Page 62 of Paparazzi

She laughs and does it, playing like a little girl. “It’s true. If you stop suddenly, you find yourself splattered against the window. But you get a fantastic view of Central Park.”

I approach her and sit in the other chair, which, thankfully, remains stationary, anchored to the floor. “Right. It’s the only thing I like about this apartment,” I admit with sincerity.

“Why do you live here, then, if you don’t like it?” Her question is straightforward, curious.

“Because it’s a good investment. I saw the pictures, it was in a good location, I bought it.”

“You never saw it before you bought it?” she asks me incredulously.

I laugh and shake my head. I guess for her, and for any normal person, that sounds absurd. A few years ago, I would have thought so, too, but now I understand what matters most in life, and this apartment is without a doubt an investment, and that’s it.

“I didn’t care, it was a property that would gain value over time, and my consultant told me it was a great decision to buy it.”

“So you didn’t choose this furniture.” More than a question, it sounded like a statement, and she’s relieved when I shake my head no.

“I found it this way. I’ve been wanting to furnish it more to my taste, but in the few weeks I’m home, doing nothing, honestly, I don’t have the energy to take it all apart. I keep putting it off so it’s stayed exactly as it was when I bought it. I swear, some things I just haven’t figured out yet.”

Iris listens intently, like I’m telling her the secrets of the universe, and I’m starting to get embarrassed. I’m like a kid babbling on about random things in front of his first crush, and with horror, I realize it isn’t the first time this thought has crossed my mind.

“Don’t you want it to feel like it’s yours? Like a home?”

I shrug and think about it. “For me, a house is the people who live there, the love that’s created inside the walls, not the walls themselves. Any place is home when the people I love are with me.”

“The Jailbirds,” she whispers.

I don’t respond. This is a minefield; sooner or later, she’ll ask about my past, and I don’t know if I’m ready to go into detail with her.

I try to change the topic with a bad joke that might make her smile. “But how come you didn’t want to go out to dinner tonight? Not that I mind making you dinner, trying to get into your panties by showing off my cooking skills, but you seemed pretty tense when I texted. You didn’t even want me to send Max to pick you up.” Her eyes don’t light up at my light tone like they usually do, and it worries me.

“You know Ron? The man I sold Lilly and Damian’s pictures to? The other night he stationed himself in my garage and saw you leave my apartment. He’s definitely realized there’s something going on, and even though I’ve denied it, I’m afraid he’s going to send some of his people to stalk us. I’m sorry I dragged you into this,” she admits miserably, as if it was her fault.

I can’t help but burst into laughter. “You dragged me?”

“If I didn’t work with Ron, he would’ve never figured it out. I’m no one special in Manhattan. He only found out because he keeps an eye on me.”

“Trust me, every step I take is monitored. You should know that. If you hadn’t worked for Ron, do you think our date would have gone unnoticed?”

“If we were careful, probably, yes.”

“The places I’m used to going, waiters would sell their souls to the devil—or Ron, in this case, for a story. It’s part of the game, and if it doesn’t bother you, it’s not a problem for me. Does it make you uncomfortable to go out with me?” I ask her when doubt assaults me.

Now it’s her turn to laugh, and I find myself getting lost in the melodious sound that sends shivers down my back.

“No, how could it bother me? I’m certainly not used to the attention since I’m usually on the other side of the lens. But that didn’t stop me from meeting someone I really care about.”

Her confession makes me happy and scared all at once. Soon, she’s going to want to know more about me, and I won’t know how to answer her. “Good, because tonight you will experience my famous lasagna...and no, don’t make that face, that’s not an analogy for sex.” She laughs, and I get up to go check on the oven.

“What are these? Why do you have hundreds of decorated cookie packages?” she asks, puzzled when she sees the boxes on the couch.

I feel embarrassed. I forgot to hide them in the guest room before she arrived. I don’t want her to react like Lilly when she discovered Michael likes to carve wood. “I made them,” I admit.

She looks at me dumbfounded for a moment, as if expecting me to tell her it’s a joke, but then she picks up a box and looks at them carefully.

“Did you really make them? Even the decorations? They look professionally made—like at a bakery!” she exclaims, impressed, and my chest swells with a bit of pride.

“When I was a kid, I used to make them with my mother. She taught me how to make the icing, and I always had a certain artistic side to me, so I took to it easily. I usually make them when I need to blow off some steam. Staying focused on decorating distracts my mind from my problems…like a fight with the girl I like,” I admit sheepishly.

“Oh...then it’s my fault that your house has turned into a pastry shop.”

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