Page 72 of Paparazzi

“Iris, please open this door,” he repeats with a bit of exasperation in his voice.

“Go away, please. It’s full of reporters and crazy fans down there. Do you really want to get caught here with me?” How the hell did he get in the building without being recognized?

I hear him inhale and, perhaps, chuckle. I’m not sure. “Look, Iris, you know how insistent I can be. Open this door and don’t make me sit on this mat all night, please?”

His voice doesn’t sound angry. He sounds almost tired, exasperated by the situation. I get up and sit down. I’m a mess. My pajamas are stained with I don’t know what food, and my hair is all mangy. Even Dexter looks at me as if to ask: Are you really going to open the door looking like this? I suck, and I’m ashamed of it.

I put my feet on the ground and realize I’m still wearing my socks with the floppy rabbit ears. They’re pink, and they’re horrible. I consider taking them off, but that would only be worse, so I throw on my robe with the unicorn hood, complete with a lavender-colored mane flowing down my back, and pull my unruly hair into a rubber band. The result is no improvement, but I can’t leave him out there while I take a shower.

When I open the door, I find him leaning against the jamb with a tired face and a tight smile. He’s wearing a pair of dirty, stained gray sweatpants, a hoodie of the same filthy color, and an old windbreaker that looks like it came out of a dumpster. On his feet are a pair of torn canvas sneakers and no laces. The beard tells me that he, too, isn’t faring so well, and I feel guilty. My frown must be obvious because he throws me an embarrassed half-smile.

“I figured to get in here unnoticed, I’d have to dress like Charlie.”

“Ah. Makes sense.”

Once I let him in and close the door, I notice the disaster that is my house. There are pizza and Chinese takeout boxes everywhere and scattered used Kleenex I didn’t have the energy to throw away. “Sorry for the mess...and the way I look. I’m not a pretty sight, I know.”

Thomas looks at me and shrugs like he doesn’t even notice. “Have you seen my beard and the bags under my eyes?” He grins.

I look down and feel guilty. It’s because of me he looks like a truck hit him in the face. Two fingers gently lift my chin, forcing me to look up. There is no anger in his expression, only exhaustion, and I don’t know how to interpret this gesture. After the way he kicked me out of his apartment, I thought I’d never see these blue eyes up close anymore. They make me forget everything else.

“We have to talk.” I nod and open my mouth, not sure where to start, but he lays a finger on my lips. “Can I explain?” he asks me with imploring eyes.

“You don’t have to explain anything. I’m the one who screwed up. I have to pay for this. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry because I shouldn’t have asked about your private life. I should have known Albert had ulterior motives and was going to cause trouble. Big trouble. Huge, immense trouble... I should have shut up, waited. Instead...” He won’t let me finish my rant because he puts his finger on my lips again.

“You had every right to do so.”

I gasp a couple of times, trying to find words, but I can’t. I’m confused, and he knows it. He motions for me to sit on the bed and then snuggles up next to me, leaving no room between the two of us. He grabs my hands, weaves our fingers as if he needs all the support in the world, and then inhales deeply.

“If you hadn’t asked about my past, I wouldn’t have told you anything. I’ve been doing this for ten years—avoiding getting close to anyone—so I don’t have to feel the heavy weight of my past. It’s easier for me just to run away and pretend I don’t feel anything than to deal with it.”

My heart sinks into my stomach as Thomas tells me his story. It’s so full of suffering and despair that tears flow down my cheeks. I feel sadness for that little boy who lost his whole family because of one mistake. I feel immense sadness for the man who’s always kept everyone at a distance and has never known true peace or happiness. His story is long, detailed, full of a depth of feeling I didn’t think was possible. He tells me about how he met Damian, Michael, and Simon in prison, how the psychologist rescued them from the streets, giving them a purpose in life, making music. When the silence returns, I realize Dexter has snuggled between us as if undecided as to which of us is suffering most right now.

“So, you have no idea what your nieces or nephews are like?” I ask in a whisper.

“I don’t even know what my sister’s face looks like. She was a teenager the last time I saw her. Now she’s a woman, a mother...I’m sure she’s changed a lot.”

My heart squeezes to hear him say all of this and, when I lift my eyes toward him, I find tears falling down his cheeks. With one hand, I try to wipe them away without pulling back the other that’s in a grip so tight it feels like it won’t ever loosen.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wish I hadn’t put your suffering on display for the whole world, believe me. Thank you for sharing your story with me. I know how much it cost you.”

Thomas looks at me and smiles as if I’m the only one in the world who matters to him. “After what you did for me with that video, it’s the least I can do.”

“I didn’t do anything special. I don’t even know if it helped.” I shrug, downplaying the whole situation.

“It worked. People are starting to wonder what’s true and what’s not. Plus, they started sifting through Ron’s newspaper and pointing out every time he published fake or made-up news... Like, for example, the fight between Damian and Lilly.” He smiles at me, and it lifts the weight from my chest a little. Not entirely, because my life is ruined regardless, but maybe he could get his back on track.

“Well, I’m glad.”

“Now we need your help to change the direction of our future.”

I turn to look at his face, surprised. He doesn’t seem worried, his face looks more hopeful than anything, and it catches me off guard. When I woke up this morning, I certainly didn’t think my day would take a turn out like this. I’m not sure what he’s about to propose, or if I’m going to like it, but I do want to help him. And maybe it will silence my conscience, or at least in part.

“I’m listening.”

Thomas shakes his head and smiles at me. “It’s Simon’s idea. They’re waiting for us at the cottage in Connecticut to discuss it with you.”

“Oh...so I assume I have to get out of this bed and shower.”

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