The Stand-In(45)

His eyes flash back to me. “What?”

“I have panic, too. Depression. I started taking meds two years ago.” It’s hard to talk about. I know it happens and I know it’s not uncommon, I really do, but part of me still thinks being on medication seems weak, like I can’t deal. I know it’s wrong, but in my head, it’s a willpower issue, not a brain chemical issue.

His grin is wry. “Sounds like you’re similar in more ways than appearance.”

“How can I help her?”

“I wasn’t lying last night when I said you being here was helping her. She’s managing better.”

I make a decision. I hold out my hand, palm raised. “Let’s start over. Instead of you thinking I’m a hopeless failure and me thinking you’re an arrogant two-dimensional douchebag, let’s be Gracie and Sam, doing a job together.”

“I never said you were that,” he protests. Then he pauses. “Hold on. That’s how you see me?”

I stare pointedly at my hand in answer.

“I’m sorry.” He takes my hand briefly and lets it go. “I took my anger out on you because I couldn’t stop this plan of Fangli’s from happening. It was a dick move, as I think you would call it.”

“I would,” I agree with equanimity.

“Right, okay. Glad we got that sorted.”

“Hi, Sam,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”

This time, he’s the one who reaches out his hand. “Gracie. I look forward to our partnership.”

When we shake, I’m not touching Sam Yao, famous movie star. He’s only Sam.

A Sam who becomes awkward when our hands release. He looks down, flexing his fingers and frowning. “Where do we go from here?” he asks.

His open uncertainty is comforting in one way—it’s nice to see he’s only human—but also disturbing in that at least one of us should know how the hell to navigate this situation.

That person will have to be me.

“We keep working but we do it together,” I decide. “I’ll tell you if I need help instead of avoiding the situation.”

“I’ll try to listen.”

“Sam.”

“I will listen,” he says.

I pull out a paper and he watches as I write. Although I can see him almost vibrating with curiosity, he waits until I’m ready. I hand over the sheet and he reads out loud in his low voice.

“‘This agreement (the ‘Agreement’) dated on this 26th day of June lays out the working arrangement (‘Arrangement’) of Sam Yao and Gracie Reed.’” Here he looks up. “Is the legal language necessary?”

“Makes it binding.”

Sam goes back to the sheet.

“‘Both parties solemnly swear to: One. Treat each other with the respect due to a work colleague,’” he reads. “Why did you number it if you only have one rule?”

“You can add more,” I say. “Everything else seemed redundant.”

He thinks for a while, then shrugs. “You’re probably right.” He signs with a flourish and hands it over. I sign and fold the paper.

“Now it’s official,” I say. “We’re partners.”

He grins, a lopsided expression that soon turns into a boisterous laugh. “You’re something else, Gracie Reed.”

I can’t help but smile back. I think he might be right.





Eighteen


The next two days are an easy schedule I enjoy. I settle my severance with Garnet Brothers and set up an in-box rule so all messages with a garnetbrothers.com email go straight to Fred the Lawyer. I hadn’t realized how much I dreaded opening my email and seeing one from Todd.

I devote most of my days to Fangli practice and this time I do it right, listing all the ways she could be approached and my planned responses. If someone comes up to me on the street. In the washroom. Wants a photo. Wants a selfie, an autograph. I go on a binge of Fangli content until I’m able to parrot her mannerisms to the point that I slip into my Fangli persona even when I’m not in public. Sam assures me it happens to him when he gets deep into a role.

Because Sam, to my utter surprise, has become invaluable. Whenever he’s not at the theater, we practice until it feels like second nature to turn to him with a smile and to see his affectionate look. Even if it’s not an act, I’m no longer so naive and desperate to see it for anything but what it is: support for a friend. He’s doing this for Fangli and her career. I’m only a tool. This hurts less than I thought it would, probably because now that I think about it, the idea of sweeping Sam Yao off his feet with my joblessness and lack of fame is so laughable.

It’s too bad that his new friendliness makes him more appealing. Not physically, because you can’t improve on perfection, but simply as a person. This Sam isn’t cold and distant but goofy and charming. He’s addicted to 1990s Brit pop and sang all of Oasis’s “Wonderwall” with me one evening to Fangli’s great delight, complete with overly emotive air guitar.

His jokes are terrible, like on the level of dad jokes, which is revealed when he sees me jotting down some notes. “Gracie, do you know why you shouldn’t write with a broken pencil?”

“What?” What’s he talking about?