The Stand-In(73)

Even Laurence. It made him happy to meet who he thought was Fangli, and can’t that be enough?

I have to stay.

I stand up from the bed. I’m not perfectly happy with my choice but it’s only for another few weeks. I’ll learn from this. I have learned from it.

Mei isn’t there when I leave. I head back to my room and take a few minutes to compose myself. When I’ve splashed some water on my face, I text Sam and tuck the power trio into my bag—card, key, and lipstick. Sam arrives in black pants that hit at his ankles and a light gray shirt. I’d have huge sweat stains under the arms of a shirt that color within seconds.

He looks into my face. “Gracie?”

“Fangli was fine.”

“I’m more concerned about you.” He comes into my room and shuts the door. “Was that difficult for you?”

“I’m fine,” I assure him.

“Fangli likes you,” he says. “She hasn’t had a friend in a long time apart from me.”

“Poor woman.”

“Yeah, you’re okay.” He smiles. “You still want to go out?”

“You bet.” More than before. I want to be surrounded by noise and people and eat greasy things so I don’t have to think for a couple hours.

“Where are we going?” He falls into step beside me as we leave.

“Surprise. Meet me outside the lobby.” It’s safer to go down separately since I’m dressed as myself.

Although I expect him to press me for details, Sam seems happy enough to follow me outside and onto the subway.

“I can tell you our stop if you want to sit alone,” I say before the train arrives.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Why would I do that?”

“So we’re not seen together?” Obviously?

Sam glances down the platform. We’re the only people waiting. “Seen by whom, exactly?”

I nudge him with my shoulder. “Funny. I mean on the train.”

“I’m sure a car will be empty.”

“Up to you.” An interesting change from the man who is paranoid about everything. He hasn’t even mentioned the security cameras, although the chance of being recognized from grainy black-and-white footage is probably slim. It’s nice that he’s loosening up about it.

He’s quiet as we wait for the train to arrive. As he predicts, we find seats that are relatively isolated.

“I like trains,” he says as we sit down on the stained red velour seats.

“I thought you took cars everywhere.”

“Mostly,” he agrees. “When I think it’s safe, I like to use public transit. More people to watch.”

“Safe?”

“If I think no one will recognize me.”

“People watching is that important to you?”

He glances down the subway cars. We’re on one of the interconnected trains so we can see all the way down to the end. “I can’t get ideas for how to play characters from being alone inside my house. Look there.”

I know exactly who he’s referring to because a few rows away is a man in a full tuxedo and a dotted bow tie carved of wood with polished combat boots who’s reading a Georgette Heyer Regency romance. The questions ask themselves. Who is he? Where is he going? Is this his usual look or a special occasion look? Why that book?

We have the manners to not talk about the man right in front of him, but the moment we get out, we compete for who gets to tell the man’s backstory first. I win and regale Sam with my narrative—that he’s a modern Miss Havisham pining for his lost cat and the bow tie used to be Lady Fluff’s—for the block it takes us to get to the bar. It’s one of my local places and I’m one hundred percent confident that not a single person there will recognize or care who Sam is.

We take a booth in the corner. Sam sits facing the wall, which is decorated with framed black-and-white photos. “Mugshots?”

“It’s called the Mugshot Tavern.”

“Of course it is. I see James Brown and Robert Downey Jr.”

I point down the line. “Paris Hilton. Bonnie and Clyde. Lindsay Lohan. Macaulay Culkin.”

Sam nods. “What I’m hearing is that if I get arrested, I can look forward to being on this wall of infamy.”

“Are you planning on a new career in crime?”

He sucks in his cheeks as though considering it. “Never say never.” Then he smirks at me.

The server slaps down a couple of menus and we order wine. I’m not Fangli tonight, so I have no qualms about drinking. I look at the menu. “I want fries.”

“As long as they’re not sweet potato.”

“Those are a travesty.”

Because Sam has a photo shoot the next day, he doesn’t want to order anything with a lot of sodium, which will make his face puff up. That limits his choices to a green salad, and he finally sighs and orders a burger. “I’ll drink a glass of milk before bed.”

We sit in a companionable silence with our wine. The bar is about half-full and I casually eavesdrop on the conversations around me. Everyday person things: gossip, work complaints, and a bumpy first date.

“Weren’t you going to tell me something?” Sam asks. “Before Mei called?”

“Can’t remember,” I lie. No point going into my concerns now that I’ve decided to stick with the contract.