“Gracie.” Sam brings his hand up and rests it on my hair but doesn’t say more than my name.
I can’t cry. I cried so much for Dad over the years that right now my dry eyes are burning. My breath goes hot against Sam’s shirt and I turn my head slightly to the side. I’m not panting but my heart is racing and he runs his hand over my head with slow and deliberate strokes to calm me. I look at the wall but I can’t see a thing. I’m only existing.
I don’t know how long it is before I break away from him. “We should go,” I say, rubbing my cheek. “Oh God, my makeup.”
Sam’s shirt is stained with a perfect imprint of my face. He looks down, and when he meets my eyes, his are lit with gentle laughter. “This is more than I wear on the stage.”
“That’s my special occasion face,” I say. “Or was.”
I don’t look at the album as I put it away. “Thank you,” I say to the doorway instead of Sam. I don’t want to look at him. I’m embarrassed for him to have seen me like that.
“You’re welcome.” That’s all he says, and I decide to leave it at that and walk out the door.
Twenty-Five
Gregor is down the street where I insisted he wait with the car so the nurses don’t see us get in and become suspicious. It’s a little too fancy even for an Uber Black, that great democratizer of swish rides. Once we’re in the car, my composure returns.
“I brought an extra shirt in case,” Sam says. He picks up the collared shirt he’d worn down to the car and puts it aside.
Then he strips his T-shirt off. Right there in front of me, Sam Yao is shirtless and he doesn’t even care. Half-naked, he rummages in that gigantic tote before murmuring in triumph and pulling out a folded black shirt that he shakes out with a snap. I know it’s rude but I have to stare because I have never seen a body like this in real life. He’s sculpted, his arms firm with muscle and his shoulders wide. Little muscles, I don’t even know what they’re called, ripple down his ribs. After he pulls on the shirt, he lifts up his hips to tuck it in—my mouth might have dropped open here—and then runs his hand through his hair.
“Shouldn’t you get ready?” he asks.
I close my eyes to relive the memory of his chest. “Turn away.”
He does and I reverse my technique of earlier, taking off the tank and pulling down the dress and patting it into place before I remove the skirt. The car seems too small and Sam very close.
I pull on the zipper but it sticks. “Damn.”
“What?” Sam starts to turn around but I stop him.
“Don’t look!”
“All that shifting around and you’re not decent?”
I lift up my arm and crane my neck to see the zipper. I’m scared to pull too hard, in case I break it or rip the dress. There’s only one choice. “I need a hand.”
He gives a furtive look over his shoulder, as if he’s not quite sure what level of undress I’m at. Confirming everything of importance is covered, he says, “Zipper?”
It’s unfortunate that, unlike a zipper at the back, which would only show…my back, this zipper reveals my entire side between armpit and waist. He comes to sit beside me. “Raise your arm.”
When he fiddles with the zipper, his fingers brush along my ribs, causing my skin to goose bump. Please, please let him not notice. Please. I gaze out the window as we go down University Avenue toward Hospital Row. “Some of the material is caught in the zipper,” he mutters. “Give me a second.”
He reaches one hand down inside the dress to try to wrestle it up. Now I have Sam’s entire hand pressed against me and his head leaning so close his breath moves against the bare skin of my chest. Never have I been so glad to have put on deodorant.
“Got it,” he says proudly. He tugs the zipper closed. My arm is held high where I had it out of the way as he worked, but since the blood’s been running out of it, I lower it faster than I intend and end up with my arm landing over his shoulder, partially embracing him.
Although I expect him to move away, he doesn’t. He doesn’t do anything but look at me and I freeze.
“Sorry.” I lurch back and scramble for my wig, which I jam on. “Better fix my makeup. Where are my shoes?” I’m rambling.
“Hold on.” He stills me with a touch on my knee. “The wig is crooked.”
He reaches up to tuck some of my hair under and then rearranges the haphazard hair helmet, his eyebrows angled down as he concentrates. Now he’s definitely close enough to kiss and again, for a crazy moment, I wonder what would happen if I did.