Page 44 of Paparazzi

“No, I can’t do that,” I snap at his insistence.

“Why? That’s what I can’t understand. Is it because you like New York clubs, the good life?”

“Because there are other people who depend on me and the money I bring home!” I reply angrily.

The silence that follows is tense. “Explain,” he whispers almost in prayer.

“I can’t explain it to you. I have to show you.”

“Really?”

“If you want to see it...understand why...”

“You told me it’s nothing illegal, so yes, of course, I want to understand.” His tone is almost sweet, as if he were clinging to this explanation to have a reason for our existence.

“You’re a rock star. Shouldn’t you be the one who always lives on the edge? The one who feels the thrill of living on the verge of lawlessness and transgression?” I tease him to lighten the heavy atmosphere, but I immediately regret it because, for a second, I see pain veiling his eyes before he tries to bring back a tired smile.

“The life of the rock star is not that exciting, trust me. It’s all tours without a moment to take a breath. After that, you go to the studio to record an album, then you start with promotional parties where you don’t have fun at all. Then you go on a new tour to promote the album. It’s an endless wheel spinning, spinning, spinning, and we’re the hamsters running inside it, desperate not to be fired out like missiles. That’s why Michael succumbed to cocaine at first.”

“Have you all done it?” I’m terrified at the idea of him doing drugs.

“No. Just Michael, but he’s been clean for years now.”

I nod and smile, getting off the stool and grabbing my jacket. “I thought your life was more exciting. Sounds to me like it’s not exactly a life I’d want.”

Thomas gets up and puts Dexter down, who meows disappointedly, and helps me slip on the jacket. “Don’t get me wrong, I like the life I have. I love being on tour because the guys are like brothers, and we have a lot of fun. I love making music, and I don’t think I can do anything else in life. But you always have to be focused, present, active, deal with everyone. It’s not like you can be a rock star and say, ‘Okay, I don’t want to do anything today, I’m going to stay in bed all day,’ because that’ll be the day there are at least ten people who depend on you, on your commitments, on your decisions. That’s all.”

The glossy, over-the-top image presented in the media and on stage is nothing like the serious, laid-back, sweet guy who fills this apartment with his humble presence. “Okay, you’re making me want to write a documentary blog post about the real life of a rock star,” I admit with sincerity.

He smiles and nods. “We can talk to Evan about it. Why not? It might be interesting,” he suggests, and I’m worried he may think I brought it up to get a successful article out of it, not because I’m really interested in his life.

“I don’t want to take advantage of this. I’m sorry,” I look down, ashamed.

Thomas gently rests a finger under my chin and makes me lift my head until I meet his big, blue, sweet eyes that make my legs tremble. “I know you didn’t say it to take advantage of this conversation. If you wanted to exploit me, you’d have done it already. I know you didn’t approach me to get a story. I honestly thought of at least twenty occasions when you could have used your position to your advantage, but you didn’t. I said it because it really could be an interesting idea to explore and you’re a great journalist, never underestimate that. And don’t tell me you’re just a blogger simply because some of your articles don’t get published in the papers.”

“I’ve never majored in journalism.”

“Why is that?”

“I was able to get into Columbia and New York University, but they cost too much, and I couldn’t take on hundreds of thousands of dollars in loans, besides the ones I already have.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re much more qualified than many journalists who write important articles every day. Those schools lost a great student.”

His words, so sincere and completely unexpected, make me blush and look away from embarrassment.

“Are you ready to go? I have to call Max to pick us up.” Thomas changes the topic, and I appreciate the fact that he didn’t press me any further.

“I thought I’d take the subway. It’s only a few stops from here,” I suggest, puzzled.

Thomas lowers his gaze, tucking his hands into his jean pockets and nervously rocking from his heels to his toes. “Well, one thing someone with my fame can’t do, if he doesn’t want to be assaulted by fans, is take public transport,” he explains with a half-smile.

“Oh,” is the only sound that comes out of my mouth like a perfect idiot. I had not considered such an eventuality at all.

“I know, I didn’t think about it at first either and went about my business, driving Dave—our head of security, and Max, our driver—crazy. They had to come and pick me up from the most stressful situations,” he chuckles while he texts a message.

“Like what?” I’m as curious as a kid with a gift she can’t open.

“Like the time they fished me out from under a mountain of diaper packages and toilet paper because I went alone one night to get milk and cookies at the supermarket. Some of the clients recognized me, and I found myself running away from a small crowd who wanted photos and autographs.” He laughs at the memory, and I laugh with him.

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