The Stand-In, page 16
“What level?”
He glances at his phone. “Three hundred and eighty.”
“I’m four ninety-two.”
This makes him frown competitively. I get an idea. “What if we go to the arcade near the aquarium? You wear a hat and something less”—I wave my hand around—“fashionable.” That might do the trick. No one will wonder who I am if they don’t identify Sam.
He looks down at his outfit. “This is what I usually wear at home.”
Other guys would wander around in boxers and a dirty undershirt. “You look like you walked out of a Vogue ad for casual wear. Average Toronto dudes don’t wear flowy pants.”
“Oh.” He brightens. “Got it.”
He disappears to his own suite as I run a hand through my hair. I look fine as me; no one will look twice.
Do I want them to look? I pull out the Dior. It’s called Revelation and I wonder how I can get a job naming these things.
The first swipe goes on smooth like honey. Mei insists that I use a lip liner when I do the Fangli face, but this is for me and I don’t mind the edges blurring. The color is as rich as I hoped and gives my entire face a more angular cast. I like it.
I like it a lot.
Sam reappears and does a double take. “That’s a new look.”
“I know.” I don’t ask what he thinks because I didn’t wear it for him. Instead I check him over. This time he’s got on tight black jeans, a ball cap, sunglasses, and a black medical face mask. I close my eyes. “Lose the mask or the sunglasses. And can I get my key back?”
“I usually wear them when I’m out,” he says.
“One is fine. Both with the hat scream Look at me, I’m famous.”
“Fine.” He whips off the shades. “Happy?”
I’m giving a master class in looking like a regular person. “Do you really never go unwatched?” I ask.
“I don’t know. It’s safer to assume I am so I can be on guard.”
There’s no answer I can give to this, so I grab my purse and we head out. He automatically moves to where the cars are so I take his arm and adjust course. “We’re walking.”
“Oh. Okay.”
I drop his arm immediately because the feel of his muscled solidness is akin to touching a hot stove. “Keep looking straight ahead. Act like there’s nothing to notice about you. You’re a regular guy going outside, that’s it. You drive a five-year-old Honda Civic and wonder if you have enough money for a down payment on a studio condo.”
His body language gets more casual as he listens. “Got it.”
It’s a weekday and we’re close enough to the Financial District that it swarms with office workers grabbing food or going about their day. No one takes a photo or asks for an autograph because most of them are on their phones or busy talking to each other, and Sam cheers up as he sees that no one recognizes us as Fangli and Sam. We’re only two more faceless people in a faceless crowd.
“The CN Tower is so tall.” He looks up as we pass.
“Do you want to go up?” I haven’t been since an elementary-school class trip.
“Can we?” His smile is wistful. “There was a photo of it in a book when I was a kid. I thought if I went up that high, I would be able to see the whole world.” He cranes his head back and I copy him. The spiky concrete structure looms over us, dwarfing everything around it.
Then he squints at the little red dots moving around the exterior of the main pod. “Are those people?”
“You can put on a harness and lean over the edge.” I hold up my hand before he says a word. “You’re on your own for that.”
“I’ll pass. Wirework is enough for me.”
We buy tickets and yawn to pop our ears as we fly up the elevator to the observation deck. Although the day is overcast, it’s not so cloudy that it completely obscures the view.
“You can’t see the whole world, but that’s Hamilton over there.” I point out the city that edges the lake to the southwest.
He smiles and reaches out as if he’s going to hold my hand. I freeze, then sag as he touches the window instead. “It’s good enough.”
I leave Sam dreaming by the window as I roam and take care to dance around the glass floor that gives a sickening view to the ground. That our relationship has shifted dramatically is unquestionable and I’m torn between accepting it and wanting to talk about it ad nauseam. A cool girl would take it all in stride.
I am not cool.
I stomp back to him before I lose my nerve. “Why are you being like this?”
His eyes turn down to take me in. “Like what?”
“Friendly. You started off rude as hell, and for the last little while, you’re being nice to me, nicer than you need to be for this job. What’s going on?” My voice shakes because I don’t like confrontation, and although this isn’t hostile, it’s about feelings, which I also avoid. There’s a lot I don’t like about this situation, but if I get clarity on it at the end, I’ll be happier.
“I’m sorry.”
This is not what I thought he’d say. “For what?”
“Didn’t we go through this the other night?” He looks out the window into the distance. “I told you I was worried about Fangli.”
A chattering family approaches and we move to the other side of the deck.
“Right. That doesn’t explain why you want to hang out with me instead of staying at the hotel playing Candy Crush right now.”
Sam presses against the wall and crosses his arms. “Is it such a problem to be with me? You know there are people who would kill for this?”
“Name names.”
“Fine, I was lonely,” he snaps. “Happy? I was bored and you and Fangli came back glowing the other night and I wanted the same thing. I want to live for a couple hours with no expectations. I want to forget being me.”
I understand the sentiment. “Okay,” I say.
He eyes me. “Really?”
“Yeah, that’s legitimate.” I test myself. Am I hurt by this? In a way, it’s refreshing to have it out in the open. He uses me to briefly feel like a normal person. I use Fangli for money and a voyeuristic glimpse into the world of the famous. Fangli uses me to save her mental health. I use Sam for… Fine. It’s no real hardship to spend time with the Sexiest Man in the World. Shallow? Yes. True? Also yes.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “We should go back.”
I grab his sleeve as he goes past me. “No way. We said arcade.”
“You sure?” He looks doubtful, then leans in as if ready to confide his life’s secret. “Hey, Gracie?”
“What?”
“Do you know what kind of shoes ninjas wear?”
I do my best not to twist out my optic nerves while rolling my eyes. “Sneakers.”
“Oh. You know it.” His momentary disappointment is soon replaced by his game face. “Arcade time. Get ready to lose at an epic level.”
Twenty-One
Sam trounces me soundly at every game we try. Every fucking game. I do my best to keep my temper because having a tantrum like a child because you’ve lost at Plinko is not a good look, especially when your opponent is almost humming with contentment. I end up sublimating my resentment into a fight about who should buy the beer.
“A good winner is generous,” I say.
“Loser always buys.”
“You are a millionaire,” I point out.
“A low but accurate blow.” He holds out his fist. “How about we rock, paper, scissors?”
Three rounds later, Sam’s at the bar putting his money down. I take my pint with a smug smile that makes him laugh.
I’m not surprised when Sam echoes the thought that’s been revolving through my head for the last hour. “This has been fun,” he says.
“Except for me losing all the games.”
“As I said, fun.” He sips his drink. “Cheered me up. How’s Eppy?”
He remembered what it was called. I try not to beam. “Good. I think.”
“Problems?”
“Not problems. Challenges.”
“Thinking about how to layer in prioritization with time management?”
I gawk at him. “How did you know?”
“That’s what I look for when I’m trying to organize a list.”
I have a target market right here, and if Eppy can scale for a movie star, I figure it will work for the rest of us peasants. “What else do you look for?”
We spend a happy half hour—at least for me; Sam looks like he’s about to fade after the first twelve questions—going through his ideal to-do list. Finally he coughs to relieve his dry throat and glances at my drink. “Want another?”
“Are you buying again?” I drain the glass and glance at the screens of notes I’ve taken on my phone. Sam was a gold mine of ideas. He even knew a few platforms I hadn’t heard of.
“Only because I feel sorry for someone who couldn’t even win a glorified version of Pong.” He walks away before I can protest—that one game was way harder than Pong—and I do my best not to follow him with my eyes and fail miserably. The frazzled mom trying to corral three screaming kids does the same, and on her face, I see that fantasy that beautiful men create: Please take me from this. Look at me. Be my prince. Be mine. Make me feel special. See me.
By the time Sam returns, I’m pensive.
A woman to Sam’s left had been watching him between sips of her white wine, but before I can warn him, she downs her drink and hops to her feet. I manage to get out “Uhh,” and then she’s on him.
“I’m sorry, but are you Kai’s friend?” She looks up at him with big blue eyes under her heavy fringe of fake eyelashes. “I think we met the other day?”
“I’m not, sorry.” He gives her a pleasant smile.
“Oh.” She tilts her head and swings back her blown-out ombre hair. “I’m Lauren.”
I reach out and take Sam’s hand. “Nice to meet you!” I say, matching her smile with my own and throwing in a dash of yo bitch, step off. I know she gets the message because her face squeezes when Sam lays his other hand over mine.
“I guess I had the wrong person.” She retreats.
“Sorry,” I apologize to Sam, quickly pulling my hand away.
He grins at me. “Nicely done.”
“Do you get that a lot? No one ever tries to pick me up.”
“I don’t believe that,” he says politely. “To answer your question, it happens occasionally. I’m not often alone when I’m out so I think that limits it to the most brave. They don’t want me, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re attracted to the concept of me, but it’s a fantasy they’ve built. It doesn’t matter if they know who I am or not. It’s this.” He waves his hand at his face, then shrugs. “The fame helps. At least she didn’t recognize me. That would be a mess.”
I peer into his glass. “Did you get the Massive Ego IPA?”
“I got the Realistic lager,” he corrects. “My looks are an asset. Fully monetized.”
I know he’s right. It’s Sam’s public persona and the same as what Fangli said that first day about her fans. What kind of pressure does that create, to be on a pedestal that you never built and that is a by-product of doing a job to the best of your abilities?
“Huh.” I beam at Lauren, who is glowering at me. “What’s it like to be so good-looking?”
“You tell me.”
“Whatever, Sexiest Man in the World.”
To my surprise, Sam’s ears go bright red. Then he says, “If I may point out, Fangli is considered one of the most beautiful women in film. You are acting as her double.”
“No one ever thinks that about me,” I say. “I’ve always been more weird-looking.” It’s only been the last few years that people have decided to make a fuss about how attractive multiracial people are, as if admiring our appearance makes up for their unnecessary need to talk about how we look at all. I poke at the ring my glass left on the table. Fangli and I look the same but we’ve had very different experiences of what our faces represent to other people. Hers can be considered on its aesthetic merits. Mine is still a social statement.
“No.” Sam shakes his head.
Two pints means I have the courage to say what’s been bothering me. “You said I was.”
“What?” He puts his glass down and leans forward. “Never. Never would I even think such a thing.”
“The other day you said I was only half. You said, ‘If you weren’t only half, I’d think you were a real Chinese.’” I remember each word.
Sam is silent. “That’s not the same thing.”
“It is, a bit.” I pause and take my courage in hand again. “The same idea is there. Being different.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being different.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it if you want to be,” I correct him.
He gives me a confused look. “Don’t you want to? Why be ordinary when you have the choice to be so much more?”
“Because I don’t want it to only be because of how I look! Or because my mom’s from a different country.”
To my shame, my throat swells and tears prick against my lids. I bite down hard on my tongue, not wanting him to see how upset I am. But this is Sam, who’s trained to react to body language much more subtle than mine, and he takes my hand. “I’m sorry.”
“Excuse me.” I stand up to escape to the washroom, not wanting him to see me cry. Instead, Sam’s hand comes down on my arm. It’s a gentle touch, not controlling.
“Don’t leave. We’ll go outside,” he says. “We’ll talk.”
***
We end up sitting on a bench at the train museum right in front of the arcade and staring at some little kids as they play hide-and-seek. Although me and my big mouth started this conversation, I have no desire to see it through. Why did I even bring it up?
“I upset you,” he says quietly.
“Sorry. It’s no big deal.”
“You do that a lot,” he says. “Say you’re sorry when you have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I’m Canadian. We’re raised on apologies and maple syrup.”
He ignores my weak joke.
“Gracie, I truly apologize for what I said. I won’t make excuses as to what I meant, but let me say that I never want you to think you’re less than who you are. I don’t think of you as anyone but you, a whole and complete person.”
“Okay.” I look up. Sam’s frowning at the shiny engine car in front of us as if weighing his next words.
“You are not limited by your appearance. When I meant that you could be more, that it’s good to be different.” He frowns. “How you look was the last thing on my mind.”
A brief, disloyal, and guilt-inducing thought comes: Would I have the same perspective if I’d been raised by a Lu Lili, a woman who relished standing out rather than fearing it? Perhaps. It’s too late now. I am who I am.
“I understand,” I tell Sam. I do. I also know this conversation is now over because I don’t want to talk about it anymore. “We should get going. I need time to get ready for tonight.”
It looks like he wants to say more but Sam stands up and helps me to my feet. His grip is firm on my hand, and when he pulls me up, I lose my footing and stumble forward. Again, he sweeps me up, his hands warm on my back, and looks down in my face. My breath hitches and he releases me.
“That was like the time Fangli slipped and you caught her,” I say to break the tension. “It was all over the clips Mei made me watch.”
He nods. “Milan, I think. Two years ago. That got a good reaction.”
“What?”
Sam rears back, astonished. “You thought that was real?”
Now it’s my turn to be surprised. “You planned that?”
“The movie was about a doomed love affair.” He thought back. “Was it my idea or Fangli’s? Mine, I think.”
“I had no idea. Do we need to do something like that for tonight?”
“That’s more of a special occasion move. Tonight we go to see and be seen.” He smiles. “It’ll be a breeze.”
I try not to think of how ominous that sounds as we return to the hotel. Not until we’re back do I realize I’m hungry, so I call room service for a sandwich before I hop into the shower. The expensive shower gel cheers me in a way that only luxury products can, enveloping me in their fragrance, Chanel of course, thanks to Fangli. I come out with very soft skin and wrap my hair up in a towel to prepare for the spackling of my face that acts as a prelude to the makeup. I’ve applied the basics when I hear a knock. Must be room service.
I hunt around for a robe and open the door. There’s no one there, so I step out to see if they’ve already left and are at the elevators. A movement down the hall catches my attention and I take another step out because I don’t want that sandwich to escape.
Behind me comes a soft click as the door locks shut.
Then I stand there, wriggling the doorknob and refusing to accept reality. Shit. My phone is in there. I have no key. I go next door and knock on Fangli’s door; no answer. At least Sam has my key, but when I knock, there’s no answer there either. I go back and shake the door for a second time in case it’s magically unlocked in the last thirty-four seconds. It hasn’t.
I’ll have to go down to the lobby in my towel and robe. I weigh the pros and cons. Pros: getting in the room. Cons: public shame. Photos of a half-naked me as Fangli going viral. I lean my head against the door and ask the universe for guidance.
It does not deliver.
As I try to recall the layout of the lobby and if there’s any way I can sneak down a back stairwell and hiss at the concierge while hiding behind the downstairs door, a cart appears at the end of the hall. The universe has taken pity on me after all, because housekeeping can let me in. When I go over and find the woman cleaning the room, she looks me up and down with a bright smile.
