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.”