Page 73 of Paparazzi

Thomas smiles and helps me out of bed. “I’m going to help you take a shower. I imagine you’re still having a hard time washing your hair with that shoulder.” It’s not a question, it’s a simple observation and, for the first time in my life, I let someone take care of me. I have to resign myself to the idea that sometimes in my life, I need help, and Thomas needs to take care someone, like he couldn’t do for his family. We’re depending on each other, and it doesn’t feel as bad as I thought it would.

He helps me undress and washes my hair so gently that when I close my eyes and let him lather it up, for a moment, I’m taken back to my childhood and feel my mother’s hands washing my hair. It feels natural, and the memory is a pleasant one of scents, colors, and laughter that I haven’t had in a long time. Thomas is waking up a part of me that I thought died forever, and when he towels my hair after helping me get dressed, I feel like the entire weight of the world has been lifted. When he presses his lips on mine, all my fears slip away, leaving me with only the tenderness and affection he manages to convey. His tongue touches mine, dispelling any fears that I’d lost him, reinforcing my resolve to face this difficult moment together, like a real couple, two lovers trusting each other.

*

When Thomas said it was a cottage in Connecticut, I thought he meant a little mountain cottage in the woods. Nothing could be further from reality; this villa has at least ten bedrooms and, as I discover, a library for our meeting. An actual library bigger than my entire apartment.

“Thank you for coming.” The man introducing himself as Evan, their manager, motions for me to sit in a chair among the others who wave their hands. They all seem very quiet, though I don’t get the feeling they want to rip me apart. “You know the guys, I guess...so let’s skip the pleasantries?”

I take a quick look at Lilly, who’s watching me with a smile, and she seems almost excited about what they’re going to tell me. I don’t know what to think. “Yes, I’m not particularly good with apologies, and I feel like a complete idiot right now.”

Damian and Michael laugh as Lilly slaps her partner and Simon smiles shyly. Thomas extends a hand toward me, and I grab it firmly, regardless of whether everyone can see the gesture.

“Thomas, do you want to explain it?” asks Evan.

“Oh, no, sweetheart. I’ve already told you how she’s going to answer, you deal with her.”

Everybody laughs, and I’m not sure Thomas is on my side anymore. I give him the stink-eye, and in response, he smiles sweetly and lightly kisses my fingers.

Simon speaks up: “We want to do an exclusive interview on your blog, explaining the truth about our past, how we met, and what unites us: prison. We believe it’s time to take this step, that is, if you want to help us out. We’re tired of living secretive half-lives just to keep our past hidden. It’s time to grow up and accept our responsibilities.” As he’s talking, I remember Thomas telling me this was his idea. I didn’t expect that, nor their offer.

“Okay, I appreciate it, but don’t you want to do it in a more reputable newspaper like…I don’t know, theNew York Times? After that video, I don’t think my blog has much credibility. Plus, how would your record label react?” I ask, puzzled. I feel like there are too many holes in this sinking ship, and a little tape isn’t going to fix it.

“That leads us to the second part of our proposal,” says Evan, throwing a look at Thomas that I can’t decipher. “The band’s contract with the label ends after this upcoming album is released. We’ve decided not to renew with them, or rather, we’re sure they’re going to dump us. They’ll use the damaged reputation clause to get rid of their obligation to do five more albums—in addition to the four already produced. It’s in their contract renewal and has to be signed by the two parties. We could find another record company, maybe smaller than this one, and we’ll be thinking about those options in the next few days. However, we want to manage the public relations ourselves, be much more transparent, and above all, move our media presence to social media rather than traditional channels like print and television. I did an estimate of the value of your blog, considering the growth you had from Thomas’s tweet, and we’d like to buy it and hire you. The blog would be the only official communication channel of the Jailbirds,” he says, wrapping up his speech and handing me a piece of paper with numbers. “The amount we’re offering is at the bottom of the page in bold.”

I’m literally stunned. I don’t know how to respond to this proposal, let alone how to read this number. I place the paper on the coffee table in front of me and bend over to count the zeros. I do it four times, but I can’t figure it out. They all look at me, grinning.

“Does anyone have a pen?”

Evan is puzzled but handles me one. I look at the number again and realize it’s at least two hundred dollars. I group the zeros, count them three more times and then look up at Evan. “Are you crazy? I don’t even want to consider it,” I blurt out, stunned.

Everyone bursts out laughing, and I look around, resting my eyes on Thomas. He raises his hands innocently. “I told them you’d answer like that. Don’t blame me.”

“A million dollars for my blog? Who gave you the estimate? Roger Rabbit?’ I ask Evan, astounded.

He smiles and shakes his head. “The experts I hired. Your current blog’s value with the projections of the first year after merging the two brands, yours and the Jailbirds. Plus, you’d get a paycheck as an employee.”

That number seems impossibly high, but Evan seems to be someone who’s more concerned about doing good business for his clients—the four band members I have in front of me—rather than doing me a favor.

“But I won’t be able to write whatever I want about music anymore. If it’s your blog, I’ll have to follow your rules. I’ll be bound by what you want to communicate. I’ve always refused to run ads precisely because I didn’t want to feel obligated to anyone,” I say skeptically.

Evan shakes his head again. “Your blog works because you’re honest. We want you to keep writing your reviews and articles, but we also want you to reserve a regular space for the band. No censorship from us. You decide the content.”

I think about it. This is surreal. Getting paid for what I love to do? It feels like a dream. “I currently have zero funds to run this blog, so I’m making do with what I have. Can I have access to an annual budget to produce content?” I ask with what I hope is bravado in my voice. I don’t know how much I can pull strings.

“Absolutely, yes. The biggest expenses will have to be approved by the accountants, of course, but you can manage the funds as you see fit.”

I feel all their eyes on me, and I don’t realize how anxious they are until I accept their proposal and see them smiling and relaxing. Lilly and Damian seem immersed in their bubble of happiness, whispering between smiles and caresses. Simon suddenly looks ten years younger, and I’m assuming it’s relief because their secret had become too big to carry. Michael is studying Thomas with a frown and a half-smirk, like an older brother: happy, and at the same time, worried. Evan watches them all, sitting on those couches, with the concerned face of a father watching his children make a complicated and risky decision, and the pride of knowing they’re doing the right thing.

Thomas, though, only has eyes for me and what I read into them are happiness and determination. I’ve never been as proud of him as I am at this moment. They’re thrilled that I’m on board with this risky, potentially career-destroying idea.

I open my eyes to Dexter’s rear end pointed straight at my face. His tail is raised, revealing all the intimate parts. “Gross. Can’t you at least turn the other way? I prefer your dry-food breath,” I complain aloud.

Next to me, a chuckle makes me turn to find Thomas’s amused face. He grabs my cat and snuggles him on his chest to caress him. The traitor furball immediately begins to purr.

“Of course you two are plotting against me. I’m surprised you haven’t killed me in my sleep yet.” I roll my eyes and try to get up, but Thomas holds me back.

“Not even a good morning kiss?” he asks, sticking out his lower lip like a kid.

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