The Stand-In(64)

“Shouldn’t you get ready?” he asks.

I close my eyes to relive the memory of his chest. “Turn away.”

He does and I reverse my technique of earlier, taking off the tank and pulling down the dress and patting it into place before I remove the skirt. The car seems too small and Sam very close.

I pull on the zipper but it sticks. “Damn.”

“What?” Sam starts to turn around but I stop him.

“Don’t look!”

“All that shifting around and you’re not decent?”

I lift up my arm and crane my neck to see the zipper. I’m scared to pull too hard, in case I break it or rip the dress. There’s only one choice. “I need a hand.”

He gives a furtive look over his shoulder, as if he’s not quite sure what level of undress I’m at. Confirming everything of importance is covered, he says, “Zipper?”

It’s unfortunate that, unlike a zipper at the back, which would only show…my back, this zipper reveals my entire side between armpit and waist. He comes to sit beside me. “Raise your arm.”

When he fiddles with the zipper, his fingers brush along my ribs, causing my skin to goose bump. Please, please let him not notice. Please. I gaze out the window as we go down University Avenue toward Hospital Row. “Some of the material is caught in the zipper,” he mutters. “Give me a second.”

He reaches one hand down inside the dress to try to wrestle it up. Now I have Sam’s entire hand pressed against me and his head leaning so close his breath moves against the bare skin of my chest. Never have I been so glad to have put on deodorant.

“Got it,” he says proudly. He tugs the zipper closed. My arm is held high where I had it out of the way as he worked, but since the blood’s been running out of it, I lower it faster than I intend and end up with my arm landing over his shoulder, partially embracing him.

Although I expect him to move away, he doesn’t. He doesn’t do anything but look at me and I freeze.

“Sorry.” I lurch back and scramble for my wig, which I jam on. “Better fix my makeup. Where are my shoes?” I’m rambling.

“Hold on.” He stills me with a touch on my knee. “The wig is crooked.”

He reaches up to tuck some of my hair under and then rearranges the haphazard hair helmet, his eyebrows angled down as he concentrates. Now he’s definitely close enough to kiss and again, for a crazy moment, I wonder what would happen if I did.

It would be bad. I’m overthinking this the same way I did at the art gallery, seeing romantic opportunities only because I’m wishing them into being. He finishes with the wig and moves to his side of the car while I apply lipstick, blot it, and reapply it before powdering my face.

Finally, I push the hair so some stays in front of my shoulders as the rest hangs behind my back. Mei says it frames my face better. “Am I good?” I ask.

He shifts over and pulls the hair all behind my shoulders before moving to his original seat. “This is better,” he says. “I can see your face.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Since I’m trying to not have people focus on my face, don’t you think the first one is preferable?”

“I like it this way.”

Oh. Oh.

“Also,” he adds, “you owe me dinner.”

“What?”

“As I promised, no one recognized me today.” He gives a pleased nod.

“Give it twelve hours, and if it hasn’t shown up on social media, I’ll concede.”

Gregor pulls up to the hospital entrance where we’re met by a tall woman with a cell phone and a clipboard who introduces herself as Jessica. “The kids are excited to see you, Mr. Yao,” she says in a warm voice. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate you doing this, especially so last minute. As requested, there are no media but we’d like to take a few photos for the kids.”

“That’s fine,” he says. Sam, for his part, is legitimately excited at the idea of meeting kids and peppers the PR woman with questions. How many kids? What ages? What should he be aware of? Is he allowed to touch them or should he only wave? He pauses at the entrance to sanitize his hands at the dispenser and I follow suit. It’s a hospital, after all, and the kids don’t need our germs.

I’ve never been in a children’s hospital before so I let the two of them go ahead of me and chat as I examine the atrium, which is painted with murals and has cartoon characters on the signs. Two people pass holding hands and a woman hugs a little baby wearing a helmet to her chest. I’m harboring a lot of emotions from earlier and look carefully at people’s faces. Some are interested in the two people in dressy clothes walking through—Jessica’s attitude screams famous people alert—but mostly the people we pass are involved in their own worlds and their own families. We take an elevator up to a windowed room packed with kids and parents as well as foosball tables and games.

“This is where the older kids can come and hang out,” says Jessica.

One of the kids has an IV pole draped with lines and lines of brightly colored beads. “Are those significant?” I ask.

“They’re called bravery beads. The kids earn them, one for every procedure or event they undergo.”

Sam and I both stop dead. “That child has many,” he says. “Hundreds.”