by Erika Vanzin
Her reasoning opens a glimmer of hope in this situation that I hadn’t considered. I’ve thought several times about insisting on explaining to him how things went, but I’ve only thought about how it would make me feel. Now that Emily points out how he must have felt, I feel guilty for being so utterly selfish.
“Will you come with me?” I beg her. I don’t know if I can even stand in front of him.
*
The record company building is under siege by paparazzi. I recognize the faces of half the people who are crammed behind the barricade, hoping to get some pictures of the Jailbirds. I know they’ll be here for a meeting today. Everyone in the industry knows this. I’ve received at least five texts from different people asking me if I’ll be here today. Last night, the Jailbirds disappeared. None of them stayed in their own homes and were not seen anywhere in Manhattan. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were put on a private jet and flown to the other side of the world.
“We’ll never get in,” I tell Emily, who seems as puzzled as I am.
She seems to think about it, then takes me by the hand and drags me to one of the security guards at the entrance, a guy with a shaved head who’s so big he could hide another person under his jacket. His earpiece makes him look like an automaton, a robot that could destroy anyone trying to get past him with his bare hands.
“You can’t go in. Move behind the barriers like everyone else.”
The man motions us to go back while spreading his arms in a protective stance toward those inside. I admire his determination. I’m sure that if this whole horde of paparazzi and journalists decides to break in, he’ll singlehandedly be able to stop them.
“She’s the one who sold the information that created this mess.”
I feel Emily’s words, strong and direct, like a punch to my stomach knocking out all the air in my lungs. What the hell is she thinking? Throwing me under the bus is not the best way to tell Thomas I didn’t sell that information. I look up at the man, who seems to study me resentfully, and I immediately understand where his loyalty lies.
He beckons his colleague to approach, says something to his ear, and receives a nod of consent. If I hadn’t been focused on their faces, I wouldn’t even have noticed his head move. He rests a hand on our shoulders, opens the door, and with his head beckons us to enter and follows us. He passes us and approaches the blonde receptionist who is probably a few years younger than me. I see her look up at us, then grab the phone and start talking fast to someone on the other end. Less than two minutes later, the elevator doors across the white, ultra-modern entrance open, letting out a middle-aged, grizzled, tall man in a dark blue suit that makes him look menacing. His square jaw clenches, his gray eyes slice through me like blades. He knows exactly who I am, and it makes my legs tremble.
“You can’t stay here.” His voice is calm and authoritarian at the same time. I wouldn’t be surprised if he opened his jacket and showed us a weapon under his fancy suit.
My voice, by comparison, comes out as uncertain as a little girl who knows she screwed up. “I just want to talk to Thomas, help him fix this mess. I can deny it, say I made it all up. Tell him that I’m sorry and that if I could go back, I wouldn’t fall like a fool into Albert’s trap.”
The man studies me for a few seconds, almost seems to weigh an answer, then opens his mouth, dropping the bomb on me calmly and impassively. “Mr. Simons’ lawyers will contact you, and you’ll have the opportunity to explain everything to them. Now you have to leave,” he says, nodding to the closest guard to approach.
His words penetrate my skin and freeze my blood. Until now, I hadn’t thought about the legal aspect of this, only the emotional. I’m numbed by the realization. The blood pulses in my ears, my mouth dries up, and I’m not sure I’m breathing regularly. My eyes are fixed on the white carpet under my feet; I haven’t blinked in I don’t know how long.
Emily’s voice brings me back to reality. “He’s literally in front of us. She only needs less than a minute.”
She’s begging the man. When I look up, in front of me I see the Jailbirds walking quickly to the elevator. It’s been two days since all hell broke loose, and Thomas seems unrecognizable. All of their faces are gloomy, but Thomas’s almost makes my legs give out. His eyes are reddened as if he’s cried or drunk to the point of exhaustion, and the dark circles around them show he hasn’t slept at all. His gray and sunken face behind the curls has never looked worse.
They ignore me, all of them. I’m sure they saw me because we’re the only people in the middle of the all-white entrance, but they’re walking fast to the elevator as the photographers behind us go wild. I can see flashes penetrating through the windows.
“It wasn’t me.” It comes out as a whisper that barely reaches my ears. I’m so paralyzed, I can’t even scream. But Emily’s doing it for me.
“Thomas, it wasn’t Iris who sold the information!” she shouts as the doors are closing, and I see him lowering his head with his eyes fixed on the floor.
The guard grabs us both by the elbow with a light but decisive gesture and escorts us out the door, where another rapid sequence of flashes hits us, and people start asking us questions about why we were in there. We don’t answer, walking quickly to the building corner and slipping into a side street.
“Are you okay?” Emily asks me worriedly.
I don’t know if I could faint or throw up right now. “I have to find myself a lawyer,” I whisper, looking at my hands visibly shaking.
“Yes, I think so. I can ask around if there’s anyone who can help you.”
I nod without really thinking about her words, though I do notice my friend seems to have lost her characteristic enthusiasm and positivity.
*
I enter the editorial room of Ron’s magazine, invigorated by anger. Emily is behind me, just as angry as I am. By their looks, I’m sure people are thinking I’m crazy as I walk like a bulldozer among the desks, glaring at anything and anyone in my path. I see Ron’s office behind the glass across the room and, when I furiously open the door, he gives me a look that’s at first surprised, then amused.
“Good morning, sunshine,” he teases me.
I grab the papers lying on his desk and throw them across the room, but he barely registers a reaction.
“You have to clean up this mess!” I shout angrily “Post a denial, do something, but you can’t ruin people’s lives this way.”
Ron starts laughing, and I feel Emily’s hand on my shoulder, preventing me from jumping over his desk and punching him. “Are you kidding me? I’ve never had so many ad requests. The site is exploding with visits, and people are literally going crazy over this story. I’ve never been so rich,” he says with such simplicity that I’m almost caught by surprise.
“And you don’t care that you’re ruining people’s lives?” My voice is shrill. I almost don’t recognize it—my throat is so hoarse from screaming.
“Thomas ruined his own life when he decided to become a drug courier. I didn’t do that.”
I can’t even argue. He’s so out of his mind that I have no answer for him. “Albert came to you asking for money. How much did you give him?” I hiss between my teeth.
Ron laughs again, this time surprising me. “Do you really think that kid would have the balls to come to me?” I’m taken aback by this statement. “I paid someone to be on you when I started having my suspicions. I knew you were fucking Thomas, but I didn’t want just the average sex story. I wanted something that would blow up. I knew sooner or later you’d make a mistake, and I went straight to the source. I contacted him and gave him money for his research.”
“So, his threat to make me blackmail the Jailbirds and give him half the money was all a joke? Just your sick game to see if I would give in?” I ask, so horrified that I almost vomit on his desk.
Ron laughs again, and I’m grateful Emily’s on me
because I’d gladly smash his face in right now. “No, that was his attempt to get more money, put his conscience at ease, and, perhaps, also save his job and face.”
I see red. I fell into Ron’s trap like a complete idiot, did precisely what he wanted, and was crushed by his lowdown tactics. Enraged, I grab the MacBook on his desk and throw it against the window behind me.
The gesture is so sudden and violent it shatters the window, causing shouts of alarm from the the editorial room on the other side. Looking at Ron’s horrified face, I walk to the door, slamming it open, find the laptop a couple of feet from his office and stomp on it until it’s shattered. When I turn around, I’m met with Emily’s shocked face and Ron running his hands through his hair.
I point a finger at him. “Don’t think this is over. I swear, I’m going to make your life so miserable you’d wish you never met me,” I hiss, then march out of the newsroom with my friend following behind.
Back outside, I rest my hands on my knees to keep from passing out and inhale deeply.
“You scared me to death! But I’ve never seen a more epic scene. I felt like I was in a movie.” Emily bursts out laughing and, when I straighten up, meeting her wild gaze, I can’t help but laugh too, feeling the fear, adrenaline, and tension slipping away from my body until I’m empty.
The cottage in Connecticut, where we returned, right after meeting with the record label, is a hidden treasure within a vast park surrounded by trees. It is warm and welcoming, an ideal place to raise a family. Ironically, as much as it would be a perfect place for me, I have no one to share it with.
I look out my bedroom window. It’s Christmas morning. We should all be gathered around the fireplace at Damian and Lilly’s house. Instead, the world seems suspended in a limbo between reality and hell, where there’s no celebrating. I admire the manicured garden and the trees at the far end of the yard, past the pool, and a bitter smile forms on my lips. Every time I thought about having more than a one-night stand with someone, a future, maybe a couple of brats, I’d regret it, feeling stupid for hoping I could have more than a life of solitude. Not that I thought of having children when I was thirteen, but I distinctly remember feeling that with Rita, it would never end. At the time, it was mostly irrational certainty: Rita would never leave me because I would never let her go. I didn’t accept the end of our story, even as I shared the room with three other guys who beat me almost to the point of death at least twice a week. I kept hoping she’d be waiting for me when I got out, with a suitcase full of clothes and a place to stay, since I no longer had a family. It was the prison psychologist—the one who helped the four of us get into the recovery program—who made me realize that I was just one of the many victims of the only woman I’ve ever loved...at least until Iris.
Because ultimately, whether I want to believe it or not, I wanted more than just sex with Iris. Why do I trust these women who end up betraying me? It’s clear as day that I don’t have a clue about their intentions. I can handle an entire room of malicious journalists. I can face a battalion of music industry people who just want to squeeze as much money as possible out of me. But I can’t discern sincerity in a woman’s eyes.
Emily’s words in the lobby of the record company office ring in my head. She told me it wasn’t her, and part of me wants to believe it. It doesn’t make sense—Iris, who always turned down my money, sold that information? Am I so repulsive that she’d rather sell me out than be with me? Was it all just a charade to make me fall in love with her? To earn my trust? I’ve been thinking about it for hours, and I still can’t figure it out.
An insistent knock on my bedroom door startles me. Someone tries to open it, but I had the foresight to lock it. I don’t want to see anyone. Our career is in jeopardy because of me. The record company has been clear: if this story negatively affects the sales of the next album, we’re out. No matter how many millions we’ve brought in over the years, they’re not willing to risk losing sales of the other artists on their label. That’s why I don’t dare look my friends in the face. Not so much because we could end up living on the streets, but because music is what pulled us out of the shit we were in. It literally saved our lives, gave us a new chance, and thinking that we can no longer do it is a possibility I can’t even consider.
“Open this fucking door, Thomas. We need to show you something.” Damian’s voice thunders on the other side of the dark wood, and, with a huge sigh, I go and open it. Something in the tone of his voice tells me it’s best to do as he says before he takes down the door.
“I don’t want to argue again, okay?” I say when I see them all enter the room.
Damian, Lilly, Simon, Michael, and Evan enter quickly into the space that has become a bit tight. My best friend’s girlfriend rests her laptop on the dark mahogany desk and opens an internet page.
“You have to see this,” she says as she loads a page.
“That’s Iris’s blog. I don’t want to see anything on there.”
“Trust me, you want to see this.” Michael puts a hand on my shoulder, makes me sit on the bed, and hands me the laptop.
I start the video, and immediately I see Iris, sitting calmly on her bed, her eyes red from crying, her posture rigid, her expression tight and tired. I feel bad seeing her like this. She clears her throat and I hold my breath until she starts talking.
“Hi, everyone. This is probably going to be the last post on this blog, but I need to tell you something I did, and I realized it was the worst decision of my life.”
Last post? What the hell is she talking about? She lives for that blog. My hands start shaking, and my stomach tightens in a vice I’ve never felt before.
“I made up the whole story about Thomas Simons of the Jailbirds. I sold the information to Ron, the newspaper editor that first published the story, but none of what I sold him is true. I used Photoshop to create the documents, and I edited the story to make it sound real. As you can see, I downloaded a sample legal document from a law school website, and then I changed some things and added a signature at the bottom. The names are deleted not because Thomas was a minor, which the story claims, but because there was no name written on it. I needed credible evidence, and I went so far as to make him look like the worst of criminals.”
I feel like I’m dying. She’s digging the pit herself. No one in this room is talking. They’re not even moving. I don’t think they’re even breathing, and neither am I. Iris’s voice is the only sound we hear.
“I did it because I needed money. Ron paid me well for this information. I went to him because I knew he wouldn’t check my sources. He never does. He just needed a scandal, so he could sell the ad space on his site at a higher price. I don’t really know Thomas. I only had the opportunity to meet him once. He was nice and very kind. I thought he might be up for sex, but when I propositioned him, he kindly declined my invitation. I felt rejected, so when I needed money, I thought this was the best way to make him pay. I made a mistake, I know. That’s why I made this video, to clarify the situation and to apologize to him. I’m really sorry I created all this mess. I’m sorry I used the fame of the Jailbirds to get money. I know I can never be forgiven for something like this, but I’m asking all of you not to go after them. They’re innocent parties in this whole thing.”
When the screen turns black at the end of the video, tears flow down my cheeks, and I can’t even think. What she did is absurd. She committed professional suicide to silence the rumors.
It’s Evan who speaks first: “I got to the bottom of this, and she didn’t sell that story,” he explains. “The guy she inadvertently gave the information to did it himself. I went with the lawyers to talk to him. He explained how he got her drunk to hound her with questions...she was not lucid that evening. Iris doesn’t even remember that night. He also said he tried to sift through her computer files, hoping to find something juicier, but he didn’t find anything about you or the Jailbirds.
He used some contacts in the justice and police departments to fill in the blanks of what he managed to snatch from Iris that night. For God’s sake, he made his living verifying sources for journalists. His job was digging up information... He’s already been fired, and he’s probably never going to find work as a journalist. He’s lost his career, but she hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“She confided to others what I told her. None of this would have happened if she hadn’t done that.” Words come out of my mouth before I can think. I’ve wondered if she tried to find out more about my past, and I never got an explanation. And the reason is that she didn’t. She even told me, but I didn’t believe her.
“Are you serious? She was drunk!” Michael points out. “Just a few days ago you told me what happened to your parents—after more than ten years of knowing each other. You’re not exactly someone who trusts others. You never talk about yourself. Never. You never told her anything about your real past. You never let her know it was important for her to keep quiet. If you had told her everything, she would never have blurted it out, even under the influence of alcohol.” He’s telling the truth. I haven’t always been like that. Life has made me closed off and wary of people. It’s not a justification, but it’s still difficult to change.
“Why the hell would she make that video? It’s professional suicide,” I ask my friends.
“Are you serious?” Lilly’s voice is incredulous. “She’s in love with you, you idiot. Do you want me to spell it out for you? And besides, it’s not just professional suicide. It’s also personal. The comments below the post are slaughtering her. Literally, some fan of yours has threatened her with death several times. I’ve never seen such hatred against a person.”