The Stand-In(86)

When I hand over his paper cup, I notice his right arm is soaked. “What happened?”

He gives me a look over the top of his cup. “It’s raining.”

“I’m dry, though.” I shake my arms at him and immediately spill a bit of my drink.

“Good,” he says, glancing up. “There’s the ferry. Can we sit on the top again?” When I nod, he kisses me on the nose and his lips warm me all the way through. “I changed my mind,” he says. “About my perfect day.”

“No park?”

He shakes his head. “I’d do this again.”

Yeah, I think it was a date.





Thirty-Three


The day after our maybe date is not weird but also isn’t not weird.

Sam warned me he’d be busy but texts me little thoughts throughout the day, and I find myself carrying my phone around with me in case I miss one. It’s not productive and I finally text Anjali after getting ready for bed.

jfc it was totally a date, she writes.

I stare at the screen. My phone rings.

“You know it was a date,” Anjali says.

I wrap the plush robe closer around me and adjust the pearl-infused sheet mask Mei left out for me to get it out of my eye. “It was, right?”

“Kissing? Hot chocolate? Holding hands?”

“What does it mean, though?”

Anjali snorts. “That you enjoy each other’s company and are getting to know each other. And want to bang.”

“Probably.”

“You mispronounced ‘definitely’ as ‘probably.’”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” The mask slips again and I try not to move my mouth too much when I speak.

“None of this is a good idea.”

“I don’t need to compound it.”

“You don’t need to do anything you don’t want to,” she reminds me. “The question is if you want to.”

“I don’t know.”

“Then figure it out before you go further.”

Easy for her to say—she doesn’t have to deal with the dreamboat that is Sam Yao up close and personal. I give a noncommittal response and change the topic. “How’s work?”

“I had to reprimand a guy on my team,” she says. “He thought it was a good idea to use a photo of Miley Cyrus on the wrecking ball as his laptop background.”

“Why?”

“Said it was a cultural meme. I walked him through how it was a bad idea, and he took it better than I expected. Not Todd level.”

“Still irritating.”

“I’ll say. Speaking of Todd, has he acted up like the immature man-child that he is?” I’d told her what happened at the Chanel show.

“Nope.”

“Good. Bullies like that back down when they’re challenged.”

“Let’s not waste breath talking about him anymore.” Todd is out of my life. “Did you finish with the life coach?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Canceled the last two sessions. I’m in control here. Not him.”

“You tell him.”

“I run my life, and if that means I remain moderately dictatorial, so be it.”

“No one tells you what to do, within reason.”

“No one’s the boss of me, except my boss.”

We both slap the phone in a virtual high five.

***

The next morning I wake to a text from Sam. Breakfast? When do I get to test Eppy?

Yes and soon, I text back.

We meet out on the street and Sam’s in his usual disguise of ball cap, black jeans, and black T-shirt. He has a coffee that he hands to me—a latte, exactly as I like it—and a paper bag with what I suspect are pastries.

We stroll down to the lake and take a seat on one of the benches where he hands me a croissant and takes a bite of his own. It’s peaceful with him, watching the sun glisten on the lake, alone except for a stream of panting joggers who speed by.

I’ve been thinking about what Anjali said about Todd acting out and how I’d deal with it. Todd is a wound that’s currently stanched and I want completely cauterized.

“Then we called the company and had her reinstated.” Sam finishes his story about a colleague and I suddenly turn to look at him, croissant halfway to my mouth.

I don’t have to deal with Todd by myself, because he’s no longer only a me problem. There are people better equipped to deal with Todd than I am, and all I have to do is ask.

“I need to ask you a favor,” I say.

“Sure.” No hesitation.

“It’s about Todd.”

Sam only nods when I tell him I’m concerned Todd might try to get back at me, and as usual, the siren call of Fangli’s name spurs him into action. “I’ll take care of it,” he says.

“What are you going to do?”

He looks thoughtful. “Hire some goons to break his legs?”

I hesitate, unsure if he’s kidding.

He lifts the brim of his hat to look me better in the eyes. “I’m going to talk to my lawyer, Gracie. No kneecaps will be broken.”

“Good.”

“Unless the lawyer recommends it, and then what can I do?”