by Erika Vanzin
*
Standing in front of the building of the most famous newspaper in New York City, I look up and feel a pang of guilt nipping at my heels. It’s my last chance to see if I’ve done any damage and whether I have an opportunity to fix it or even stop it. Albert has always been very loyal to me, he’s helped me whenever I needed him, but his disgust with my relationship with Thomas makes my toes curl. It’s over the top, and since my conversation with Ron, his persistence has taken on alarming connotations. How long has Ron been following me, and how did he get in touch with Albert?
I take the elevator that brings me to the newsroom and, with my heart slamming in my chest, I approach his desk.
“I hate it when you have that look. It means you have to scold me, or you’re mad at me,” Albert whispers, so others don’t hear. There’s so much noise in this place that if I hadn’t leaned in, I wouldn’t have heard anything either, but we’re still in a newsroom, and there are ears where you least expect them.
“Good morning to you, too. It’s a pleasure to see you. How are you?”
Albert rolls his eyes at my sarcastic response and then smiles. “What do you want? Really.” His face is suspicious, but I think mine is more so. I think my guilt is turning into paranoia, and I’m looking for any sign that helps me understand where this conversation is going.
“Did Ron try to contact you?” I ask, not beating around the bush. After all, Albert wants to be a journalist. It’s his job to be wary of everything.
Albert’s lips tighten in a fine line and his jaw contracts, letting me know I’m on the right track. “Why would you care about that?”
“Because he’s just been to the café where Emily works and threatened me. I’d like to know how many people are trying to stab me in the back.” What the hell am I thinking taking up the challenge of this idiot?
“Do you really think I’m the problem? You sleep with someone you don’t know anything about, but the problem is who I talk to when I’m at work? Do you realize how crazy that sounds?”
The fact that the focus has shifted from Ron to the person I’m sleeping with makes me nervous, and I’d like to take the stapler on his desk and shut his mouth. “First, it’s none of your business who I sleep with. Second, I don’t know what Ron promised you, but if you try to use what I told you to get him a story, I swear I’ll destroy you.”
“What are you afraid of? Finding out something you don’t want to know about your precious Thomas?”
“No, I’m not worried about that. My problem is that Ron spreads lies to make money and then ruins people’s lives.”
“That’s funny, I thought you were the one who sold Michael’s pictures.”
I give him the evil eye. “Do you really think you can scare me? Believe me, honey, I can handle much worse.”
A colleague stands up in the cubicle next to us and throws us a worried look. Albert sees it, and this seems to cool him down somewhat. “I didn’t say anything to Ron. I swear... Besides, I have nothing to give him.”
His answer encourages me, but not much. He hasn’t yet done his research, but sooner or later, he will. “There you go, good. Quit while you’re ahead.”
“I’m a journalist, Iris. You can’t expect me to shut up and watch when I have a potential story on my hands.”
“First, you’re an apprentice, you’re not yet a journalist, and the information came to you from an untrusted source, from the assumptions and speculations of a paparazzo. I wouldn’t play this card if I were you. You know credibility is everything in this job, and I have a thousand ways to disprove everything you’re going to reveal,” I threaten him, perhaps more vehemently than I should, and he pulls his chair back to put a little distance between us.
“I understand, don’t worry. It’s not like I work for a gossip magazine. I still have nothing to write. And Ron’s a slimeball if he thinks he can buy me with a piece of candy. Like I’m his dog,” he snorts, trying to change his approach.
I don’t trust him. Not Albert, not Ron. I don’t trust anyone in this situation, but I can’t do anything because I don’t know how far he’s gone in his investigating. My only hope is that I didn’t tell him everything that night, that some details were lost due to my level of alcohol intoxication, and that Albert was at least a little tipsy.
I should tell Thomas so he can alert the press office to catch the damage. But what damage? I don’t know anything about Thomas, I don’t know anything about what Albert is aware of, and I don’t know if he’ll talk to Ron. What exactly should they worry about? I should be relieved—if Albert had anything to use against Thomas, he would have done it—but I’m afraid this is more serious than I suspect. I’m afraid Thomas will lose whatever trust he put in me after he forgave me. How many times can you forgive a person who constantly makes the same mistake?
Iris looks around at my living room in wide-eyed wonder, like a child in a museum—the museum of science and technology, to be exact. It’s so different from her apartment she might as well be on another planet.
“Is that a chair?” she points at the Space Shuttle.
I smile, amused, and nod. “Yes. If you sit on it and turn fast enough, it shoots you into orbit.”
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.”
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.”
“It must
be hard to live so far away...even if you’ve never been particularly close,” she points out, and I can’t tell if she’s saying it because she knows it’s breaking my heart in two or if she’s trying to find a way to make me smile again after noticing my jaw tighten.
“Are you finished? Do you want more?”
Iris seems caught off guard by my change of topic. “No, thank you. It’s delicious, but if I eat any more, I’ll explode.” She smiles, massaging her stomach.
I grab the dishes and take them to the sink, rinsing them before putting them in the dishwasher. She follows me, bringing the two glasses of wine still half full.
“Thomas, you know there’s nothing in your past that you should be ashamed of, right? That I would never judge you... Jesus, I’m the last person who has a right to judge anyone. I want you to know that you can trust me,” she says earnestly.
I can’t take my eyes off what I’m doing. I know if I look at her right now, I’ll lose it. All my resistance would melt. But I can’t do it. With this whole situation, it’s not just me I’m protecting but also the three guys who have been with me for years. Before I blurt out, “We’ve been in prison,” the least I can do is ask them for permission to share our secret with her.
She’s not the problem. It’s me, my past, that I can’t make peace with. So far, I’ve simply ignored it. I changed my life. I changed my name. It’s like I erased that night over ten years ago, and that stupid kid who thought he was so tough was just someone I met when I was a teenager and lost sight of.
“Yes, I know. I do trust you. I just have a hard time talking about myself. I haven’t done it in a long time, and I have to get my confidence back with all of this.” I tell her a partial truth.
Iris nods and slips the glass of wine into my hands. I drink some and watch a sincere smile appear on her lips before she sips from her glass. “Okay, so if you trust me, do you want to tell me the real story about how you ended up in the middle of a pile of diapers and toilet paper when you were just buying milk and cookies? Or about the half-pants at the festival, if you like.”