“That was a good solution to the problem.” Or…I could have explained that I’m only speaking English while in Canada, like I was supposed to. The pressure made me forget what we had planned for this exact situation.
He shoves back from the table. “Wrong. You were hired to do a job and you didn’t do it. Mei spent hours with you, hours she should have been spending doing her goddamn job, and you threw it away.”
I never thought that Mei also had work to do full-time for Fangli. “Part of her job is to help me.”
That’s a jerk thing to say, and I know it the fucking second it comes out of my mouth. Embarrassed, I double down, stick my chin out, and go on the offensive. “None of you mentioned autographs. I was unprepared.”
He looks at me in honest surprise. “Are you unable to think independently about what might come up and plan for it?”
“Hey, sorry I’m not rich and famous. People don’t go around asking for my autograph. You should have told me.”
“That people ask for autographs is only common sense.”
“Not to me and apparently not to Mei.” Digging myself in deeper.
“Don’t blame Mei.” Sam puts one hand on the table. “You’re not even trying. This is more than pulling on a wig. You need to make an effort. Acting is work, and it doesn’t matter if you’re on the stage or attending that party.”
Sam’s about a meter from me and I can see the muscle in his jaw twitching. “I am trying,” I grit out.
“This matters,” he snaps. “I told Fangli this was a fucking terrible idea but she was sure you could do it.”
I hear the unspoken words loud and clear. Look at how wrong she was.
“I can do it.”
“Tonight was your chance and you faked losing your voice.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “How did you think that was a reasonable solution?”
I look down at the table. “I lost my nerve, okay? I admit it.”
He doesn’t give me the sympathy I’m fishing for. Sam adjusts his jacket and I have to look up to see his face, which is stern. “There’s no room for you to lose your nerve. Do better.”
With that, he brushes past me and out the door. I lunge after him and throw all three locks so he can’t get back in because I forgot to get the key off him again. Right now, though, that’s the least of my worries.
I rip off the jumpsuit and throw it into the corner before I pick it up, smoothing out the wrinkles in the fabric with my hand. Sam’s right and I hate him for it because it highlights how I failed. I took a risk and I screwed it up. That’s all on me, even though I gutlessly tried to pin it on Mei. I was an idiot to think I could do this.
For Fangli and Sam and Mei, this is real and it has an impact. I like Fangli. I’m sorry for her. I’m deep in the throes of the Benjamin Franklin effect—I like her more because she asked me to do her a favor. Even if it was for money.
I throw myself on the bed and start peeling the miserable plastic disks off my chest. It’s a bad day for my body hair because much like the face mask earlier, the boob supporters are doing an excellent job of epilating any skin they’ve been in contact with. After trudging to the bathroom and double cleansing my face, I look in the mirror. My face and chest are covered with red blotches and I sigh.
Ever since I had to put Mom into the home, I’ve made a pleat here and a crease there to origami my life to become small and manageable. Although I was never as bold as Anjali, who once quit her job and started her own business to see what it was like, I was brave enough to want to live instead of settling for existing. Before Mom got too sick, I sought out experiences. Not like I was going to bungee jump out of a plane or anything, but I took an art class and forced myself to be social. I went for dinner by myself because I wanted to. I joined Anjali on a last-minute trip to Cuba. No big deal for some people but enough for me to feel like I was reaching out of my middle-of-the-road comfort zone. Now I’m as vulnerable as a snail without a shell, an easy mark for the Todds of the world to come by and sprinkle salt on me like an unpleasant child happy to flex what little power they have.
I plod into the bathroom and slather on a variety of creams before I pull on pajamas and climb into bed, pulling the covers high as I give in to the stress of the night. Seeing Todd hit me harder than I thought it would, and now I have the additional worry of hoping he doesn’t cop on to what I’m doing for Fangli. My mind automatically goes to the ZZTV interview and Mom getting hounded in the nursing home because of her imposter daughter. Fangli’s reputation in tatters. The end of the world, really, because that’s the final destination of every journey I take down Anxiety Road.
Sam’s comments cut deep, too. I so stupidly thought we had a connection. Now I see how wrong I was, because to him, I’m first and foremost an employee who isn’t performing up to expectations. I thought he chose me an outfit because he wanted to see me look good, but it was for Fangli. Escorting me close enough to touch through the art exhibit? Because that’s what people expected to see. Taking my hand to guide the pen? Because he wanted me to learn the stupid signature. This is a job to him and I thought I was so fabulous that Sam Yao might be having feelings for me, like some fairy tale. I’d even forgotten that mystery girlfriend Mei alluded to and Sam has never mentioned.
I bury my face in the pillow and hum to try to drown out the remorseless shame that slices through my skin, leaving cold tingles in its wake. We’ve known each other less than a week; what do I even know about him? I’m a nobody and he hangs out with celebrities because—news flash—he’s one of the hottest commodities on the globe. Of course I’m nothing but a temporary person in his life, nothing special. Nobody unique. The only saving grace in this fiasco is that all this only happened in my head. Sam has no idea I was wondering about kissing him at the art gallery, and he’s never, ever going to find out. This is a job, a short-term contract, and I’m an utterly delusional fool for thinking the Sam I saw was the real man and not a character.
Plus I haven’t seen Mom in days. She must be lonely. I put out my hand for my phone, thinking that maybe I can text Anjali to talk me down, but then I see the time. It’s late and I don’t want to bother her.
The tears come hot and ugly. I bury my face back into the pillow, my breath gasping as sobs rack my body, forcing me to curl up with my knees close. The heat of my breath combines with the tears to stick the white cotton to my face. It only lasts a few minutes, but by the time I peel the pillow off, hiccupping, I’m drained.
I turn over the pillow to the dry side and pull the covers over my head. Then I go to sleep, tears leaking out from the eyelids I’ve squeezed shut.
Seventeen
The next day, I wake early, right at dawn, and lie for a moment on the sheets debating whether to get up or go back to sleep. After the emotional eruption of the previous night, I’d thought my rest would be wrecked by nightmares but I slept better than I have in a long time. Out of habit, I check my phone. No texts from Sam, the same as always, because he has never thought about me as anything other than a job.
Right. Get up.
In the bathroom, I check my skin. As hoped, the blotches are gone. My eyes are lit with a subtle golden light, a nice side effect from the crying, as if I’ve flooded the impurities out of my eyeballs. I wash up, and after I remove the traces of tears from my cheeks, I’m refreshed in a way that I haven’t felt in a while.
Back in the main suite, I make a coffee from the pod machine and pull out my laptop to transcribe and organize all the notes about my new task system. My breakdown last night was an eye-opener and I face the coming day with something approaching zest. Fuck Sam. He thinks I suck? I’ll show him. He thinks I’m not trying? Screw him.
Fuck Todd, on principle.