Twenty
I’m riding high on my success of the other night and muttering along to my Mandarin app as I sit on the couch drinking coffee. How I took this language in university for three years and not a thing has stuck in my memory, I don’t understand. I was never close to fluent but now I even need to refresh my numbers. Yi. Er. San. Si. Wu. Liu. Qi, ba, jiu, shi. One to ten, then it’s all very logical. Eleven is ten-one. Twenty is two-ten and twenty-one is two-ten-one. None of this teen stuff or adding y’s.
I think Malcolm Gladwell might have written about how its logic makes for easier math, and I’m about to do a Google search when I decide that’s procrastination and return to learning the numbers instead of learning about them. I wish Mom had spoken Chinese to me at home, but she refused. Until her dementia hit, I’d rarely heard her speak it at all. The past in the past and all that.
Sam and I have an event tonight and I’ve already decided to divide my day between learning about the mainland Chinese film industry—background research, I should know the main players—and working on Eppy. Last night as I was falling asleep, Sam texted me a thought that launched a series of increasingly good ideas and I’m itching to get them organized.
That’s right. Sam texted me about Eppy. He’s been texting me off and on over the last few days and not only when he’s worried about Fangli. I do my best not to read into it but it’s hard. Seeing a text from Sam makes my heart thump and I wish I could get past this reaction so I can be the neutral friend he’s clearly decided I am. Friends is better than nothing, and far easier than adversaries.
My phone lights up with a message and again my heart bangs because it’s from Sam.
I’m in the hall.
At least he didn’t simply stroll in like usual. I need to get that key, though. I do an emotional check and am happy to note my heart rate has subsided and I don’t have any quivers or interferingly strong feelings. I have accepted that this is a job. Good for me, very reasonable.
This lasts as long as it takes me to open the door and see Sam channeling casual dojo, with loose pants and slides matched with an oversize T-shirt. His outfit could cost anywhere from $100 to $10,000 and I wouldn’t be surprised. I step aside and he comes in.
“I thought you were busy today.”
“We’re going for a walk,” he says.
“No, we’re not,” I say. “Fangli is out at an appointment and I can’t be seen with you at the same time.” Even if I go with him without my Fangli disguise, I resemble her too much to not cause questions if caught by a photographer.
“Right.” He goes to the window and stares out. “I want to see the city. My skin itches to get out of here.”
Sam has changed toward me since our talk about Fangli, and it’s a relief to be able to let down my guard around him. “We have a film premiere tonight.” I already had to practice going from standing to sitting in the dress, which is a stunner.
He makes a rude gesture. “Being stuck in a theater.”
“Aren’t you busy?” I repeat the question since he hasn’t answered.
“Finished early.” He doesn’t turn around but rolls his neck as if trying to get rid of a kink.
“Did something happen?”
“No.”
I walk over to join him at the window. He smells good, that same chipped-stone fragrance. It’s a cool, overcast day and the wind has whipped up small white-tipped waves on the surface of the lake. I open the sliding balcony door to let the breeze drift in and Sam closes his eyes.
His restlessness affects me as well. “What do you usually do to relax?”
“Work out. Watch YouTube. Play Candy Crush.”
“What level?”
He glances at his phone. “Three hundred and eighty.”
“I’m four ninety-two.”
This makes him frown competitively. I get an idea. “What if we go to the arcade near the aquarium? You wear a hat and something less”—I wave my hand around—“fashionable.” That might do the trick. No one will wonder who I am if they don’t identify Sam.
He looks down at his outfit. “This is what I usually wear at home.”
Other guys would wander around in boxers and a dirty undershirt. “You look like you walked out of a Vogue ad for casual wear. Average Toronto dudes don’t wear flowy pants.”
“Oh.” He brightens. “Got it.”
He disappears to his own suite as I run a hand through my hair. I look fine as me; no one will look twice.
Do I want them to look? I pull out the Dior. It’s called Revelation and I wonder how I can get a job naming these things.
The first swipe goes on smooth like honey. Mei insists that I use a lip liner when I do the Fangli face, but this is for me and I don’t mind the edges blurring. The color is as rich as I hoped and gives my entire face a more angular cast. I like it.
I like it a lot.
Sam reappears and does a double take. “That’s a new look.”
“I know.” I don’t ask what he thinks because I didn’t wear it for him. Instead I check him over. This time he’s got on tight black jeans, a ball cap, sunglasses, and a black medical face mask. I close my eyes. “Lose the mask or the sunglasses. And can I get my key back?”
“I usually wear them when I’m out,” he says.
“One is fine. Both with the hat scream Look at me, I’m famous.”
“Fine.” He whips off the shades. “Happy?”
I’m giving a master class in looking like a regular person. “Do you really never go unwatched?” I ask.
“I don’t know. It’s safer to assume I am so I can be on guard.”
There’s no answer I can give to this, so I grab my purse and we head out. He automatically moves to where the cars are so I take his arm and adjust course. “We’re walking.”
“Oh. Okay.”
I drop his arm immediately because the feel of his muscled solidness is akin to touching a hot stove. “Keep looking straight ahead. Act like there’s nothing to notice about you. You’re a regular guy going outside, that’s it. You drive a five-year-old Honda Civic and wonder if you have enough money for a down payment on a studio condo.”
His body language gets more casual as he listens. “Got it.”
It’s a weekday and we’re close enough to the Financial District that it swarms with office workers grabbing food or going about their day. No one takes a photo or asks for an autograph because most of them are on their phones or busy talking to each other, and Sam cheers up as he sees that no one recognizes us as Fangli and Sam. We’re only two more faceless people in a faceless crowd.
“The CN Tower is so tall.” He looks up as we pass.
“Do you want to go up?” I haven’t been since an elementary-school class trip.
“Can we?” His smile is wistful. “There was a photo of it in a book when I was a kid. I thought if I went up that high, I would be able to see the whole world.” He cranes his head back and I copy him. The spiky concrete structure looms over us, dwarfing everything around it.
Then he squints at the little red dots moving around the exterior of the main pod. “Are those people?”
“You can put on a harness and lean over the edge.” I hold up my hand before he says a word. “You’re on your own for that.”
“I’ll pass. Wirework is enough for me.”
We buy tickets and yawn to pop our ears as we fly up the elevator to the observation deck. Although the day is overcast, it’s not so cloudy that it completely obscures the view.
“You can’t see the whole world, but that’s Hamilton over there.” I point out the city that edges the lake to the southwest.
He smiles and reaches out as if he’s going to hold my hand. I freeze, then sag as he touches the window instead. “It’s good enough.”
I leave Sam dreaming by the window as I roam and take care to dance around the glass floor that gives a sickening view to the ground. That our relationship has shifted dramatically is unquestionable and I’m torn between accepting it and wanting to talk about it ad nauseam. A cool girl would take it all in stride.
I am not cool.
I stomp back to him before I lose my nerve. “Why are you being like this?”
His eyes turn down to take me in. “Like what?”
“Friendly. You started off rude as hell, and for the last little while, you’re being nice to me, nicer than you need to be for this job. What’s going on?” My voice shakes because I don’t like confrontation, and although this isn’t hostile, it’s about feelings, which I also avoid. There’s a lot I don’t like about this situation, but if I get clarity on it at the end, I’ll be happier.
“I’m sorry.”
This is not what I thought he’d say. “For what?”
“Didn’t we go through this the other night?” He looks out the window into the distance. “I told you I was worried about Fangli.”
A chattering family approaches and we move to the other side of the deck.
“Right. That doesn’t explain why you want to hang out with me instead of staying at the hotel playing Candy Crush right now.”
Sam presses against the wall and crosses his arms. “Is it such a problem to be with me? You know there are people who would kill for this?”
“Name names.”
“Fine, I was lonely,” he snaps. “Happy? I was bored and you and Fangli came back glowing the other night and I wanted the same thing. I want to live for a couple hours with no expectations. I want to forget being me.”
I understand the sentiment. “Okay,” I say.
He eyes me. “Really?”
“Yeah, that’s legitimate.” I test myself. Am I hurt by this? In a way, it’s refreshing to have it out in the open. He uses me to briefly feel like a normal person. I use Fangli for money and a voyeuristic glimpse into the world of the famous. Fangli uses me to save her mental health. I use Sam for… Fine. It’s no real hardship to spend time with the Sexiest Man in the World. Shallow? Yes. True? Also yes.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “We should go back.”
I grab his sleeve as he goes past me. “No way. We said arcade.”
“You sure?” He looks doubtful, then leans in as if ready to confide his life’s secret. “Hey, Gracie?”
“What?”
“Do you know what kind of shoes ninjas wear?”
I do my best not to twist out my optic nerves while rolling my eyes. “Sneakers.”
“Oh. You know it.” His momentary disappointment is soon replaced by his game face. “Arcade time. Get ready to lose at an epic level.”