The Stand-In(42)

I plod into the bathroom and slather on a variety of creams before I pull on pajamas and climb into bed, pulling the covers high as I give in to the stress of the night. Seeing Todd hit me harder than I thought it would, and now I have the additional worry of hoping he doesn’t cop on to what I’m doing for Fangli. My mind automatically goes to the ZZTV interview and Mom getting hounded in the nursing home because of her imposter daughter. Fangli’s reputation in tatters. The end of the world, really, because that’s the final destination of every journey I take down Anxiety Road.

Sam’s comments cut deep, too. I so stupidly thought we had a connection. Now I see how wrong I was, because to him, I’m first and foremost an employee who isn’t performing up to expectations. I thought he chose me an outfit because he wanted to see me look good, but it was for Fangli. Escorting me close enough to touch through the art exhibit? Because that’s what people expected to see. Taking my hand to guide the pen? Because he wanted me to learn the stupid signature. This is a job to him and I thought I was so fabulous that Sam Yao might be having feelings for me, like some fairy tale. I’d even forgotten that mystery girlfriend Mei alluded to and Sam has never mentioned.

I bury my face in the pillow and hum to try to drown out the remorseless shame that slices through my skin, leaving cold tingles in its wake. We’ve known each other less than a week; what do I even know about him? I’m a nobody and he hangs out with celebrities because—news flash—he’s one of the hottest commodities on the globe. Of course I’m nothing but a temporary person in his life, nothing special. Nobody unique. The only saving grace in this fiasco is that all this only happened in my head. Sam has no idea I was wondering about kissing him at the art gallery, and he’s never, ever going to find out. This is a job, a short-term contract, and I’m an utterly delusional fool for thinking the Sam I saw was the real man and not a character.

Plus I haven’t seen Mom in days. She must be lonely. I put out my hand for my phone, thinking that maybe I can text Anjali to talk me down, but then I see the time. It’s late and I don’t want to bother her.

The tears come hot and ugly. I bury my face back into the pillow, my breath gasping as sobs rack my body, forcing me to curl up with my knees close. The heat of my breath combines with the tears to stick the white cotton to my face. It only lasts a few minutes, but by the time I peel the pillow off, hiccupping, I’m drained.

I turn over the pillow to the dry side and pull the covers over my head. Then I go to sleep, tears leaking out from the eyelids I’ve squeezed shut.





Seventeen


The next day, I wake early, right at dawn, and lie for a moment on the sheets debating whether to get up or go back to sleep. After the emotional eruption of the previous night, I’d thought my rest would be wrecked by nightmares but I slept better than I have in a long time. Out of habit, I check my phone. No texts from Sam, the same as always, because he has never thought about me as anything other than a job.

Right. Get up.

In the bathroom, I check my skin. As hoped, the blotches are gone. My eyes are lit with a subtle golden light, a nice side effect from the crying, as if I’ve flooded the impurities out of my eyeballs. I wash up, and after I remove the traces of tears from my cheeks, I’m refreshed in a way that I haven’t felt in a while.

Back in the main suite, I make a coffee from the pod machine and pull out my laptop to transcribe and organize all the notes about my new task system. My breakdown last night was an eye-opener and I face the coming day with something approaching zest. Fuck Sam. He thinks I suck? I’ll show him. He thinks I’m not trying? Screw him.

Fuck Todd, on principle.

I’m on a roll. Fuck you, Sam, and you, Todd, and you, Mei, for making conversation hard even though I was an asshole to blame you for my shortcomings. Not you, Fangli. You’re okay.

I might be fueled by negative energy but I tap away with frantic fingers, not even going back to correct my typos because I don’t want to break my train of thought. I lose myself in my own words as I write, each idea leading to another and connecting again. I’m so involved that I don’t even notice Mei entering the room—since she comes from the adjoining suite, the multiple door locks don’t block her—until she sits beside me at the table. Even then it takes me a few seconds to get out of my mind space.

She says nothing but puts her tablet down on the table in front of me. It shows a photo of me from last night, and although I’m initially relieved to see that I look exactly like Fangli because makeup is magic, I can tell from Mei’s face the story isn’t as positive as it could be. I skim the text.

Chinese megastar Wei Fangli was missing her megawatt smile last night at a private exhibit at the Museum of Contemporary Art. It might have been the sore throat that prevented her from speaking, but sources say there’s trouble in paradise in her rumored long-time relationship with superstar Sam Yao. Both are in Toronto starring in Operation Oblivion, a World War Two drama showing at the Royal Alexandra Theatre.

“Who are the sources?” I ask. This is bad news because I thought Sam and I had been doing quite well, at least in public.

Mei says nothing, as usual.

Fangli comes in, her eyes wide. “What happened?” she demands. When she sits, her right leg jiggles up and down in a rapid staccato.

“It was my fault,” I say. Fangli isn’t herself.