The Stand-In(47)

He points to the phone. “Avoid her calls.”

“Not the best long-term plan.”

“It’s worked so far.” He does that head tilt. “What do you suggest?”

“Have you tried telling her how you feel?”

Sam looks legitimately horrified. “We are not feelings people.”

“Might be time to start unless you want to keep ignoring your own mother because you’re scared to have a conversation. At age thirty.”

“I’m not scared.”

I throw a pillow at him and then marvel at how at ease I am. “Don’t lie.”

“You don’t know my mother.”

“I know my mother.”

“You have a lot of heart-to-hearts with her?”

“No,” I admit. “I wish I had. Do as I say, not as I do.”

“Thanks.”

He turns the movie back on and we watch in silence for a few minutes. Then he stops it again. “Tell me about this Eppy.”

Why is it so difficult to talk about the things that are important to you? I understand in the grand scheme of life, creating a to-do list that works is not on the same level as fixing climate change, but to me, perfecting this list is a Thing. Sam has turned to me with his whole body and he’s leaning forward as if he’s interested.

I deflect. “Just something I’m working on.”

When I freeze him out, the atmosphere changes between us. He pulls back, and because I’m a fucking people pleaser, I crumble. “It’s a to-do list,” I blurt out.

A slight line appears between his eyes. “Of tasks you need to do?”

“No, how to organize one. A planning method. None of the ones I’ve tried work for me so I’m creating my own.” This sounds stupid. I pick at the seam of the couch.

The line fades as his eyes widen. “Like bullet journals?”

My turn to get big-eyed. “You like lists?”

In reply, he pulls out his phone and shows me an entire folder of productivity tools. “My assistant, Deng, got me into them but I haven’t found the right one.”

“Me neither.”

“You decided to make your own.” He smiles. “Eppy. I like it. I would never have thought of creating my own system.”

It’s hardly even a compliment but his tone makes me go red. “It’s nothing,” I mumble. “No big deal.”

“Why not? You saw a problem and you’re fixing it. Most people would work around it.”

“I haven’t gotten very far.”

The line returns. “There are enough people in the world ready to put you down. Do you need to join them?”

His words hit me in the gut. “Is that your motto?”

Sam picks up the popcorn bowl and looks into it. Because we are having a serious conversation, I try not to notice the sharp angle of his face down from his cheekbone to his chin but man, it’s hard. “It has to be. Everything I do is criticized. What I wear. Who I date. Movie roles and how I do in them.”

Of course. “How do you cope?”

“I don’t read the reviews. Good or bad.” He passes me the bowl. “Will you let me beta test it?”

“You want to?” This gives me a huge rush that I can’t hide.

He laughs. “A chance to organize my life? You bet.” Then he turns the movie on and I sit back, almost too happy.





Nineteen


I make an effort with Fangli. I’m not comfortable talking to her about her mental health straight on, but one night when she comes over, I mention that I forgot to take my medication and let her see me swallow a pill.

“Are you sick?” she asks with concern.

I try to respond casually. “I have depression and panic. These SSRIs help calm me down because they adjust my brain chemistry.”

Her eyes widen. “What?”

“I’ve had it a long time, but I only started dealing with it a couple of years ago,” I say. “It was hard for me to admit I needed help.” Try excruciating, but I’m trying to make it sound easier for Fangli, like this is something she can do.

She doesn’t reply for a moment, then says, “I’d like to go for a walk.”

I take the hint. “You should. Fresh air is good.”

“I don’t know the city very well. I get driven everywhere.”

“Let’s go together,” I say suddenly. “We’ll go to a shitty dive bar where no one will expect you. You can wear my clothes.”

She looks torn. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea. Someone might get a photo.”

I think. “What if we get ready and you take a look at yourself? We won’t go unless you’re comfortable.”

Fangli looks out at the dark night through the window. “It’ll be hard to see my face on the street,” she says as if convincing herself.

I pull a pair of jeans and a tank top out of my drawer. “Here.”

She grins and trots away with the clothes. When she comes back five minutes later, I have to laugh. She’s added a belt, tied the shirt with a small knot, and added heels. She looks fantastic.

“Close.” I fix the shirt into a messy French tuck and give her a pair of my flat sandals and a hat. “No makeup.”