I’m too grateful to argue. “Thank you.”
“She’s my mother, too, although I have a lot of feelings. I need to process what to do.”
“When you decide, I can bring you to her. If you want. Only if you want.”
“Do you think she wants it?” Her lids flutter to keep back the tears.
“Yes.” I don’t elaborate or explain. I don’t want to pressure Fangli but she needs to know that Mom wants her.
Fangli curls in a ball. “I need to think.”
“I know.”
“It’s too much.” She looks apologetic.
“She’s stable,” I say. “Nothing’s urgent.”
That seems to reassure her because she lifts her chin and then gives me her old small smile. “I should go. I need some time before the show tonight. I’ll see you soon? Promise?”
Her eagerness sets aside any anxiety I had that I’ll be intruding on her life. “Yes, soon.”
“I can’t convince you to be my double for a very boring party tomorrow?” she teases.
“Not a chance in hell.”
She tucks her hands between her knees. “I’m sorry I made you do that when you weren’t comfortable with it. I shouldn’t joke.”
“I did it because I wanted to,” I tell her. “I stopped when I had to. It was my choice.” It was my decision and I know now there’s more power in owning my own decisions than pretending I had no alternative.
“Before I forget.” She sends me a text and I check my phone.
“Did you change your number?”
“No.” She stands up. “It’s Sam’s.”
Sam. I look at the daunting gray text bubble. “Do you think he wants to talk to me? What do I say?”
She’s already in the hall and looks at me over her shoulder in the pose I’ve also mastered. “I think the globally trending creator of the hottest planner on the planet can figure it out.” She winks. “Good luck, Sister.”
Forty
Fangli’s faith in me is sorely misplaced because it takes me two days to text Sam. Part of it is that I keep hoping he’ll text me. I mean, in a movie, I give the hint to his friend, his friend tells him, and he gets in touch with me. But Sam doesn’t.
Who does call, literally as I’m picking up the business card to act on the first of my Don’t Think, Do tasks （Sam being the second）， is Robin Banerjee’s executive assistant, who invites me to his office to talk about funding.
“He knows about Eppy?”
“Sure does.” Marcus, the executive assistant, laughs. “Everyone at the office has been using it. I finally got the thank-you notes for my wedding in the mail because of Eppy. We were married eight months ago.”
I beam at the phone as we sort out the appointment time, and when I disconnect, I hug the phone to my chest and dance an uncoordinated jig.
Robin Banerjee wants to know more about Eppy. He asked me.
Nerves take over but this time, I’m not alone. Fangli and Anjali are both there to coach me through. I check through the simultaneous text conversations and feel my courage grow.
Anjali: You’re doing him a favor by meeting. It’s popular and he knows more people will be after you.
Fangli: I met with my futurist. She’s using Eppy. This is a winner and you did it.
Anjali: Do that thing where you lift up your arms Rocky-style to build physical confidence before you go in if you need it. Saw it on a TED Talk.
Fangli: I believe in you.
Anjali: [Rocky montage GIF]
An hour before the meeting, I put on a green dress, paint my lips oxblood, and tell my mirror reflection You got this until I feel it in my very trembly bones.
Then I gather my laptop and my notes, and I go in ready to impress Robin Banerjee enough to get the money I need for my app. It’s not a favor, I remind myself. The investment will make both of us successful. Eppy is valuable.
The office is in an industrial part of the city that’s been taken over by tech start-ups and circus arts schools. Marcus greets me with a smile and sets me up with water in Robin’s office, which is walled with whiteboards and littered with Rubik’s cubes and building blocks. A jar of tall, pink hollyhocks provides a spot of color.
I don’t even wait a minute before Robin comes in. He gives me a warm smile and a wave.
“Saw the tweet from Sam Yao and gave Eppy a go,” he says by way of introduction. Robin is my height and bald and has a smile that covers his face. Unlike the suit at the Chanel party, today he’s wearing a black hoodie and cargo pants and huge gleaming basketball shoes you would never wear to play any sport. “Good stuff. I like your story.”