The Stand-In(53)

“I upset you,” he says quietly.

“Sorry. It’s no big deal.”

“You do that a lot,” he says. “Say you’re sorry when you have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’m Canadian. We’re raised on apologies and maple syrup.”

He ignores my weak joke.

“Gracie, I truly apologize for what I said. I won’t make excuses as to what I meant, but let me say that I never want you to think you’re less than who you are. I don’t think of you as anyone but you, a whole and complete person.”

“Okay.” I look up. Sam’s frowning at the shiny engine car in front of us as if weighing his next words.

“You are not limited by your appearance. When I meant that you could be more, that it’s good to be different.” He frowns. “How you look was the last thing on my mind.”

A brief, disloyal, and guilt-inducing thought comes: Would I have the same perspective if I’d been raised by a Lu Lili, a woman who relished standing out rather than fearing it? Perhaps. It’s too late now. I am who I am.

“I understand,” I tell Sam. I do. I also know this conversation is now over because I don’t want to talk about it anymore. “We should get going. I need time to get ready for tonight.”

It looks like he wants to say more but Sam stands up and helps me to my feet. His grip is firm on my hand, and when he pulls me up, I lose my footing and stumble forward. Again, he sweeps me up, his hands warm on my back, and looks down in my face. My breath hitches and he releases me.

“That was like the time Fangli slipped and you caught her,” I say to break the tension. “It was all over the clips Mei made me watch.”

He nods. “Milan, I think. Two years ago. That got a good reaction.”

“What?”

Sam rears back, astonished. “You thought that was real?”

Now it’s my turn to be surprised. “You planned that?”

“The movie was about a doomed love affair.” He thought back. “Was it my idea or Fangli’s? Mine, I think.”

“I had no idea. Do we need to do something like that for tonight?”

“That’s more of a special occasion move. Tonight we go to see and be seen.” He smiles. “It’ll be a breeze.”

I try not to think of how ominous that sounds as we return to the hotel. Not until we’re back do I realize I’m hungry, so I call room service for a sandwich before I hop into the shower. The expensive shower gel cheers me in a way that only luxury products can, enveloping me in their fragrance, Chanel of course, thanks to Fangli. I come out with very soft skin and wrap my hair up in a towel to prepare for the spackling of my face that acts as a prelude to the makeup. I’ve applied the basics when I hear a knock. Must be room service.

I hunt around for a robe and open the door. There’s no one there, so I step out to see if they’ve already left and are at the elevators. A movement down the hall catches my attention and I take another step out because I don’t want that sandwich to escape.

Behind me comes a soft click as the door locks shut.

Then I stand there, wriggling the doorknob and refusing to accept reality. Shit. My phone is in there. I have no key. I go next door and knock on Fangli’s door; no answer. At least Sam has my key, but when I knock, there’s no answer there either. I go back and shake the door for a second time in case it’s magically unlocked in the last thirty-four seconds. It hasn’t.

I’ll have to go down to the lobby in my towel and robe. I weigh the pros and cons. Pros: getting in the room. Cons: public shame. Photos of a half-naked me as Fangli going viral. I lean my head against the door and ask the universe for guidance.

It does not deliver.

As I try to recall the layout of the lobby and if there’s any way I can sneak down a back stairwell and hiss at the concierge while hiding behind the downstairs door, a cart appears at the end of the hall. The universe has taken pity on me after all, because housekeeping can let me in. When I go over and find the woman cleaning the room, she looks me up and down with a bright smile.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I locked myself out of my room. Can you let me back in?”

The smile doesn’t slip. “Do you have a key?”

“No, I locked myself out. I need to get back in.”

“You need a key.”

“Right,” I agree. “It’s in the room. That I locked myself out of.”

“I can call security.”

“Thanks.” I know intellectually this makes sense, since you can’t have people simply claiming they stay here, but I’m in the hall in a towel and my patience is limited. She calls down and I go back to my door. Maybe room service has arrived and they can let me in.

Room service has not arrived.

While normally I would file this under the “Welp, what can you do” category of mischance, the fact that I am in the hall in half makeup means my anxiety about this rebounding on Fangli is inching ever higher. Sam said cameras are everywhere. I don’t need Fangli seeing footage of me-as-her looking like a drowned rat.

I pad barefoot down the hall, sticking to the walls as if I’m a mouse avoiding detection, looking down in hopes the security cameras are all near the ceiling and they’ll only catch the twisted towel on my head. An exquisitely cut black suit comes my way. Excellent. It’s Sam. I’ve never been so happy to see him.