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.
I’m on a roll. Fuck you, Sam, and you, Todd, and you, Mei, for making conversation hard even though I was an asshole to blame you for my shortcomings. Not you, Fangli. You’re okay.
I might be fueled by negative energy but I tap away with frantic fingers, not even going back to correct my typos because I don’t want to break my train of thought. I lose myself in my own words as I write, each idea leading to another and connecting again. I’m so involved that I don’t even notice Mei entering the room—since she comes from the adjoining suite, the multiple door locks don’t block her—until she sits beside me at the table. Even then it takes me a few seconds to get out of my mind space.
She says nothing but puts her tablet down on the table in front of me. It shows a photo of me from last night, and although I’m initially relieved to see that I look exactly like Fangli because makeup is magic, I can tell from Mei’s face the story isn’t as positive as it could be. I skim the text.
Chinese megastar Wei Fangli was missing her megawatt smile last night at a private exhibit at the Museum of Contemporary Art. It might have been the sore throat that prevented her from speaking, but sources say there’s trouble in paradise in her rumored long-time relationship with superstar Sam Yao. Both are in Toronto starring in Operation Oblivion, a World War Two drama showing at the Royal Alexandra Theatre.
“Who are the sources?” I ask. This is bad news because I thought Sam and I had been doing quite well, at least in public.
Mei says nothing, as usual.
Fangli comes in, her eyes wide. “What happened?” she demands. When she sits, her right leg jiggles up and down in a rapid staccato.
“It was my fault,” I say. Fangli isn’t herself.
“I thought you said you were getting along.” Her leg moves faster, and Mei shifts her gaze to the floor.
“We are.” I lower my voice to soothe her. Mei meets my eyes but I can’t tell what she’s thinking so I’m on my own. “Fangli, look at me.”
She does with wide eyes that I don’t like the look of.
“It was my fault,” I repeat slowly. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”
This seems to get through because the leg shaking slows.
“It was an off night,” I say. “I was nervous but I know what to expect now. It won’t happen again.”
As I say the words, I realize I mean them. Despite the dickish way he delivered the message, Sam was right. I’ve been a half person, just doing the minimum to get by because I haven’t had the spirit to do more, not with Todd and my mom and life. I don’t want that anymore. I told Fangli I’d do a job and I’m going to do it, but in my own way. I’ve been too passive, a balloon buffeted by the wind.
Fangli’s face doesn’t change, but her leg stops moving.