Worse, she would be disappointed in me.
The door opens and I realize that if my university years have taught me anything, it’s that although bar washrooms have witnessed many an existential/love crisis, they aren’t great places to have them. I check my face in my phone and go out to wash my hands. I might not have shown any ethical morals earlier, but my business morals know that I made a deal to pretend to be Fangli and being present at this event is part of the job. I can have my meltdown later, I tell myself as I push my hair behind my shoulders.
Once I force myself into the right headspace, the gala goes surprisingly well. Despite my dark night of the soul, I’m able to channel Fangli so smoothly that Sam feels confident enough to leave me now and then so we can stop our codependent orbiting. A few people speak to me in Mandarin, but when I answer in English with my explanation, they take it in good humor. No one touches me. Todd’s not there. No one asks for an autograph or a photo. The food is tasty and I leave the carrots on the side. The speeches are even good because they’re about the kids. I don’t drink, but holy God, do I want to. I decide to empty that minibar when I get home.
So I do.
Twenty-Six
My close friend hangxiety visits with a vengeance at five in the morning, yanking me into total wakefulness with its grabby hands. What did I do? What did I say? At least I had the foresight to hide my phone before I opened that first tiny vodka bottle so I don’t need to worry about discovering humiliating and misspelled drunken texts.
I groan into the pillow and try to ignore the parade of images that trot through my mind. But I can’t. It’s not what I did while I was drinking that’s affecting me; it’s what led up to me opening that fridge in the first place. I can still feel Dad’s phantom arms around me, but when he looks at me, it’s with Laurence’s huge eyes, sparkling with excitement at the prospect of writing a movie for his favorite actor. I pull the pillow over my face and nearly hyperventilate from stress and lack of oxygen.
I need to tell Fangli that I can’t do this anymore.
There’s more than a month left on this contract but seeing it through to the end feels wrong, or at least wrong for the person I want to be. I wish it was more straightforward because I don’t want to lie to people but I hate having to tell Fangli I’m breaking my promise.
Then there’s the money. What Fangli offered is more than two years’ salary and a lot to walk away from without a damn good reason. That’s Mom’s ticket out of Glen Lake.
Curling up on my side, I wrap my arms around a pillow. I want someone to talk to, but I can’t tell Mom and Anjali made it clear from the beginning this was a bad idea. Sam and Fangli and Mei are obviously not good candidates for a heart-to-heart.
Like always, I’m on my own.
I turn over and hit the pillow with an impotent fist. I’m always on my own. In movies and books, women seem to have a “you go, girl” squad-posse of personal cheerleaders but that’s not how my life turned out. Most of the time, it’s not an issue but today all I want is a person, my person, who I can call and who will drop everything to be by my side. Anjali and I are getting closer but we’re not at that level and I don’t want to be a nuisance. I see it with Fangli and Sam and I want the same bond because if I had that person, I could ask them for advice. I could tell them that I was tired of blending in but that I don’t want to stand out the way Fangli does. I’d ask them how I can be my best Gracie.
And they’d let me talk and soothe me and then probably tell me this isn’t the way to do it.
What should I do, then?
I think of what Anjali would say. You know what you need to do.
I need to break the contract. I need to give up that money and the freedom it represents. I roll on my back. I don’t want to do that at all but I can’t feel like this anymore. I don’t want to lie. I want to be like the man I was named after, a man who had principles and stuck to them. I want to start living my own life and stop putting it on hold for others.
That’s enough to get me out of bed. I drink some water, pull on a robe, and go sit outside on the balcony, the early morning cool acting as a balm for the slight nausea remaining from my hangover. I watch the sunrise with my notebook on my lap, but my contentment with watching the waves on the lake only lasts a minute before I need to do something, anything.
I open the notebook to a fresh page and start to work. Of course, it goes well because life is like one of those stars you make by drawing a line up, down and to the sides. Love, health, wealth, family, and work sit on the angles, and if one goes well, it pulls to the side and the lines contract. Love and family life great? Bet you get fired. Excellent new job? Guess who’s getting dumped. Everything hovering in equilibrium? Things are boring. It’s like life doesn’t have enough space to expand those lines so you can experience all you want all at once.
Once I’m happy with what I have, I put the notebook away and get a mint tea. Right now, my work—Eppy—is going well and contracting everything else, so I’ll focus on that. So far I have the basic idea of it set out in spreadsheet form. It’s basically a day calendar but with columns for different areas of your life, so you can see at a glance all the things you have to do and when you have time to complete tasks. I tap my finger on the table, thinking hard and glancing over the notes I made after talking to Sam. At least I can be grateful I have this. One thing is working.
When a pale light breaks across the horizon, I decide to go for a walk to clear my mind. The tension about Fangli is gone now because I know what I need to do. I’ll tell her I’m sorry but I can’t work for her anymore. Then I’ll suggest a therapist. I won’t hint; I’ll tell her straight out the way I should have the other day.
I pull on a sweater and stuff my feet into a pair of sandals and my phone into my pocket. In the hallway, the only sound is my soles scuffling across the carpet and the ding of the elevator when it arrives. The concierge is busy making notes in a binder so I slip out without him seeing me.
I love walking around a city as it wakes up, the doors and windows winking open as if they’re the eyes of the street. A few people are out even at this early hour, yawning over cups of coffee clutched in lazy hands. A woman walks down the middle of the sidewalk wearing last night’s dress and a satisfied smile. She’s limping a bit in her high heels and then she pauses, balances herself against the wall and unstraps them. When she passes me, she’s walking barefoot and swinging her shoes as she hums this summer’s Drake song.
“Gracie?” A man dressed all in black with a ball cap stops and pulls out his earbuds. It’s Sam, sweaty from a morning run. “You’re up early,” he says.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
He peers at me and takes off his hat as if that will help him see better. “Are you well?”
Now. I should tell him right now so he can prepare Fangli. “Sam, I need to talk to you.”
“What about?” He looks apprehensive, probably since nothing good ever comes after we need to talk.
A happy bop bursts from his hand and he lifts his phone. “Mei,” he says. “Strange, she usually texts. Do you mind if I answer?”
I wave permission; I’m curious as well and this will give me time to think of how to phrase what I want to say. I need to get it out before I can feel bad about leaving them in the lurch. The key is to make it clear there’s no changing my mind, that it’s very unfortunate but there’s simply nothing to be done about it. Sympathetic to the situation but matter-of-fact in how it’s going to end.
Sam’s expression darkens and I can hear a faint echo of Mei’s voice. “Hao,” he says. They talk for another minute and he disconnects.
“We have a problem,” he says. “Fangli is sick.”
“Like with the flu or something?”