Twenty-Three
The theater is within walking distance of the hotel, and I leave a bit early to take in the sun on my way there. It’s a beautiful day, with a sky blue enough to be in postcards.
It takes my eyes a minute to adjust to the dim theater lobby after the summer sun’s bone-white gleam. I’ve been here before, but even if I hadn’t, it’s exactly what you’d expect a theater to look like, with dark wood, red carpeting, and gilt fixtures. Mei set me up with a great ticket in the middle of the orchestra section and strict instructions to keep on the fake eyeglasses she’s provided. An usher hands me a program as I make my way to the red velvet seat and I tilt the booklet at an awkward angle to catch enough light to read before the play starts. I’ve read the script so I skip the synopsis to spend an extra minute checking the bios. Sam’s wearing a black collared shirt and a huge grin, while Fangli has a sly expression and her hair tumbling around her shoulders.
The seats fill up rapidly, and after the warnings to turn off phones and that filming is prohibited, followed by the Indigenous land acknowledgment, the lights dim and the curtain rises to thunderous applause.
The first act takes place in a Chinese restaurant, with white-draped tables and black cane-backed chairs. Fangli appears wearing a blue dress with a tight waist, and her waved hair makes her look like a 1940s pinup. She is perfection as she moves around the chairs. Even silent, she manages to keep my attention with her sheer presence.
Then Sam comes onto the stage. I do my best to not stare at him, but it’s like trying to avoid gazing at the sun during an eclipse. I know I shouldn’t and that it will be bad for me, but I can’t resist a little peek because surely that can’t do any damage.
He’s dressed in a dark-gray suit, and they’ve styled his hair to reveal his face instead of his usual tousled look. When he tugs on the bottom of the vest, I add it immediately to the hot-things-hot-men-do list, which I fully recognize is a hot-things-Sam-does list.
Together, the two of them weave a story with more than their words. Their every action adds layers. I watch with avid eyes as they build their relationship around a multitude of secrets—his upcoming secret mission in Southeast Asia, her absent and despised fiancé.
Before the intermission, their chemistry has become a tangible thing, drawing in the audience. Fangli-as-Lin is powerfully attracted to Sam-as-Jimmy, although she knows he’s hiding something from her. Jimmy feels the same and is finding it difficult to resist her. I watch him, barely breathing, as Lin reaches out to touch his lapel and he moves from her with a quick step to lean against the wall.
Then the lights come up and the crowd relaxes in their seats with a collective sigh. The people around me file out in search of wine and washrooms, and I check my phone to distract myself from visions of a gray-suited Sam dancing in my eyes.
There’s a text from Mei. Change to tonight’s event. Attending children’s hospital for a meet and greet before gala. Leave one hour early.
Got it, I send back. Thanks for the ticket, the seat is great.
Silence. I’m left with the uncomfortable sense that I’ve offended her, even over text. I don’t see how—I’ve been faithful about doing my best, which I thought made her life easier. I’ll try to do better; that might help soften her.
The woman beside me sits back down with a sippy cup of white wine and turns to her friend, who is also holding a clear lidded plastic cup. They’re loud enough that I suspect those aren’t the first they’ve had.
“Beautiful story,” says the one next to me as she adjusts her polo shirt.
“A bit unrealistic.” Her friend downs at least a third of the glass in a gulp. “All the Asians were put in camps during the war, so there’s no way they could volunteer to fight.”
“Really? I had no idea. You learn something every day.”
My eyes shift over to them as if magnetized. I can’t believe anyone is this ignorant of history but I guess you care less if you don’t consider it your story.
“I knew a Chinese girl from book club.” The woman nods confidently as if this has given her the equivalent of a PhD in East Asian studies.
I have to interrupt despite Mei’s caution to keep a low profile. “Sorry, but that’s not true.” I settle the glasses more firmly on my face and lean over. “There’s a historical note in the program.”
Their faces freeze. “Why, thank you, dear,” says the one woman. That’s it. They turn back to each other, politely ignoring me, and chat quietly. Then I hear “The lead is quite attractive for an Oriental man.”
“He sure is. I wasn’t sure about these last-minute tickets instead of a musical but I suppose it’s quite cultural.”
They’re beyond redemption. I let them go back to their wine.
The curtain rises and the action blasts the two women right out of my mind. Much like when I watched The Pearl Lotus, I find it hard to stop watching Sam. He’s utterly compelling, and I remember what he said about navigating through an environment instead of simply getting from A to B. He’s not fluid like a dancer but so controlled his every movement is poetry. The Sam I watch on that stage is not like the Sam I know, and I wonder how he channels his energy. I’m awed at his ability to physically conjure emotions, and I force myself to stay away from thoughts of what he’s like in bed. It’s hopeless because when he reaches for Fangli and moves her against the wall, capturing her with his arms on each side of her head, Sam is so convincing I believe he’ll do anything to get Fangli to submit body and soul.
No, Jimmy. Jimmy and Lin, not Sam and Fangli.
When the show ends, there’s a standing ovation when the actors come out to bow, and I go out at the other end of the row so I can avoid the two women.
I leave the theater in a pensive mood. That I’m harboring these emotions toward Sam is unwelcome, and I need the steady beat of my steps to get my thoughts in order. The first and most obvious reason is that I don’t have a thing for Sam at all but for what he represents. Put any rich, handsome, and famous man in his place and I’d have the same skin prickles, like getting in an overly hot bath when you’re cold.
Except I was at a premiere last night with several rich, handsome, and famous men in attendance and I barely noticed. Apparently Chris Evans was there. Normally, Chris Evans being within a kilometer radius of me would have been enough to trigger a DEFCON level status change in my hormones but I didn’t know until I checked the celebrity gossip pages this morning. This is Captain America we’re talking about, the best Chris.
If I accept it is Sam, then what is it about him? I pause to think this through and then duck into a little park to stop getting jostled by the crowd and take a sunny seat on a peeling wooden bench. Being with Sam, despite his many faults and failings, makes me feel alive. That strange low-level yearning for something different, something more, quiets when I’m with him. I’m alert.
More unwelcome news because if there’s one thing I’ve been taught, it’s that you find meaning and value from life through yourself, not a man or anyone. Independence is the pinnacle, and while a man can be a companion, it’s a grave mistake to think he can be your center. You should never be a satellite orbiting your own life. Mom drilled this in me from childhood but did she live that philosophy? She was bereft when Dad died.
I jump up and stride away as if to physically leave these thoughts on the seat next to me. I’m exaggerating all this. Sam is in my life for another six weeks, maximum, and so far there have been zero signs of him reciprocating any interest, as I saw firsthand the other day. I need to redirect those energies into a more positive project, like my Eppy planner.
On my way back to the Xanadu, my phone buzzes with a text from Anjali. Hey.
Yo yo yo, I write back.
Anjali: Are you kidding?
Me: All the cool kids say it. What’s up?
Anjali: Rough day, she writes.
That’s not usually like her. I hesitate. Can I call you?
Anjali: Yeah.
She picks up on the first ring. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“Work stuff.” She sounds down. “This life coach. I’m trying to integrate what he says into my work style.”
“Is it not working?”
“I get what he’s doing,” she says. “I need to tone it down to get shit done, give people space to make mistakes.”
“I hear a but.”
“I feel like an imposter,” she says, each word dragged out. “It doesn’t feel like me. Do you think I was such a jerk before?”
“No. It’s not bad to be assertive, confident, and open about your feelings. I thought you liked the coach.”
“I did at first, but now I don’t know.” She sounds discouraged. “At work, they keep second-guessing me. That’s never happened before.”
“You’re a project manager. It’s your job to make decisions and get the work done.”
“I know.”
“Anjali, you know you can stop, right?”
“What?”
“This life coach. He’s not, like, a god. You can thank him kindly for his time and stop seeing him.”
There’s a long silence. “He was so helpful. It made me think more deeply about things.”
“You’ve gotten what you can, and now you can leave.”
“I can, can’t I?” She sounds a bit happier.
“Yup.”
“I’ve got two more sessions prepaid,” she says practically.
“Tell the guy it’s not working and to change his approach, then. You’re paying him.”
“Thanks, Gracie.” Anjali sounds relieved. “I needed to talk this out.”
“No problem.”
We talk a bit more and hang up. Then it dawns on me that was the first time we’ve talked on the phone. We always text or meet up. I feel like I’ve unlocked a friendship achievement.
The rest of the day passes peacefully. I go for a run, and the physical activity, which I’ve been missing, does wonders for my mood. Could this whole Sam crush thing be the result of not getting enough exercise?
I see Sam in the hallway as I come back up, and there’s no disguising my sweaty and matted-haired self. He’s in a black ball cap pulled low and his hair covers his eyes.
“We should talk about the event tonight,” he says as a greeting. He follows me in and grabs a drink out of my fridge as I pour a glass of water. If I don’t drink at least two, I’ll get a brutal dehydration headache.
“Is Fangli out?”
“She’ll be back before we need to leave.” He takes off the cap and runs his hand through his hair. “What did you think of today?”
“It was amazing. Were you channeling that detective in Gold Road deliberately?”
He puts the bottle down with a clink on the table. “What do you mean?”
“The scene with Fangli, when you moved her against the wall.”
“Yes, I know it.” He makes an impatient gesture. Is this a big deal? I guess it is.
“It was the same thing you did in Gold Road.”
“That movie is eight years old.”
“Well, I only saw it the other day,” I defend myself.
“What else did you see?”
“Nothing. It’s not like I studied you.” Although, since I’ve seen enough of his movies to pick up his tells, I feel I’m well on my way to a graduate degree in Samonomics.
He’s about to press me when the phone rings and I grab it. One of the nurses from Mom’s home tells me that she’s been agitated all day. “I know how busy you are, but it might soothe her if you came by, even if you can only manage a few minutes.”
“Of course.”
I hang up and check the time. It’s already four, so I do some quick calculations. If I take a cab…but rush hour’s starting. The TTC will be faster. “I need to see my mom,” I tell Sam. “I can get ready there and meet you at the hospital.”
“There’s no way you’ll make it,” he says. “I’ll come with you.”
“What? No.”
“It’s easiest and the most effective use of our time.”
“Think this through. Why would Sam Yao, celebrity, be visiting my mom? With me as Fangli?”
“Well, and what would Fangli be doing taking the subway in full gala dress?” He grins and those dimples appear like magic. “I bet you dinner no one will notice. Do your makeup and put on your Fangli clothes for when we leave the hotel.”
“You’re sure you want to go? We might get rumbled.”
“As I said, this will be more efficient so it makes practical sense.” He gives me a look. “Trust me. I’m not reckless.”
He must be confident if he’s willing to risk blowing my Fangli cover, so I don’t back down from the bet. “You’re on.”
“Pack a hat and change of clothes.” He raises his eyebrows. “I’ll start thinking about where you’ll take me for dinner.”