The Stand-In(89)

“What did he say?” asks Sam.

“My father thinks it’s a good idea. He’s been after me to marry because he wants a grandchild.” She pulls her hair back into a ponytail and lets it drop down. “Why now? We’ve known each other for years.”

“Lili says we look happy together.”

Fangli groans. “That’s Gracie, not me.”

“Sorry,” I say weakly. “I can dial it back.”

Sam puts his hand on mine. Fangli notices and her eyes widen. “Oh my God,” she says. “How long has this been going on?”

“What?” we ask in unison.

She stares pointedly at our hands, because Sam hasn’t moved. “No wonder they think we should get married.” Then she laughs and I can tell she’s not upset but more bemused at the situation.

Then she shoots me a look. “You didn’t say a word the other night.” Another frown, this one at Sam as she points at him with a dramatic gesture. “Neither did you!”

He snorts. “You took that right out of January February.”

“When I was accusing my mother-in-law of murder.” She nods. “It’s a powerful movement.”

“Very good,” he compliments her.

“But not an appropriate reflection on the situation.” Fangli winks. “Unlike when I unleashed it on my killer mother-in-law, I’m happy for you.”

He tightens his hand on mine as Mei comes into the room. Her immobile face stiffens even more and I assume she’s put off by PDA. She turns to Fangli and speaks quickly.

“My therapist is here,” Fangli says. She wiggles her eyebrows at me and leaves, Mei closing the connecting door firmly behind them.

“She said that more openly than I would have thought,” I say.

He nods proudly. “She’s trying hard.” Then he gets up to clear the dishes. “Do you have plans for tonight?”

I play it casual. “Not really.”

He sits back down. “Want to come here, then?”

I go over and sit on his lap. Sam takes my leg and pulls me over until I’m straddling him and we’re face-to-face. He’s warm and the flutters that start in my stomach take only moments to ripple out over every inch of my skin. Sam runs his hands along my back, and when I bend to kiss him, I make sure my eyes stay on him.

Two hours later, I’m very glad I shaved above my knees.





Thirty-Four


When the phone wakes me up, I want to ignore it because I’m curled against Sam and he’s warm.

“Forget it,” I mumble.

“It might be important.” He gropes around the night table and hands me the phone.

He’s right because the nurse on the line tells me Mom’s distressed again. “It’s been a few days since your last visit,” says the nurse. “It might cheer her up.”

I hang up and Sam leans over to cover my body with his. Last night was… I can’t think about it because I need to be out the door in a few minutes.

“Everything okay?” he asks. He brushes my hair back from my face and nuzzles into my neck.

“I need to see Mom.”

“Want company?”

I do, I realize. Sam gives me a kiss on the forehead, which is good because the idea of kissing anyone, even Sam, with morning breath is not a pleasant one. “Give me twenty minutes,” he says.

He disappears and I get out of bed rejoicing. The morning after is always a crapshoot, filled with worries about making things weird. But it wasn’t; Sam is as attentive in the light of morning as he was in the dark last night.

Which was very attentive indeed.

I almost skip over to the shower, where I wince when the water hits the burn on my skin left from Sam’s stubble. Towel-dry my hair, minimal makeup, a dress, and I’m out the door. Sam’s waiting by the elevators.

We take public transit and don’t talk much. Sam sits close to me, lazily watching the people around us from under the brim of his hat. The fact that no one has noticed us on previous outings must have made him more confident about coming out with me.

I want to curl up into his shoulder. It would be so nice to keep going on this bus and never look back, but guilt hits the minute I think it. What kind of a daughter thinks such selfish thoughts? Sam tucks my hand in his and an ache goes through me when I remember Dad picking up Mom in those bear hugs or planting raspberry kisses on her cheeks as she laughed.

It hurts. I pretend I need to check my phone and take back my hand. When he doesn’t reach out again, it’s almost as if I have proof that he doesn’t care. Why am I doing this to myself? We had a great night and he’s here with me now, on the bus, to see Mom. That’s what matters. He wants to be here and I’m not forcing him.

When we sign in at the home, the smell of bleach is almost unbearable and it stings my nose. Mom’s in her room, the album of photos open in front of her. Her eyes skate over me to land on Sam. “Xiao He,” she says, her fingers stroking the page in front of her. Tears stream down her face and I don’t know what to do. I’ve seen my mother cry exactly once in my life, when we came home from the hospital after Dad died and she tripped over a shoe he’d left by the door. She’d picked it up and hugged it and sobbed as I held her. She hadn’t even cried at the funeral.