“Then stop squirming around,” he mutters.
“Can I go to the washroom?”
“No.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, do rich people not pee?” This is a very not-Fangli thing to say and the dark look Sam shoots me confirms it.
“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think,” he whispers.
There’s some solace in knowing he’s probably right. The chances of anyone looking at my stomach for the three minutes it will take me to get to the washroom for some adjustments are minimal. That is, as long as the Spanx don’t fall down completely. I take a few deeper breaths and wince as the elastic cuts into the fleshy part of my hips. That’s going to leave a mark.
What I need is distraction, like when you’re trying to get through the last ten seconds of a plank pose. The movie is good but not good enough, so my mind sorts through all my current issues: looking for a job, worrying about Mom, getting caught as a fake Fangli. Then it lands on the one that looms largest because he’s physically right beside me.
Sam.
There’s always an intimacy in a dark movie theater, and having him so near and in that suit is enough to send my imagination into overdrive. Sam taking my hand and pulling me close. Sam, his arm wrapped around me as he laughs in my ear at an excellent joke I’ve made. Sam watching me get ready before he pulls me back on the bed, his black hair and tanned skin a striking contrast to the white sheet. Sam giving me that same look as the first time in Fangli’s suite, but this time meaning it. Sam seeing me and not Fangli’s double.
The images on the screen pass by without me noticing what’s occurring because I’m thinking about Sam. Just for this little while, I promise myself. Only for the amount of time it takes for this movie to run will I let myself dive into the fantasy of what it would be like to be wanted by Sam, to be one of the few to know the man beneath that public exterior. To have him only want me.
I stifle a heavy sigh. It’s sweet that he and Fangli are such good friends but I’m even jealous of that. Not of Fangli specifically, but of the strength of their relationship. There’s a level of trust between them that can only have been forged through supporting each other in the hard times, when the work is difficult and you’re going to collapse because every muscle aches from fatigue. They know they can turn to each other.
The movie ends too soon and I reluctantly bid my dreams goodbye. I’m back to being fake Fangli with her Spanx cutting off her circulation.
“Beautiful tones,” approves the man beside me. “That palette was perfect.”
“Gorgeous,” I agree. Sam stands, and when I do, my Spanx slip down further. Sam senses my sudden grab because he glances back and then down. His eyes widen slightly.
Ah, so it is as bad as I thought. I can’t decide if this means vindication or humiliation.
I hobble out of the row after him and he puts his arm around my waist with his palm flat and spread against my hip. His touch is firm because he’s trying to keep up the damn elastic. We walk as if we’re in a three-legged race to the washroom, Sam with his dazzling social smile and me beside him. He leaves me at the door.
There’s a line. I can’t believe it. The men are probably swanning up to the urinals without a care in the world. Between my underwear, hunger, and this stupid aching yearning for Sam that I did to myself, I’m so done with tonight.
Sam is talking to a strange woman when I come out with my precarious undergarments now under control. Our gazes catch as I head toward him. He doesn’t stop his conversation but the eye contact lingers about two seconds longer than it should and I try to avoid stumbling over my own feet.
Don’t read into this. All that happened is that he looked at me as I approached. He’s looked at me before. He will look at me again and see me as part of a job.
I don’t want to be his job. I want to think he was looking at me, Gracie, the person who loves a generously poured glass of wine and thinks way too much about organizational planners, and not an alternate Fangli. This isn’t safe.
Then someone grabs me by the arm, hard, squealing into my ear.
“I can’t believe it’s really you!” A wide-eyed blond woman leans close, too close, and her grip on my arm doesn’t soften. “Can I get a selfie?”
This is what Fangli meant by people acting as if she’s nothing more than a robot. Sam’s at my side in a moment, but she doesn’t take her eyes off me.
If I humor her, it will end faster. “Of course,” I say politely.