Page 46 of Paparazzi

“Really? I thought she wasn’t...I mean, your mom looks young to me.”

I nod and smile. It seems impossible to me, too, that she’s in this condition. “Apparently, you can get it even at forty-five, and when it takes you so young, it’s very aggressive. It’s a rare case, but it can happen. Her brain stopped working properly; the disease has a complicated name, but the reality is straightforward: she’s shutting down. She needs someone to assist her twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. At first, I tried to take care of her, but it’s almost impossible on my own. Now, you see her catatonic in front of this window, but sometimes she wakes up in a confused state, doesn’t recognize anyone, and gets very upset. I can’t stay with her all the time. I once found her wandering the neighborhood streets just in her robe at six in the evening on my way home from work. It was a struggle to drag her back into the house,” I explain without ever looking him in the eye.

“Can I ask what happened to your father?” he says almost in a whisper.

I look up and find tears threatening to fall down his face. It leaves me breathless and suddenly I want to wrap my arms around his neck.

“He left us almost seven years ago. He said my mother was crazy and he couldn’t be with her anymore. In a way, it was true. The first signs of dementia were already showing up. Sometimes she would scold me because I hadn’t done something she’d never really told me to do. In hindsight, I understand why he left. Anyway, I never had a great relationship with my dad. The first few summers, I went to visit him on vacation in Florida, but then he started a new family, and I stopped going. I felt unwelcome. He doesn’t even know my mother’s like this.”

“Why don’t you tell him? Maybe he can help you.”

My bitter smile makes him frown. “Because he’s not doing well, either. He’s always given me about two hundred dollars a month to help with expenses, which he still does, even though I’m twenty-four years old and don’t need it. I know how much effort it is for him to get that money out, and yet he’s always on time for payments. At Christmas and on my birthday, he gives me a hundred more. He has never missed a date or anniversary. He’s not a bad person, he just never realized that my mother’s condition was due to illness and not because she had changed from the woman he fell in love with. It can be really exhausting to live with someone who has this condition. It wears you down, day after day, little by little, until all your energy is gone.”

Thomas nods but says nothing. He seems lost in his thoughts as he glances between my mother and me, perhaps realizing how much we look alike. Or wondering if one day I’ll get as sick as her. I’ve often wondered it, too, but I resigned myself to the belief that I can’t control it. I’ll think about it if and when it happens to me.

“Scared?”

He raises his blue eyes and gives me a reassuring smile. “No, I was thinking about how much a place like this must cost.”

“A lot, trust me. I have some assistance from the state and some charities that help with elderly care, but the remaining tuition is still really expensive. That’s why I do the work I do.”

He barely nods, his eyes fixed on my mother’s profile and his gaze earnest, as if he’s considering how to miraculously heal her from this state. Despite my lies, despite what I do for a living, he’s here, with me, and trying to understand my world, choices, and difficulties. I’m glad Ron told him everything because he lifted a weight off my chest. I was exhausted from the lies and secrecy, living in a limbo between happiness and fear.

*

We walk into my apartment, and Thomas helps me take off my windbreaker, careful not to hurt me.

“Have you been able to eat since you ended up in the hospital, or are you fasting?” he asks, halfway between worried and scolding.

I smile and look down guiltily. “Sometimes I order out, sometimes Emily brings me something from the café.”

“But more often than not, you don’t eat, do you?” I don’t answer. It’s impossible to hide the truth when your stomach grumbled all afternoon. “Sit. I’ll cook something.”

I watch him tinker with eggs, bacon, cheese, butter, and bread. He is the perfect mix of sweet and sexy that makes my heart melt so much I have a ridiculous smile on my face. So this is what it feels like when you’re genuinely happy.

When he turns to me with the two plates of sandwiches he has prepared, he looks puzzled. “What?”

“No, nothing, you’re just perfect. A rock star, good in the kitchen, great in bed... So, where do I sign on the dotted line?” I joke, trying to lighten the heavy day we’ve had.

He shrugs and smiles, embarrassed. “I’m not that perfect, trust me, but I like to take care of you. I know you’re independent, and you’re doing great on your own, but making dinner makes me feel useful.”

I’m not used to this attention, but I can put aside my pride for at least one sandwich. “Okay, alright, you’re not perfect, but this sandwich is amazing. Just saying.” I devour the two slices of toasted bread and butter with little grace and I’m stuffed.

“You also said I’m great in bed, don’t forget that part.” He winks at me and smiles.

“Damn it, I was hoping you missed that!” I laugh as I finish the last of my dinner and wash it down with a sip of water.

Thomas gets up, catching me by surprise, and puts his arm under my knees and behind my shoulders to lift me up. He walks to the bed and carefully sets me down as if I were a fragile package. Dexter, napping on the pillows, gets up, jumps out of bed, and takes refuge in the bathroom, looking annoyed.

“Let me remind you how good I am even away from the stove,” he whispers in my ear and then kneels in front of me to take off the shoes that I struggled to put on this morning.

The comfortable mood of our dinner changes, unleashing an electricity that usually sparks just before we end up between the sheets. Thomas keeps undressing me: first my socks, pants, panties, and then my sweater and t-shirt, leaving me naked in front of him. He helps me lie down, then undresses without ever taking his eyes off mine and lays down next to me, covering us with the warm quilt. He comes closer and kisses me softly, taking his time, sliding his hands over my bare skin, stroking me with the delicacy of a feather, igniting my desire.

He’s a different Thomas than the passionate one I’ve gotten used to, but no less sensual. He kisses the skin of my neck and then descends to my breasts, leaving a glowing trail on my body. Butterflies spring from my belly when, with light kisses, he slowly approaches the center of my pleasure. I want to tell him that I need to feel him inside me, to feel him move in me to feed my mounting pleasure that needs release, but my voice doesn’t come out—it’s stopped by my lack of breath and my brain wrapped in oblivion.

He slips his tongue between my legs and awakens my desire. He kisses me, taking care of my pleasure with a slowness that both tortures me and makes me shiver with pleasure. He takes me almost to the apex, with kisses and light touches. Then he stands up, and, after sticking on a condom he finds on my bedside table, gets on his knees between my legs and sinks into me slowly, savoring the moment and throwing back his head with closed eyes, lost in the sensation. I watch him as, with slow movements, he sinks deeper and deeper into me, filling me with his presence and persistence. Thrust after thrust, though careful not to disturb my sore shoulder, he takes both of us to a deep orgasm that leaves me exhausted.

I look at him, getting lost in his blue eyes gazing at me, still intoxicated with pleasure. It’s a vision I’d like to imprint in my mind and relive every day of my life, but my eyelids get heavy, and as Thomas kisses me and snuggles closer to me, I close my eyes and sink into a serene sleep.

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