Page 63 of Paparazzi

I laugh. “You helped make the holidays much sweeter for all the homeless people in the city.”

“What about those?” she asks, pointing to more cookies sitting in front of the stove where I’m busy cooking.

“Claire, my assistant, packed them up to donate them to a charity that raises money for a foster home in Queens. They need a new roof, and they’re running out of cash.”

“Wow. They’ll have a line out of the store when they know they’re your cookies.”

“No one knows they’re mine. Not even my friends. It’s something I do anonymously...something that only Claire, and now you, know about.”

Her blushing rosy cheeks almost make me melt. “And I thought you couldn’t get any more perfect.” She looks at me with a dreamy glint in her eyes.

And now I’m blushing, but in shame. I’m anything but perfect and, even though she keeps saying it, I can’t hide the guilt I feel for deceiving her.

*

“It’s amazing. Did you really make it?” she asks me, her eyes wide.

I smile and nod while I pour another glass of wine for her. “Yep, do you really like it?”

She nods and takes another bite as if it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted. “Did your mother cook this too, besides gnocchi?” she asks, and I shake my head, happy to have an anecdote about the Jailbirds instead of my biological family.

“Actually, no. During our first European tour, the band finished our gigs in Italy and, since we didn’t have the obligation of more shows, we stayed on for a two-week vacation. I fell in love with the cuisine and lifestyle there. The flavors were spectacular! And it seems like my taste buds have a mind of their own because sometimes I’ll remember eating something there and my brain shouts at me to cook it instantly.” I laugh at my twisted explanation.

“I think your taste buds are right, and I also think you’ll have to cook for me more often because these are the best dishes I’ve ever tasted in my life.” She laughs and it’s contagious. I find myself watching her cleaning that perfect mouth with the napkin, and I just want to kiss her.

And that’s what I do. I lean over the table and kiss her on the lips, savoring the taste of the sip of wine she just drank. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

Iris smiles as she looks down. When it comes to my displays of affection, I find her blushing, like a young girl, incredibly sexy. “Don’t apologize. I’m glad.”

“What’s your specialty?” I ask. “What do you make when you have to win someone over with your cooking?”

Iris thinks about it for a second. “I think cottage pie.” She nods like that’s the right answer.

“Really? How come? It’s not a very American dish.”

Iris shrugs and takes another sip of wine. “My mother is Irish. She moved here when she met my father and then they got married. It’s a dish from her childhood; she used to make it for me a lot when I was a little girl. I’d cook it for her when she started showing the first signs of dementia because it seemed to trigger some memories. Maybe, as you say, taste buds have memories that activate the brain. Unfortunately, that trick hasn’t worked for years.” Her smile is melancholy.

“That explains your complexion,” I say without thinking.

“What?” She frowns.

“Your pale skin, red hair, green eyes, freckles…it’s all very Irish or Scottish.”

“Oh, right. My dad didn’t give me much from a genetic point of view. I don’t look like him at all.” She laughs amusedly, and I can’t even imagine what her father could be like. “And you? Who do you look the most like? Does your sister look like you?” she asks as panic begins to take over. What the hell do I tell her?

I inhale deeply and then put a massive bite of lasagna in my mouth to buy some time. Her eyes are on me, expecting an answer. I take a sip of wine. “I have my mother’s eyes, but otherwise, I look like my father. My sister...I don’t know if I look like my sister.” I stop short. The last time I saw her, I was just a kid. We’ve both changed a lot. At least, I know I’ve changed a lot, physically and otherwise. I’m sure she has, too, since she’s a mother of three children I’ll never know.

“Don’t you know if you look like your sister?” she asks, puzzled.

Iris isn’t an idiot. She knows this story of mine has holes all over the place, and she’s probably annoyed that I haven’t told her everything, though you couldn’t tell it from her expression. This is why I never wanted to be in a relationship—sooner or later, you get to know each other beyond the sex, and I have nothing to say. I have a history that I want to keep in the past, for my own sanity, and therefore have nothing to offer anyone but lies and evasion. The problem is that with Iris, I’m beginning to think this “us” thing could work, and as much as I tell myself to stay away, it’s just impossible to do that.

“We don’t call each other very often, and I don’t see her much. She doesn’t live in New York.”

My answer is nowhere near complete.

“Where does she live? In the same town where your family is?” She sips some wine casually and rests her gaze on me. I feel suffocated.

“No, in Australia. She moved there ten years ago.”

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