The Stand-In(51)

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?”