The Stand-In(92)
I never want to feel this again.
With a quick shove, I push away from the rail and check the time.
I need to talk to Fangli and Sam to get a solution. I won’t let this happen to me as if I have nothing to do or say about it. For the first time, it dawns on me that I need to give myself the same consideration I do Mom, or Fangli or Sam. I need to matter.
I go back into the suite and over to the connecting door. Better to do this in person than by phone, even though I’m not sure what to say. I know Sam’s very rightfully angry with me but this is urgent enough a problem for him to put aside his personal feelings, at least until it’s fixed.
I’m about to knock when I hear voices—Sam and Fangli are both in.
“She told ZZTV?” It’s Sam’s voice, colder than I’ve ever heard him. “You have to let her go.”
Are they talking about me?
“I trusted her.” Fangli sounds sad. “I thought she was paid enough. How could she?”
Shit, it is me. They think it’s me who ratted them out. My hand hasn’t moved but now it’s frozen. All I need to do is walk in there and tell them the truth.
What if they don’t believe me? Miranda had my name. What has she told them?
I’m desperate to know more before I go bumbling in. I’ve learned my lesson that there are no clear-cut answers in the world, no unilaterally good actions. I can’t help my mom without hurting Sam. I can’t help Fangli without lying. What I can do is get all the facts before I open my mouth and embarrass myself yet again.
“Keep your voice down,” Fangli says. “She can’t hear this, not yet.”
Sam answers in rapid Mandarin, no doubt to hide what they’re saying about me from me, and I’m lost.
No, I’m not.
I grab my phone and tap the new language app I found, the real-time audio translator. My conscience hits as I hold it up to the crack in the door but it quickly disappears as I read the translated text. I know it’s not going to be one hundred percent accurate but it will at least give me the gist of their conversation so I can go in prepared.
“What benefit was there from the suitcase?” This is Fangli. This stupid translator. What the hell is the suitcase?
“Greed.” Sam’s voice comes through clear enough. I stare at the words appearing on the screen so hard they blur. “Envy.”
“There was enough.”
“For some people, there’s never enough. I should have traveled sooner.” He sounds furious. “That argument caused this.”
“You heat lamp have known.”
“We can’t trust coffee.”
“It must have been the mackerel.” This is Fangli. “I’ll talk to her. I hate it.”
“I’ll do it for cheese.”
“Sam, it’s my responsibility. I hired her.”
That’s me Fangli is worried about firing. And Sam offered to do it for her. Their voices dip too low for the translator, and I back away from the door until I bump the table with my hip. I look down without seeing it, my attention held by the conversation going on behind that door between two people I had come to consider friends and, in Sam’s case, more than friends.
Then I creep back and slowly twist the bolt to lock my side of the door. I act on impulse, only knowing that I need to stop any chance of either of them coming in. I need to think this through logically but my mind jumps from one idea to another without lingering long enough for me to process. I need to think. I can’t think. It’s too much.
There’s an aura around my sight, almost like tunnel vision. My eyes light on a jar of poppies on the table before they travel to my phone, which I don’t remember putting down. The chairs are all tidily tucked under the wooden table and I see a pen near the edge. My hand combs over my hair, short and stiff with product, before giving my earring a slight tug and running the hem of my shirt through my fingers. I grab the back of a chair. My thoughts begin to slow. A siren wails from the street outside and the refrigerator hums in the corner. In the hall, I hear someone laugh. The room smells of the candles I lit last night, a rich lavender, mixed with the purple hyacinth scent from the perfume drawer of wonders. Finally, I run my tongue over my lip and taste the synthetic fruit of my lip balm.
My chest hitches a bit as I inhale, like my body is trying not to cry but I force the air in again and again. I’m not okay but I can function, which is the best I can ask for right now.
Sam might have liked me but not enough. It’s only slightly less painful than if he didn’t have feelings for me at all. Whatever he felt, it wasn’t sufficient for him to default to my side when he thought I sold them out and called ZZTV. Fangli is the one who mattered.
I can’t prevent the wave of self-disgust. I should have known this would end in disaster because that’s what happens when you reach too high. I forgot that this little bubble I’m in isn’t real.
The best thing for me to do would be to unlock that door, explain that I did not call ZZTV, thank them for their time, and leave.
I want to. I know I should.
I don’t have the guts.
I’m done, but I can do Fangli the favor of not forcing her to fire me in a painful and stress-inducing conversation. I can help her one last time by clearing out with enough class to leave us all with some dignity and without hostility.