by Erika Vanzin
*
The sense of discomfort seizes me when I leave Iris’s apartment, and I walk quickly toward Max’s car waiting for me. I need to breathe fresh air, talk to someone.
“Can you take me to Michael’s?” I ask Max as he opens the door for me.
He looks a little perplexed and maybe even worried, but he doesn’t say anything. He just gets in the car and slips into traffic, casting a few glances in the rearview mirror every now and then. I need to talk to my cynical, realistic friend. He can help put my feelings into perspective. Damian and Lilly would only make it worse. Those two, since they met, have been on an eternal honeymoon. I shudder at the thought.
Max takes me to Michael, who is on the roof of a building by the Hudson River playing golf. I didn’t even know there was such a place in Manhattan, let alone on a rooftop, but the fake grass and protective nets contrast wonderfully with the view of New Jersey across the river. The practice cubicles are practically empty since it’s morning on a work day in the middle of winter, with a cold that penetrates your bones.
“Since when do you play golf?” I ask him amusedly.
Michael throws a glance my way before hitting the ball with the golf club in a swing I wouldn’t exactly call elegant. “Playing isn’t quite the word. It’s more like hitting those poor balls without having any idea how to do it,” he chuckles, teeing up another ball and hitting it worse than before, sending it only a few feet in front of him.
I watch him, amused, and sit in the chair a safe distance away. “So I see.”
“It’s relaxing. I found that hitting a ball in a purely mechanical way loosens my tension.”
“I need to try it too.”
“Isn’t it enough to be fucking the redhead?” He raises an eyebrow and then sits next to me, following my gaze toward the river.
“I think she makes me more tense.”
“Because she isn’t good at fucking or because you’ve decided to do it exclusively with her?” he jokes in his usual irreverent way.
“The latter, definitely the latter.” I rub my face and try to put my thoughts together.
“It’s not a bad thing, I don’t think. I mean, look at Damian. He looks happy with the same woman. I’d go crazy, but you two seem like normal people.” He shrugs.
I look at him, shocked. I didn’t expect this. I thought he’d say I should go out and fuck the line of women waiting for me in the Manhattan clubs. “I’ve never wanted a relationship, and now I find myself so deep in it I’m scared to death.”
Michael can’t hold back a laugh. “It’s pretty clear that you’re in up to your neck. But can you tell me why? Is it still about that story and my pictures? That’s all water under the bridge for me, I swear.”
“No, I made my peace with her job. If you say it’s not a problem, it certainly isn’t for me.”
“Then what is it? That shit about you not trusting women? You already know how I feel about that.”
“This morning I woke up at her house, she was at her computer, wearing my shirt. It all seemed so perfect: I got up to make breakfast and talked about our day like it was the most natural thing in the world. And that’s what terrifies me.”
“Don’t you like her enough to consider living together? I don’t get it.”
“I’m too happy.”
Michael stops fiddling with the ball in his hand and turns to me with a confused look. “And is that a problem?”
“No, it’s just that happiness never lasts for me, and I’m afraid one of these days I’ll get up, and it’ll all be over. I’ve taken her home for two nights now, and when I’m at her door, I don’t know what to do. I kiss her on the cheek. Can you believe that? I kiss her on the cheek, and I stand there like an idiot, wondering if it’s too much to suggest going inside. She’s the one who makes a move every time. I have no idea how to be in a relationship, and every time I think about it, I wish I could ask my mom or my sister, who’s married with three kids, but I can’t. I’ve lost the only women my life, the most important ones, and it’s been my own fault. I’m afraid of repeating the same mistake.”
Michael smiles and I expect him to make a joke, like he always does when the topic of women comes up between us. He leans toward me and remains silent for a moment, thinking carefully about what I just told him. “Do you remember when Evan offered to represent us, and you were hesitant at first? You said we shouldn’t delude ourselves because, in this industry, fame comes and goes, that it’s not a guarantee. Even then, you were terrified, you just tried not to show it with that know-it-all attitude. You were afraid our good fortune would suddenly disappear overnight...but it didn’t. We worked hard, sweat blood, but we’re still here. Fuck, we even managed to get over my cocaine bullshit. Are you telling me you won’t be able to keep a relationship together with a good woman?”
“What if I fuck it up?”
“You will work on it until it’s fixed. You’ve already done the worst shit in your life and you’ve paid for it, you’re not going to repeat the same mistake.”
“What if she doesn’t want to be with someone who ended up in prison?”
“More likely, she won’t want to be with someone who lies to her to the altar. My advice is to tell her.”
I know the longer I wait, the harder it will be, but is there ever an easy time to drop a bomb like that? Maybe waiting for her to fall in love with me, the actual me, who I am now, without being influenced by my past, will help her accept what I’ve done.
“Since when did you become so wise?” I grin, looking him in the eye.
“I’ve always been, it’s just easier to be the clown than to be the confidant of desperate lovers like you.”
“I’m not desperate!”
“But you are in love.”
“Yes.”
Michael pats me on the shoulder, clutching it slightly before getting up again. For him, that’s as much as a hug, and I’m comforted by this rare show of affection as I watch him go back to hitting golf balls.
When I go out for lunch at Emily’s café, I’m grinning from ear to ear, looking as ditzy as a teenager in her first crush, but I honestly don’t care. I’ve never been someone who’s desperate to be in a relationship. I’ve been single for a while, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy someone’s company, and, in this case, I enjoy everything about Thomas. He’s intelligent, kind, handsome as hell, and he knows how to drive a woman crazy in bed. Plus, I have to admit, the fact that he’s a famous musician who actually makes music for a living intrigues me. Everything about him makes me believe that fairy tales maybe do exist, and I happen to be right in the middle of one of them.
As soon as I enter the café, Emily sees me and, throwing her apron in her co-worker Chris’s face, she shouts that it’s time for a break. Less than five seconds later, we’re sitting next to each other on the most remote sofa in the place and she’s looking at me like I’m her new favorite toy.
“That smile on your face makes me jealous, you know that, right? Why didn’t you come for breakfast this morning? I was waiting for you.” She raises an inquiring eyebrow.
I can’t hold back an even bigger smile that betrays all my unholy thoughts about last night…and part of this morning. “I was busy.”
“Did you do the nasty with him?”
“Yes, he came over last night.” I like to keep her on pins and needles.
Emily sighs dreamily. “And he stayed until almost at lunch? Did you have breakfast together? So it’s not just sex anymore...I mean, you’re trying to keep him around for more than a few stunts in bed?” She teases me.
“I don’t know what it is, but it’s definitely not like a few weeks ago. I don’t know how to explain it, but he made me breakfast, we talked about us...it was nice, but it felt really natural. Like we’ve been doing this for years.”
“So now that you’ve been to the Mt. Olympu
s of rock musicians, do you think you’re going to start living it up like they do? A different guy every night?” She laughs amusedly.
“Absolutely not. I’m already messed up with one, forget taking on others.”
“Do you think there’s any way to have a monogamous relationship with him? On both sides, I mean.”
It’s her way of asking me if we’re a couple and, to be honest, I have no idea. I don’t know where we are, and I certainly won’t ask him. I’ve never been good at these things and, with someone as famous as Thomas, I’m afraid of seeming like a desperate fan looking for a chance to frame him.
I can’t answer her because we’re interrupted suddenly by Ron, who sits in front of us on the couch. We both turn to him, surprised. In my case, with my heart beating in my throat: how much did he hear of our conversation, exactly?
“What the hell are you doing here?” I hiss, annoyed by his invasion of my favorite place.
“A source told me that someone who looks a lot like the Jailbirds’ drummer came out of your house this morning. I knew you had opened your legs for him and, apparently, you’re still doing it. What can you tell me? Any juicy news about it? You must have had a conversation, I assume. With what I paid you for those photos, you owe me at least that,” he says with his usual lousy fake smile.
“How the hell did you get here so fast? Did you send someone, or did you spy on me in person?” I ask, and I realize that the latter assumption is the correct one. Otherwise, how did he get here exactly five minutes after me? Even if he had someone stationed down here, he could never have arrived so fast. The realization floors me—if he went to the trouble of hiding in my garage, then he knows much more than he’s letting on, and I may end up in that damn magazine of his soon.
“Don’t be difficult. I know you’re opening your legs for money. Do think I’m stupid? At least use that little body of yours to get me more details. Where does he come from? What did he do before he became famous? You’ve never wondered why there’s no information about those guys? There’s not a single piece of news about their past. It’s like they materialized here ten years ago and became rock stars instantly. You’ve never been curious to know who you’re really sleeping with?”
His sneer is so smug that I’m rendered speechless by his insinuations. Emily’s the one who rescues me. “Look, piece of shit, get out of my cafè or I’m going to call the police. In fact, I’m going to do more. I’m going to start making a scene right here, complete with tears and accusations. You won’t be able to show your face around Manhattan anymore.”
“Do you really think you’re scaring me? Everyone sues me. But don’t worry, if you two don’t collaborate, surely your friend will know how to help me.”
Emily and I look perplexed, and the sneer it brings to Ron’s face almost makes me shudder. He’s got something up his sleeve that I’m missing and it worries me. I get the feeling he’s not one but ten steps ahead of me, and all my happiness from a few minutes ago vanishes.
“Think about it, honey. Do you really think this fairy tale will last? He’s going to get tired of you and dump you like every girl he’s had. I, on the other hand, am always here, ready to shower you with money. Decide who you want to make an effort for.”
He turns around and leaves the cafè, followed by numerous intrigued and annoyed glances. His act of humiliating me did not go unnoticed.
“You okay?” Emily whispers.
“Yes...I was just thinking. What the hell did Ron mean ‘my friend’? Who the hell could he ask for help? Besides you and Albert, no one knows about us…” The uncertainty in my voice reflects the fear creeping into my stomach right now.
“In the last few days, Albert’s been asking questions about Thomas: if I know anything about him, if you’re together or something,” Emily says, frowning. “I thought he was just jealous because he’s had a crush on you for years, but after what Ron said... Didn’t he seem sure he knows something we don’t? Or is it just me?”
“Way too confident. What did you say to Albert? What was he asking for in particular?”
Emily shrugs and thinks about it for a few seconds. “If you’re sure what you’re doing. If you know anything about Thomas. The same things he asked on pizza night at your house. He was hoping to get some more information, I think, but I couldn’t give him much. First, because it’s none of his business, and secondly, because I don’t know much more about Thomas. Do you think I messed up?”
“Albert hasn’t been around since the day after our pizza night, and now I’m wondering if there’s something I missed about that night.”
“I remember you wanted to know if he had asked questions. Do you think we forgot about something we talked about because we were too drunk?”
“I don’t know. I have vague memories of that evening, but I distinctly remember he did not touch the tequila. Before we got drunk, you passed him the bottle. He sniffed it but made a face without touching it. I remember thinking: What a loser, he can’t even hold his liquor.”
“Do you think he got us drunk on purpose to make you talk about Thomas? It’s Albert. That seems to be a pretty elaborate plan even for him,” she asks me doubtfully, and it nags at me.
“Maybe he didn’t come over for that purpose, but he took advantage of the situation. I mean, he certainly put his nose in my laptop, but why clear the history and then leave the outgoing e-mails, with the tickets he forwarded to his personal e-mail? Why hide his research but not the fact that he was stealing my tickets?” I can’t put the puzzle together, and it irritates me almost physically.
“Do you think he’s hiding something from you?” Emily’s face gets serious and worried. “Or trying to protect you? Maybe he’s worried because you’re seeing someone you don’t know anything about because, to be honest, you don’t know much about Thomas and, from what you say, he seems too good to be true.”
Emily’s words awaken a thought that I’ve tried to silence several times: I always found it strange that no one knew anything about the band even before I knew him. We live in the age of the Internet, where if you’re famous, you can’t even go to the bathroom without half the world knowing. There’s something strange about not finding any information about their past.
“I don’t know, I don’t have a logical explanation for that evening, and it bothers me... Maybe it’s just me being paranoid because Ron’s staking out my house. When that slimeball’s around, I can’t even think clearly.”
“Do you think Ron found out that the photos you gave him were fake? Maybe he wants to make you pay.”
I raise my healthy shoulder and breathe deeply. “I don’t know. The Jailbirds’ manager issued a press release denying the breakup and as far as I know, the matter ended there.”
“Maybe he just wanted to scare you.” She tries to encourage me, but her voice doesn’t sound convinced.
Yes, maybe he just wanted me to capitulate, but it’s never that simple with Ron, and the doubt he insinuated starts digging into my brain and heart, making me worry. I grab the phone and try to call Albert, but he’s not answering. I have to deal with him and get some answers.
*
Not even an hour after seeing Ron, I’m back home with a notebook and a list of things about Thomas that I know from our conversations but never gave much thought to. I stare at a Google search page with a growing sense of guilt, even though I haven’t started digging for news about him yet. It annoys me to death because I want our relationship to be normal—to the extent that we have a relationship—but I need to know what information Ron can get even without my help. Thinking back to that night we got drunk, I could kick myself for telling Albert what I knew about Thomas just to get him to stop talking.
As I type keywords into the search window, I keep telling myself that I’m doing it to keep Thomas from any trouble with Ron, but I don’t feel less guilty about sticking my nose in his private life. He de
cided to share just a few things with me, as in any normal relationship. Using my experience as a journalist to find out more about him makes me feel slimier than when I was walking around looking for photo opportunities.
After two hours of searching, I’m back at square one. There’s nothing about Thomas in New York. His name doesn’t appear in any school yearbook in the city. I look at my notebook and realize how stupid I am: he once told me that his mother married her neighbor and that they never left the small town where they lived. She never visited Italy, or Manhattan, which was just a step away. The realization makes my legs go weak. Everything public about the Jailbirds, or at least Thomas, seems artfully staged.
I look for all the small towns around New York City, and I notice there are a lot in New Jersey. In the end, it doesn’t take long to figure out what it might be. I eliminate places where there are no Simons and where there are a few, I check and see that they clearly have nothing to do with Thomas. I’m left with a couple of cities, but too many families that could be false leads.
I start pacing in my tiny apartment with Dexter watching me, bored. I don’t have the energy to do more research. I’m stuck, and while part of me breathes a sigh of relief that there’s nothing questionable about him, I’m now a bundle of nerves because there’s no information at all. Ron knows this—he clearly said that the band seems to have materialized a few years ago. He’s not stupid. On the contrary, he is brilliant, and the fact that he does not own a moral compass makes him dangerous. The Jailbirds have been careful not to divulge news about their private lives, but Thomas confided in me. I’m the weak link in the whole chain, and I’ve been stupid enough to get drunk with the only person who has the means to dig deep, given the new confidential information he has.
I don’t remember much about that night, but if I blurted everything I know about Thomas, the problem could be huge. I grab my jacket and open the door, my heart threatening to leap into my throat.
