely at my face and immediately realize I will not be able to wear makeup to cover it, nor will I even be able to dress decently with my arm in this sling. So I opt for the runaway look: I slip my head and healthy arm into a wide sweater, leaving the hurt one tucked inside, then put on a pair of tracksuit pants and rubber boots without laces or socks. I’m going to get blisters, but it’s better than the pain of putting on socks.

I give Dexter the dry food, slip on a beanie, leave my windbreaker open in the front, and look for a scarf big enough to cover the rest of me. I grab my notepad and phone and put them in my bag, not bothering to look at the camera as the fall broke both the lens and the body. When I put my bag on my good shoulder, I have to lean on the coffee table to catch my breath. My legs tremble with exhaustion.

I arrive at my usual café and find the band at a secluded table waiting for me. Emily closed off public access with a rope normally used to close the bathrooms during cleaning. Emily tries to stop me to ask me what happened, but I motion that I’ll tell her later and approach the table.

Martin is the first to notice me and his eyes widen. “Holy cow, I didn’t think it was that bad,” he says, drawing the attention of the others who have more or less the same reaction to my appearance.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Lilly asks worriedly.

I smile and sit down, starting to pull out my notepad with the questions. “It looks worse than it is,” I say, trying to play it down.

Luke studies me for a few seconds. “Is that why you’re moving like Robocop?” he teases gently, making the others laugh too.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine. Shall we start? I don’t want to take up too much of your time.” I try to change the subject in a hurry. This interview is making me nervous.

The band doesn’t seem bothered by the change of subject and immediately gets comfortable. I start with the early days of their career—the concerts they did in Brooklyn clubs, their relationship with the fans—and I notice their surprise at the amount of research I’ve done. They laugh when I ask about a few anecdotes I found on their Instagram page and launch into new ones, joking like it happened right then and there. The hour passes pleasantly, and I slowly relax too.

“Do you mind if I take some photos with my phone to put on the blog?” I ask, wrapping it up. “Unfortunately, my camera is not usable at the moment.”

“Are you serious? No questions about the Jailbirds?’ Martin asks, puzzled as Lilly tenses next to him and throws him a look that could kill.

“No, why should there be? It’s your interview. I want to know about you, not about them.”

Luke smiles at me, and the others seem flattered. Even Lilly struggles to hide a smile.

“I like you, girl,” Luke says, satisfied.

“Usually, half of our interviews are about the Jailbirds,” Taylor explains.

“Because the journalists who interview you are idiots,” I say without thinking, and they burst out laughing.

When we’re done, the guys get up to order something to eat and have a chat with Emily, who seems more than ecstatic. Only Lilly stays at the table and helps me put my stuff away. “Can I ask you a question?”

I expected this moment to come, but I’m still nervous about what she’s going to ask. I nod, holding my breath in fear.

“What were you doing on the fire escape near our apartment that day?”

She’s straightforward, just like I expected. I smile at her and lean back in the chair I’m sitting in. “The truth? I was hoping to get some pictures of you and Damian that could earn me some money. But don’t worry, I couldn’t see inside your apartment from that location. I didn’t shoot anything compromising. And I would never sell something that could ruin your personal life or your career,” I admit with sincerity.

Something about Lilly seems genuine, and my natural response in her presence is to be honest in return.

“Why should I trust you? You sold Michael’s pictures. How do I know you won’t sell more when you need money?”

“You can’t be sure. You can only trust me. When I sold those photos, I was desperate. But as soon as I saw what happened, I made a promise to myself to never do it again, even if I’m starving. I know it’s not a great guarantee, but it’s the only one I can give you. All I can do is be honest with you.”

“Why do you even do this job? You don’t look like a person who enjoys hurting people,” she asks.

“Many of us do it because we need money. In my case, even if I had three good jobs, I wouldn’t be able to earn the same level of compensation,” I answer ashamedly.

Lilly frowns and studies me for a few seconds. “Are you in trouble? Is that why you need so much cash?”

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