The Stand-In(52)

“Are you buying again?” I drain the glass and glance at the screens of notes I’ve taken on my phone. Sam was a gold mine of ideas. He even knew a few platforms I hadn’t heard of.

“Only because I feel sorry for someone who couldn’t even win a glorified version of Pong.” He walks away before I can protest—that one game was way harder than Pong—and I do my best not to follow him with my eyes and fail miserably. The frazzled mom trying to corral three screaming kids does the same, and on her face, I see that fantasy that beautiful men create: Please take me from this. Look at me. Be my prince. Be mine. Make me feel special. See me.

By the time Sam returns, I’m pensive.

A woman to Sam’s left had been watching him between sips of her white wine, but before I can warn him, she downs her drink and hops to her feet. I manage to get out “Uhh,” and then she’s on him.

“I’m sorry, but are you Kai’s friend?” She looks up at him with big blue eyes under her heavy fringe of fake eyelashes. “I think we met the other day?”

“I’m not, sorry.” He gives her a pleasant smile.

“Oh.” She tilts her head and swings back her blown-out ombre hair. “I’m Lauren.”

I reach out and take Sam’s hand. “Nice to meet you!” I say, matching her smile with my own and throwing in a dash of yo bitch, step off. I know she gets the message because her face squeezes when Sam lays his other hand over mine.

“I guess I had the wrong person.” She retreats.

“Sorry,” I apologize to Sam, quickly pulling my hand away.

He grins at me. “Nicely done.”

“Do you get that a lot? No one ever tries to pick me up.”

“I don’t believe that,” he says politely. “To answer your question, it happens occasionally. I’m not often alone when I’m out so I think that limits it to the most brave. They don’t want me, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re attracted to the concept of me, but it’s a fantasy they’ve built. It doesn’t matter if they know who I am or not. It’s this.” He waves his hand at his face, then shrugs. “The fame helps. At least she didn’t recognize me. That would be a mess.”

I peer into his glass. “Did you get the Massive Ego IPA?”

“I got the Realistic lager,” he corrects. “My looks are an asset. Fully monetized.”

I know he’s right. It’s Sam’s public persona and the same as what Fangli said that first day about her fans. What kind of pressure does that create, to be on a pedestal that you never built and that is a by-product of doing a job to the best of your abilities?

“Huh.” I beam at Lauren, who is glowering at me. “What’s it like to be so good-looking?”

“You tell me.”

“Whatever, Sexiest Man in the World.”

To my surprise, Sam’s ears go bright red. Then he says, “If I may point out, Fangli is considered one of the most beautiful women in film. You are acting as her double.”

“No one ever thinks that about me,” I say. “I’ve always been more weird-looking.” It’s only been the last few years that people have decided to make a fuss about how attractive multiracial people are, as if admiring our appearance makes up for their unnecessary need to talk about how we look at all. I poke at the ring my glass left on the table. Fangli and I look the same but we’ve had very different experiences of what our faces represent to other people. Hers can be considered on its aesthetic merits. Mine is still a social statement.

“No.” Sam shakes his head.

Two pints means I have the courage to say what’s been bothering me. “You said I was.”

“What?” He puts his glass down and leans forward. “Never. Never would I even think such a thing.”

“The other day you said I was only half. You said, ‘If you weren’t only half, I’d think you were a real Chinese.’” I remember each word.

Sam is silent. “That’s not the same thing.”

“It is, a bit.” I pause and take my courage in hand again. “The same idea is there. Being different.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being different.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it if you want to be,” I correct him.

He gives me a confused look. “Don’t you want to? Why be ordinary when you have the choice to be so much more?”

“Because I don’t want it to only be because of how I look! Or because my mom’s from a different country.”

To my shame, my throat swells and tears prick against my lids. I bite down hard on my tongue, not wanting him to see how upset I am. But this is Sam, who’s trained to react to body language much more subtle than mine, and he takes my hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Excuse me.” I stand up to escape to the washroom, not wanting him to see me cry. Instead, Sam’s hand comes down on my arm. It’s a gentle touch, not controlling.

“Don’t leave. We’ll go outside,” he says. “We’ll talk.”

***

We end up sitting on a bench at the train museum right in front of the arcade and staring at some little kids as they play hide-and-seek. Although me and my big mouth started this conversation, I have no desire to see it through. Why did I even bring it up?