The Stand-In(39)

Fascinated, I thumb the controller to bring up the next video.

“You like these?” Sam asks.

I keep facing the screen so no one can see me speaking, thus negating my laryngitis story. “My dad went on a work trip to Japan once and brought me an Anpanman figure that I loved. I never saw the show. I guess they’re not like this?” The video we’re watching shows Anpanman tearing off part of his head to give to a hungry cat before being viciously attacked by a flock of seagulls at an outdoor food court.

Sam leans in beside me to watch the video. “Much less violent but Anpanman does give parts of his head away to people in need. Then Uncle Jam bakes him a new one.”

“Is it selfless if you can get a new head when you need one?”

Sam shrugs, his arm brushing against mine. “I know people who could have ten heads right beside them ready to go and not give a crumb.”

So do I, at that. The video ends and we both turn at the same time. His face is so close to mine that if I moved half a step… His eyes dip from my eyes to my lips and a shivery wave rolls through me.

I could move that step. Prickles run down the backs of my thighs from the tension. Sam might move. Might he? Does he come a bit closer? My feet are nailed to the ground but inside I’m whirling like a tornado.

“Mr. Yao?”

Sam stands abruptly when he hears his name and I blink, hard, and turn back to Anpanman with unseeing eyes. This night is giving me the mental equivalent of whiplash as it yanks me between emotional extremes. Impersonating Fangli. Todd. Sam, so close to me.

After Sam’s conversation finishes, we leave the room by mutual silent agreement, weaving in and out of the crowd and only pausing for Sam to engage with people every few feet. News of my voicelessness must have spread because I’m spared any chatting besides hopes that I get better soon.

Despite my newfound confidence, I don’t want to meet with Todd, so I do my best to steer Sam away. It’s nerve-racking to know he’s there, and my core tightens so hard I shake. Sam’s hand returns to my waist, fortifying me, and the muscles relax enough to let me stop clenching my teeth.

Exactly an hour later, Sam tells the organizer goodbye and we pose for a few more photos which I think I handle like a pro. We’re almost out the door when a call comes from a small group near the tiny gift store. It takes me a moment to react since I forgot Wei Fangli is my name tonight.

I turn with my most effervescent smile. They push forward a young woman with long black hair tied in a neat, high ponytail as their spokesperson, and suddenly I know I’m not at all ready for the fresh hell that’s about to open below me.

Dear God, she talks to me in Mandarin. The dark pit to the underworld expands exponentially and flames lick the edges.

“An autograph?” Sam jumps in with English.

The flames burst over the edge. Double dear God. I have no idea what Fangli’s writing looks like and there is zero, and I mean zero, chance I’ll be able to manage faking the Chinese characters. Time stops as the young woman holds out a notepad with hopeful eyes.

I automatically take it and then look around for a place to put it down and forge Fangli’s signature. Why didn’t I fake a broken wrist? Sprained finger? Sam talks to me in Chinese, which, since it is not about being hungry or how to get to the store, I’m at a loss to interpret. My bright smile hurts my cheeks as I trail Sam to a high cocktail table.

He puts the notepad down and then steps behind me, hiding me from view. “Pretend you’re writing,” he murmurs.

My hand trembles as I do as he says, but now it’s not because I’m about to get my cover blown but because he’s pressing against me, his hard body against mine. I know it’s to hide us from the girls watching but my knees are weak. I curse and hope he doesn’t notice because I’ll never live it down.

He pretends to hand me the pen but, at the last minute, dips his hand down to quickly scrawl what I assume is Fangli’s name. Then he gives me the pen. It takes him milliseconds.

I pick up both and return them to the swooning fan. She bows to me and I automatically bow back before giving the wave—with the right hand because I practiced that—and leave.

Then, once we’re in the car, to my shame, I burst into tears.

With an excess of empathy I didn’t expect, Sam hands me a tissue and waits until the sobs subside. “You did well,” he says.

“Sorry.” I snuffle into the tissues and more appear when I reach out my hand. I bury my face.

“Was it that man?”

My head shoots up. “What?”

Sam glances out the window as the shifting streetlights take turns hiding and highlighting his face. “A man with a blue suit escorting a blond woman. He was watching you and you were concentrating on trying to avoid him instead.”

“Do you think he noticed?” I’m a bit nonplussed that he read the situation so well.

“No, you were unexpectedly subtle.”

Good, because that would be bad. I fight back another wave of sickness. Todd fired me because of the misidentified photo of Fangli. He knows we look alike. What if he says something?

He’s got power over me again. I debate telling Sam but decide against it. I’ll wait and see.

He twists in the seat and gives me a straight look. “Who is he?”

“My old manager.”

“You don’t like him.”