Page 5 of Paparazzi

“No, of course I won’t see him again. How would I meet him? It’s not like we have the same life. And by the way, I hope he doesn’t have women fall into his arms every day. I think I hurt him when we ended up on the ground. On the other hand, I hope I don’t have to pay his medical bill—that could be a problem. I don’t know how wise it is to approach him. My life is already a mess without adding a rock star to the equation.”

“Don’t think about your job, which is a non-problem. The point is, are you interested? You’ve been talking about him for years, and you look dreamy. I’ve never seen you like this with anyone you’ve dated. You exchanged just a few words with Thomas, and already you blush at the thought of his arms. You’re like a teenager in love.”

I look down and play with the zipper of my bag as the memories awaken inside me. I was sixteen when I first heard their music, hanging out with my dad on booze deliveries to bars in New York City. I shouldn’t even have walked into that place, but I was getting bored waiting inside the van. It was a gray November afternoon, and they were there playing for a couple of drunks who weren’t even paying attention. I remember Damian smiling at me, Michael peacocking and Simon shaking his head, disgusted. But it was Thomas who made my stomach flutter when he stared into my eyes so intensely and smiled. It was like someone seeing me for the first time.

He wasn’t like the classmates I had dated. He looked a lot older than me—a bad boy, with tattoos and hair falling over his eyes, mysterious. He was so gorgeous he took my breath away. And he had noticed me, the little girl with the too-long, too-skinny legs, without the curves boys my age usually liked.

I remember watching the rest of their concert, sitting at the bar counter, holding the soda the owner had offered me while my father finished carrying the crates inside. It was maybe five or six songs, but time had stood still, my eyes fixed on him, his gaze occasionally resting on mine. It was as if my world came to life that day and, when it was time to leave, I felt another squeeze in my stomach. I didn’t have the courage to talk to him, I just kept looking at him from afar as he wiped his face with a towel, catching the glint in those blue eyes that caused butterflies to erupt in my stomach.

After that, I dreamed for months about meeting him by accident in a bar or on the street. I looked up which pubs they played in, but I was only sixteen and had no chance of passing as an adult, even with a fake ID. Then, one day, I found a newspaper article describing them as the up-and-coming band of the year, and I felt my heart explode with joy—as if I had discovered them before everyone else. I was proud of their success, coming a long way from that small bar with no audience. I started collecting every article about the Jailbirds, every little paragraph that gave me a little more information about Thomas and his life. I glued photos onto the pages of my diary and attached posters to the walls of my room.

I collected all the press information about the band as though it were personal, as though Thomas had told me about it that day, inside that bar. Over the years, I’ve gone out with several guys, but I’ve never gotten to know them as well as I feel I “know” Thomas.

That first day I saw them, my life changed, and I was so excited I set up a blog and have been following them ever since. In fact, I still have the flyer they autographed and left on top of the bar. They gave birth to my passion for music and journalism. They were the subject of my first post, my first butterflies, my first blush, my first album, my first crush, and my first fantasies.

Coming out of my memory fog, I look up at Emily.

“I’ve been imagining their lives for so long I have no idea where my fantasy ends and reality begins. I’m afraid to get near him and discover that the romantic vision I’ve created over the years is a mere fantasy. I don’t want to ruin everything. It’s the only beautiful thing I have in my life.”

The club is packed, and we struggle to find the table Michael booked in the private section of this place they just opened in Midtown. The waitress approaches us wrapped in a short black dress so tight it leaves nothing to the imagination, carrying a tray with a bottle of whiskey and glasses my friends have requested upon our arrival. Her headband with fake reindeer horns attached puzzles me. Christmas? We haven’t even finished digesting our Thanksgiving turkey and this city is already enveloped in the dream-like world of Christmas.

I admit, I love this season. I have good memories of Christmas, and celebrating with my friends makes me happy, but sometimes it feels like we don’t have a minute to catch our breath. Every year, Halloween parties seem to multiply, and not just on one day, they now extend almost a week. If you’re in a famous band, the record company will throw at least four or five costume parties on you. Then, as soon as November begins, you’re thinking about Thanksgiving Day, and the next thing you know, it’s all about the Christmas events.

I remember as a child anxiously waiting for the moment when my mother, two weeks before Christmas, made the list of what she needed for the evening dinner and lunch the day after. A week earlier, we would go to buy the turkey. Then, in the week leading up to the festivity, we would start preparing what could be stored until Christmas Day, when we got up early to unwrap the presents and bake the turkey. I mashed the potatoes, my sister made cranberry sauce, my dad helped by basting the turkey while it cooked. It was a string of small rituals that culminated in the joy of that day. Now, you find yourself celebrating from the beginning of the month: the record company party, the charity gala, guest of honor at the fundraiser. It’s a continuous toast to a Christmas that, on December tenth, still seems far away, and when you finally get to the twenty-fifth, you’re too exhausted to celebrate because of all the events leading up to it.

“Why the hell are you walking like you have a pole up your butt?” Michael asks me.

“I slipped in the shower and slammed my back.”

“Jesus, you’re older than my grandpa.”

“Drop it, please. Did you see the waitress? How about those reindeer horns,” I laugh, trying to move the conversation from my bruise and Iris, if that’s really her name, to something Michael loves: sex.

For some stupid reason, I don’t want to talk about the redhead I met this afternoon. He would transform the conversation into something sexual and, for the first time in my life, I don’t want to. I haven’t had a decent conversation with a woman for I don’t know how long, and I’m a little protective of the moment we shared. I don’t want those few minutes to be dumbed down, making them seem like foreplay for sex.

“I hate Christmas in this city,” Michael complains. “You barely have time to get rid of the turkeys and pumpkins before you find sparkly trees and ornaments on every corner. Not to mention the damn songs. It’s a nightmare!” He slumps down on the sofa, sipping from his glass.

I burst out laughing and nod. I understand his aversion to the songs. It’s okay to hear them once, twice, even a week I can stand them, but thirty days in a row becomes a nightmare. A couple of years ago, a famous mall chain asked us to do a rock version of Mariah Carey’s song to revamp their repertoire in every store. We were so stunned we immediately thought it was a joke. Needless to say, we kindly declined the offer.

“Really? You hate Christmas?”

A blonde from a nearby table sits next to Michael with a pouty face. The tables are way too close in this place if you ask me; it’s too easy to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations. On the other hand, her friend sits next to me, so close she’s almost in my lap. I wanted a relaxed night with my friend—I don’t think this place was the right choice.

“I hate Christmas songs in November. It’s different,” Michael points out, stretching out his arm and making her sit on his lap.

One glance in their direction and I know I’m not going to spend this evening with him.

“Do you hate Christmas too?” the brunette asks me, still glued at my side.

I’d like to reply with a joke, just to be funny, but I notice her gaze wanders everywhere except my face. I don’t think she’s too involved. I sip from my glass and stare at her without hiding the irritation. I’ve already figured out what question will come next.

“Are you here alone, or will Damian join you two?”

Like clockwork, women’s attention is always directed at my best friend, even when he’s not physically in the room.

“He’s home with his woman. You know, the one he’s been living with in a steady relationship for months? The love of his life?” I reply, annoyed as I get up, ignoring her offended gaze. “But Michael will be more than happy to keep both you and your friend company.” I extend a hand toward my bandmate, who has already stuck his tongue in the blonde’s mouth.

“Where the hell are you going?” he asks when I catch his attention.

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