Page 47 of Paparazzi

In the morning when I open my eyes, his side of the bed is empty. Last night I felt a kiss on my forehead, then the front door closing soundlessly. I thought I dreamed of it, but I realize Thomas is gone. My heart sinks into my chest when it occurs to me that maybe he regrets our reconciliation and doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore.

I sit up and find a note on the nightstand: ‘I couldn’t stay. I’ve already made coffee. Just turn on the machine. Have an awesome day!’ And I smile.

I’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours since waking up in the middle of the night. I can’t stop thinking about Iris and what she’s doing for her mother. The thought of my sister looking after our sick mother while I was in prison haunts me more than ever. My sister, who hasn’t spoken to me since my mother died, who moved to the other side of the world, started a family, and never once contacted me. Not even through the lawyers who reached out to her, making sure she was doing well.

I deserve it. I deserve all the indifference the people I love the most are showing me. I ruined my life, theirs, and all those who loved me and tried to help me—the ones I dragged with me into the abyss because I didn’t open my eyes in time.

The way Iris takes care of her mother reminds me that I’ve never been there for mine, that I slowly killed her, that I killed my father. The fact that she opened up to me, showing me the most vulnerable side of her family, while I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do the same, makes me feel even worse. The thought scares me, makes my stomach twist, and as much as I know I’m being deceptive, I still hide behind a thousand excuses not to work up the courage to do what’s right.

I look at the alarm clock. It’s a decent time to get up and make some phone calls. When I reach the kitchen and make myself coffee, the first thing I do is call my lawyer and financial advisor and make an appointment related to the management of my estate.

“Hi, do you have time to take a ride with me to Brooklyn this morning?”

The resulting silence, long and full of unspoken words, makes me realize he’s swearing softly. I’m always coming up with absurd demands. “Yes, of course, I can find the time.”

This is an emergency, and, given the number of zeros behind my bank account numbers, I can afford to put some pressure on him. “Perfect, what time can I pick you up?”

“Ten o’clock will be fine.”

I hang up and go back to sipping my coffee, then head to the pantry and grab the pack of vanilla cookies that always put a smile on my face. If I couldn’t do something for my mom, I can always do something good for Iris’s mother. That way she can breathe and focus on what she really loves to do in life: photography and writing.

I’ve always tried not to open my heart to anyone anymore. But now, here I am, obsessed like I’m thirteen and I don’t even know how I got here. Because the reality is that I’ve fallen in love with Iris, and there’s no point in me trying to hide it or make up other explanations. When you worry about someone, when you get mad because she disappoints you, when you want to see her and protect her twenty-four hours a day, you’re completely smitten. There’s no other explanation. I know what it means. Even though I was just a kid, I was in love with Rita. It was an undeveloped, immature love, almost adoration, but no less sincere and profound. What I feel for Iris is different, more settled and sure, but just as impulsive.

When my lawyer gets in the car with a tired smile three hours after our conversation, he’s surprised to see me with coffee for both of us and the excitement of a kid who skipped school.

“Are we going on a road trip?” he asks, accepting the coffee with puzzlement, like Snow White taking the poisoned apple.

“More or less,” I reply vaguely, watching out the window as Max dives into the heavy traffic of south Manhattan.

I can sense him tensing next to me, but I don’t want to explain anything to him before I get there. I already know he’s going to tell me to verify who Iris is, to check her past, to see if what she told me is true or not. All indisputable precautions for someone at risk of fraud, given my financial status, but I don’t want to hear them now. He doesn’t know her the way I do, and maybe I’ll look presumptuous and a little crazy, but I don’t see any dishonesty or premeditation in that girl. Since finding out about her work, I’ve spent hours retracing every single moment we’ve been together, and I can’t recall a single one where I got the impression that she was taking advantage of me.

When we arrive at the clinic, my lawyer gets even more restless and starts to interrogate me, sweating like a lamb at Easter. “Do you have something to tell me? Are you in trouble? You know everything’s confidential between us—you can tell me anything …”

“Calm down. It’s not about me, okay?” I try to reassure him while I stifle a chuckle.

Looking in the rearview mirror, I see Max struggling to hold back a smile. He’s so used to dealing with our craziness he’s no longer scandalized, even at the most absurd requests.

When we enter the clinic, I notice there’s a different nurse than yesterday, and I immediately give her my most disarming smile. Sometimes I feel guilty about using my looks so shamelessly to get what I want. The day will come when I no longer have this face and then I’ll pay for all the times I took this shortcut to achieve my goals.

“Hello, is it possible to talk to the manager, please?”

Her brows furrow worriedly. “Is something wrong? Can I help you in any way?”

The agitation in her voice tells me that maybe I was a little too straightforward. “No, absolutely no problem. I would like to settle the bill for one of your patients, and I would like to talk to someone.”

As she breaks in a gorgeous smile that lights up her face, my lawyer rubs his eyes and sighs with frustration.

“You need to talk to the administration. I’ll call right away to check if they can see you.”

In less than five minutes, I find myself at the door of a small but cute office with a large window that faces the garden and the same cream-colored decor that characterize this clinic. The only pop of color is the bright pink floral dress on the statuesque woman with chocolate-colored hair who gets up and firmly shakes my hand. I smile as soon as I see her, then take a seat on one of the armchairs in front of her desk. My lawyer, next to me, looks as happy as a serial killer waiting for the electric chair. I feel almost guilty for dragging him into this mess without mentioning anything to him.

“So, Mr. Simons, what can I do for you?”

“I would like to settle the bill for one of the patients in this clinic,” I announce, getting right to the point.

“Someone who has died or is planning to change clinics?” She is puzzled.

“Oh, no, she’s still alive and staying here. I just want to...pay the bill.” I realize that the request may seem a little strange.

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