I need to talk to Fangli and Sam to get a solution. I won’t let this happen to me as if I have nothing to do or say about it. For the first time, it dawns on me that I need to give myself the same consideration I do Mom, or Fangli or Sam. I need to matter.
I go back into the suite and over to the connecting door. Better to do this in person than by phone, even though I’m not sure what to say. I know Sam’s very rightfully angry with me but this is urgent enough a problem for him to put aside his personal feelings, at least until it’s fixed.
I’m about to knock when I hear voices—Sam and Fangli are both in.
“She told ZZTV?” It’s Sam’s voice, colder than I’ve ever heard him. “You have to let her go.”
Are they talking about me?
“I trusted her.” Fangli sounds sad. “I thought she was paid enough. How could she?”
Shit, it is me. They think it’s me who ratted them out. My hand hasn’t moved but now it’s frozen. All I need to do is walk in there and tell them the truth.
What if they don’t believe me? Miranda had my name. What has she told them?
I’m desperate to know more before I go bumbling in. I’ve learned my lesson that there are no clear-cut answers in the world, no unilaterally good actions. I can’t help my mom without hurting Sam. I can’t help Fangli without lying. What I can do is get all the facts before I open my mouth and embarrass myself yet again.
“Keep your voice down,” Fangli says. “She can’t hear this, not yet.”
Sam answers in rapid Mandarin, no doubt to hide what they’re saying about me from me, and I’m lost.
No, I’m not.
I grab my phone and tap the new language app I found, the real-time audio translator. My conscience hits as I hold it up to the crack in the door but it quickly disappears as I read the translated text. I know it’s not going to be one hundred percent accurate but it will at least give me the gist of their conversation so I can go in prepared.
“What benefit was there from the suitcase?” This is Fangli. This stupid translator. What the hell is the suitcase?
“Greed.” Sam’s voice comes through clear enough. I stare at the words appearing on the screen so hard they blur. “Envy.”
“There was enough.”
“For some people, there’s never enough. I should have traveled sooner.” He sounds furious. “That argument caused this.”
“You heat lamp have known.”
“We can’t trust coffee.”
“It must have been the mackerel.” This is Fangli. “I’ll talk to her. I hate it.”
“I’ll do it for cheese.”
“Sam, it’s my responsibility. I hired her.”
That’s me Fangli is worried about firing. And Sam offered to do it for her. Their voices dip too low for the translator, and I back away from the door until I bump the table with my hip. I look down without seeing it, my attention held by the conversation going on behind that door between two people I had come to consider friends and, in Sam’s case, more than friends.
Then I creep back and slowly twist the bolt to lock my side of the door. I act on impulse, only knowing that I need to stop any chance of either of them coming in. I need to think this through logically but my mind jumps from one idea to another without lingering long enough for me to process. I need to think. I can’t think. It’s too much.
There’s an aura around my sight, almost like tunnel vision. My eyes light on a jar of poppies on the table before they travel to my phone, which I don’t remember putting down. The chairs are all tidily tucked under the wooden table and I see a pen near the edge. My hand combs over my hair, short and stiff with product, before giving my earring a slight tug and running the hem of my shirt through my fingers. I grab the back of a chair. My thoughts begin to slow. A siren wails from the street outside and the refrigerator hums in the corner. In the hall, I hear someone laugh. The room smells of the candles I lit last night, a rich lavender, mixed with the purple hyacinth scent from the perfume drawer of wonders. Finally, I run my tongue over my lip and taste the synthetic fruit of my lip balm.
My chest hitches a bit as I inhale, like my body is trying not to cry but I force the air in again and again. I’m not okay but I can function, which is the best I can ask for right now.
Sam might have liked me but not enough. It’s only slightly less painful than if he didn’t have feelings for me at all. Whatever he felt, it wasn’t sufficient for him to default to my side when he thought I sold them out and called ZZTV. Fangli is the one who mattered.
I can’t prevent the wave of self-disgust. I should have known this would end in disaster because that’s what happens when you reach too high. I forgot that this little bubble I’m in isn’t real.
The best thing for me to do would be to unlock that door, explain that I did not call ZZTV, thank them for their time, and leave.
I want to. I know I should.
I don’t have the guts.
I’m done, but I can do Fangli the favor of not forcing her to fire me in a painful and stress-inducing conversation. I can help her one last time by clearing out with enough class to leave us all with some dignity and without hostility.
It doesn’t take me long to pack.
Then I write an email to Fangli.
You probably know that ZZTV called me to get my side of the story. I hung up on them. I know I signed the NDA, but even if I hadn’t, I never would have told them. I overheard you and Sam but I swear it wasn’t me who told ZZTV.
I wish I could spend more time with you. I’ll miss you. Thank you for everything.
I hesitate, weighed down by the thirty grand sitting in my bank account. Should I keep it? The money might be tainted but I did earn it. I decide to keep it but tell her I understand if she wants me to return it and of course I waive all rights to the rest of the money.
I read it over a few times before I decide it will do.
Sam, though, Sam’s another story. He knew I needed the money for Mom, not out of greed or ego. Refusing the rest of the pay seems like a message to Sam as well, at least in my head. I walk out the door, and right before I enter the subway, I click Send and then block both their numbers from my phone. It’s better this way.
Just like that, it’s all done. I’m back to being Gracie Reed, sad, jobless loser.
Thirty-Five
It almost feels like getting fired all over again, but with more heartache and in a less comfortable environment since I decided to get an Airbnb for a few days. Thanks to their detective’s dossier, Sam and Fangli know where I live. I don’t want to talk to either of them because it would be too painful to have to recount what I said in the letter in person. A clean break is the best break for both bones and relationships.
It’s no Xanadu, but it’s cute, a small sunny apartment in a low-rise on the other side of town. The central design element in the living room is a hard couch that I sit on for hours, staring at my phone, half expecting and half dreading what could happen and refreshing my browser every three minutes to see if I’ve been publicly shamed. Thank God my social media is under the generic @gracie_graceTO, so I don’t need to worry about that getting flooded. I can watch cat videos in peace even if I need to go into hiding from the world.
For the twentieth time, I almost check to see if Sam or Fangli have shown up in my voicemail for blocked callers. I toss the phone aside. That experience is over and whether they try to contact me or not doesn’t matter. It’s done. I’m done.
Rectitude. If I’d acted with rectitude, I wouldn’t be in this position now. I wouldn’t have a thing to be ashamed about.
I call Anjali and tell her I left and that ZZTV called. I leave out the part about eavesdropping. That hurts too much to talk about.
“I’m sorry, Gracie.” Her voice is gentle and holds none of the smugness she’s entitled to as a result of being correct that this would end in tears. She’s in Vancouver for work, but physical distance has not prevented her from taking on the role of cheerleader with a vengeance.