by Diana Ma
Round one of “let me pay” goes to Eric.
I win round two when I run to a stall selling turnip cakes while Eric is still getting the hum bao from the first food stall. Round three, four, and five are a jumble of laughter and good-natured pushing and blocking. At last, we have to call a truce so we can actually eat the food we’ve competed to buy.
We set our well-earned gains down at a table outside a noodle shop with red lanterns casting their glow over us. Sneakily, Eric buys us a plate of hand-shaven noodles to share.
“Not cool, Eric,” I say. “I’m going to have to make up for that, you know.”
Eric laughs and tells me a story about being out with his cousin and winning the fight to buy lunch. “The next day, my cousin had a meal delivered to my office from the same restaurant where we had lunch the day before!”
I shake my head in disbelief. “I don’t have a story to beat that.” In fact, I don’t have any stories at all. I’ve seen my parents do the “let me pay” fight with Chinese friends and acquaintances, but this interaction with Eric is the first time I’ve done it myself. In fact, I’ve always been embarrassed when my parents did it, especially in a public place with all those judgmental eyes on us. I knew what everyone was thinking—crazy Asians.
This time, I’m not worried about what people will think. Part of the reason is that we’re in China, where everyone is supposed to act this way. But part of it is Eric. He’s just so at ease with being himself, and doesn’t care what anyone else thinks. And that makes it easy to be myself with him.
Eric already knows about my dreams as an actress, but I tell him more. “Eilene Deng is my hero. She’s changing the face of Hollywood and fighting for fuller representations of Asians. That’s what I want to do too.”
“That’s awesome!” His face lights up with admiration, but then a shadow crosses over it. “I wish I had your passion.”
“What do you mean? You’re passionate about sustainable fashion! How cool is that?”
He smiles. “I am fighting to make the fashion industry more sustainable, and I’m lucky to have my parents’ support. I’m also proud that our business has environmentally sound practices and pays equitable wages, but . . .”
“What?” I lean forward. “Still thinking about that graduate sustainability program at UCLA?”
“Yeah,” he says wistfully. “There’s still so much for me to learn. And so much more to do, especially in my family’s international branches.” He gets so animated that he doesn’t notice the sprinkle of crumbs on his lips from a bite of you tiao, which is basically a long tail of fried dough.
The desire to brush the crumbs away is so strong that I bite my own lip to stop from reaching over the table.
When we’ve cleaned our plates and can’t eat another bite, Eric suggests that we go shopping. I’m glad he made the suggestion because I can’t bear for the night to end yet.
We stroll along stalls selling everything from touristy souvenirs to knockoff purses. A pang hits me when we pass a stall selling foo dogs. It reminds me of my conversation with Ken about a foo dog souvenir. This is the first time all night I’ve thought about yesterday’s breakup with Ken.
“What’s wrong?” Eric asks.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “It’s just a bit crowded here, and I don’t want to be mistaken for Alyssa. Is there somewhere we can go with fewer people?” It’s not completely a lie. I really don’t want to be mobbed by Alyssa’s fans again. I also don’t want to be reminded of my ex-boyfriend when I’m with Eric.
“I know just the place.” Eric takes my arm to steer me around a large clump of people, but he doesn’t let go of it, even as we leave the night market and make our way to a quieter part of the pedestrian street lined with shops.
Eric stops in front of a small boutique with floor-to-ceiling display windows and a sign with large red Chinese characters.
“What are we doing here?” I ask. “It looks closed.”
“It is,” Eric replies, “but this is one of my family’s stores, so we can go in.” He punches in a code on the number pad and opens the door for me.
I raise an eyebrow, but the temptation to see one of Eric’s stores is too great to resist, so I step inside.
Eric flips the lights on, and I see sparse racks and an expanse of pale hardwood floor. It looks like the kind of upscale place that sells “pieces” rather than clothes. I’m already backing away from the racks when something catches my eye. A mannequin is wearing a near replica of the black suit with satin lapels that one of the band members of Gen XX was wearing.
“That’s Mimi’s line of ‘menswear’ for women.” Eric walks over to a rack and pulls off the black satin suit. “This one should be close to your size. You can try it on if you want.”
I do want to. So much that my hand trembles as I reach out to take it. “I’ve never worn anything so beautiful in my life.”
He grins and nabs a black silk button-down shirt and silk tie as well. “Black on black is very in right now, so you might as well go all out.”
Arms full of silk and satin, I head to the dressing room Eric points out to me.
He settles himself on a bench near the three-way mirror and says, “Go ahead. I want to see you in that suit.”
The shirt goes on like a silk whisper. The jacket lays smoothly over my shoulders and chest without a single bulge or wrinkle. It’s clearly cut for a woman’s body. The pants fit like a glove without being too tight or restrictive and are made of soft cotton without exposed seams or itchiness. I have no idea how to knot a tie but do my best. There isn’t a mirror in the dressing room, so I don’t know how I look, but I feel great.
But that’s nothing compared to how I feel when I walk out of the dressing room and see Eric’s eyes darken and a muscle in his jaw jump.
He swallows hard. “Wow,” he says reverently. “Gemma, you look . . . amazing.”
I blush and tug on the silk tie. “I didn’t do the tie right.”
Eric stands up. “Let me help with that.”
He’s standing just inches away from me, and I can see the convulsive movement of his Adam’s apple. My breath goes short, and my body fires up like an avalanche of lava is pouring through my veins. Here we are, both in impeccably tailored suits, and he’s reaching out to loosen my tie. Eric’s fingers are shaking as he pulls the black silk away from my skin. My chest heaves as I release a quivering breath, and his hands freeze in midair. Neither of us meets each other’s eyes as he starts folding and pulling the ends of the tie through complicated loops. The back of his knuckles brush the skin of my neck, sending shock waves through my nervous system.
I can’t stand this anymore.
And just as I’m about to break us apart to escape the heat between us, Eric steps away. “You look good.” His tone is casual, and I might think he was unaffected—if it wasn’t for the glazed, heavy-lidded look in his eyes.
No one’s ever looked at me like that before. And it’s not just lust. Eric’s looking at me like he knows me down to my deepest truths . . . and wants to know even more.
“Come here, Gemma,” he says hoarsely.
Slowly, I walk toward Eric, my heart stuttering wildly in anticipation. But when I reach him, he doesn’t pull me into his arms as I half dread/half hope he’ll do. Instead, he spins me to face the three-way mirror. “Take a look.”
My jaw drops, and my reflection in the mirror also looks stunned. And, if I do say so myself—hot. The suit fits like it was made for me. The clean, crisp lines skim the shape of my body, and instead of hiding my curves under bulky material, the suit hints at curves but never quite reveals them. The layers of differently textured black material create a mysterious suave cool that I would have never associated with myself. “Oh wow,” I breathe reverently. “The suit does make me look good.”
“You make the suit look good,” he says. “I won’t even have to do many alterations to make it fit perfectly. Just take the pant legs in an inch, I think.”
I
’m so lost in the vision of Eric kneeling at my feet to pin up the pant legs that it takes a moment for his meaning to sink in. “Alterations?” Does he think I’m going to buy the suit? I break out in a cold sweat and then worry about staining this beautiful suit that costs more than my entire existing wardrobe. “Eric, I can’t afford this suit!”
“Of course you can’t,” he says calmly. “That’s why I’m going to comp you the suit.”
“Listen, this isn’t the same as buying me some noodles. This suit probably costs a fortune!” My hands fiddle with the buttons on the jacket. “I can’t possibly accept.”
Eric places his hands over mine to stop me from unbuttoning the jacket. “We do this all the time! Do you think Gen XX paid for their suits? Our company gets the exposure of a famous person wearing our clothes, and you get a free suit. It’s a win-win.”
I set my jaw. “I’m not famous.”
“Gemma, you’ve got to stop underestimating yourself. You’re an up-and-coming actress at the start of a promising career!”
I take one last longing look in the mirror before turning resolutely to Eric. “Thank you, but I still can’t accept it.”
He smiles wryly. “I’m not going to press anything on you that you don’t want, but can I ask a question?”
Warily, I nod. I do want the suit. Badly. But not the strings that come with it.
“Are you rejecting the suit because you don’t think you’ll make it as an actress? Or because you can’t take a suit from me since you have a boyfriend back home?”
“That’s two questions,” I say, not meeting his eyes.
“And that’s still not an answer.”
I take a deep breath. “I broke up with my boyfriend yesterday.”
Eric looks like he’s stopped breathing, his face is so still and watchful. “You broke up with your boyfriend?” His eyes bore into mine. “Why?”
Because I could never be myself with Ken and it never felt quite right—not the way it feels with . . . But I don’t need to finish that thought or say any of that out loud. “He . . . I don’t know. It just wasn’t working.” The silence that follows my statement makes my stomach tense up. “But I still can’t accept the suit.”
A muscle twitches in Eric’s face. “Fair enough,” he says at last. He takes a breath. “But if you’re refusing the suit because you don’t think you’ll make it as an actress or because you don’t think you deserve it . . . Well, that’s bullshit.”
“You met me two weeks ago, and you think you know me? Well, you don’t!” But what scares me is that he does know me. All the way down to the tender insecurities I’m hiding.
Eric holds up his hands. “I just want you to know that I believe in you—in your strength and talent and willingness to fight for what you believe in.” He gestures toward the suit. “It just kills me that you think you don’t deserve something that’s not half as beautiful as you are and not worth even a fraction of everything that’s wonderful about you.”
My anger drains away. “Eric, you’re the one who’s wonderful.” I swallow past a lump in my throat and smooth down the lapels of the suit, finding comfort in the cool satin. “But I still can’t accept it.” I don’t need any more expectations that I can’t live up to.
His mouth quirks up. “It’s the feud between our families, right?” It’s an attempt at humor, but it falls a little flat.
My mother may have stolen valuable ancient art from his family. My grandfather betrayed his grandfather during the Cultural Revolution. And if I keep digging, I might find out even more.
“Our families,” I say with a smile, but my tongue is heavy with the weight of those two words.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
After my epic confrontation with Alyssa at her nightclub, I kept expecting to hear from her. But there’s been nothing—not even a pink note. Eilene asked about my weekend the following Monday, but what could I tell her? Broke up with my boyfriend, found out my grandfather is a shady character who did some really horrible things during the Cultural Revolution, and also that my mom might be a thief. Instead, I told Eilene that I visited the Summer Palace.
Now it’s been two weeks. Still no word from Alyssa. Eric and I have been texting each other regularly since the night he tried to give me the suit, but neither of us has been brave enough to suggest hanging out in person.
“Gemma, you’re up!” Jake shouts. Startled, I jump to my feet, almost knocking over my folding chair.
Sarah, another actress waiting for her turn to be in a scene, gives me a sympathetic smile. “Don’t let it bother you. Jake’s just edgy because of today’s shoot.”
“Yeah, I can understand.” I hurry over to Jake, Eilene, Adrian, and a handful of extras standing in front of a stone bridge over a lake.
Before today, we had been shooting on set or out in a suburb of Beijing, but today’s scene takes place in Beihai Park, where Sonia and Ryan meet up and spend a romantic day among the pagodas, lake pavilions, and gardens. It’s a gorgeous location. It’s also, according to Jake, “a logistical nightmare.” The studio was only able to get permits to shoot for one day in Beihai Park, which means we’re under intense pressure to get this scene in the can. To make matters worse, the park is such an open space that we don’t have nearly enough security to keep curious gawkers from practically wandering directly onto the set.
All this means that Jake is a powder keg of frustrated nerves.
The only one who hasn’t lost her cool is Eilene. “Gemma, why don’t you and Aidan—”
A high-pitched squeal interrupts her.
Oh shit. Slow dread fills me as I turn around, and sure enough, there they are. Fans. Dozens of them, faces bright with Alyssa-worship. They’re pressing against the flimsy sawhorse barricades, and the five security guards with outstretched arms and panicked looks on their faces don’t seem to be enough to contain the crowd.
“What the hell is going on here?” Jake demands, his face red in outrage. For once, I don’t feel like he’s overreacting.
“Alyssa!” a teenager screams, and the others take up the by-now-familiar chant of Alyssa’s name. My whole body freezes.
Eilene turns to me. “I guess it was only a matter of time,” she says wryly.
“This is insane!” Jake throws his hands up in the air. “How are we supposed to shoot a film with a crazed mob who thinks you’re Alyssa Chua hanging around?”
Yeah, right. Like Jake wasn’t the one who had to be convinced by my resemblance to Alyssa to hire me in the first place.
“Gemma, do we need to get you away?” Eilene’s face is puckered with worry.
“No!” Jake shouts. “We can’t do this scene without Gemma!”
Aidan looks over at the crowd, which seems to be multiplying by the second. “I don’t think getting Gemma away is an option anymore.”
The overpowering scent of flowers and underlying acrid smog presses on me, thick and cloying, making me feel light-headed. Maybe I can distract the crowd by pushing Jake into the lake as I flee.
Sudden authoritative shouts in Chinese interrupt this tempting vision and cut through the fans screaming Alyssa’s name. My mouth drops as a dozen men in tan uniforms march up to the set and efficiently clear the crowd away. Alyssa’s fans grumble a bit, but they’re not going to argue with a bunch of hard-faced, official-looking security guards.
“That’s more like it,” Jake says in satisfaction. “It looks like the studio has sent more security.”
Eilene doesn’t look so certain. “They don’t look like the security guards our studio would hire.”
I’d trust Eilene’s assessment over Jake’s any day. Besides, my gut tells me that she’s right. Something is off. For one thing, none of the new security guards even speak to Jake, Eilene, or any of the crew. They just form a loose perimeter around our set and turn their backs to us. It makes no sense.
Unfortunately, there’s no chance to get to the bottom of the mystery. Jake is too determined to finish the shoot to look a gift ho
rse in the mouth. I can understand. Why would he waste time questioning the appearance of extremely efficient security?
By the time Jake finally calls it a wrap, I’m exhausted. “Was it really necessary to film a daytime and nighttime scene?” I grumble to Aidan, who grins in return.
The security guards escort us all to our cars. But then I see a new car parked with ours. A sleek black limousine. A driver gets out and opens the back door.
My eyes widen when I see that it’s Alyssa in the back seat. “Need a ride?” she calls out.
Well, that solves the mystery of who sent the security guards. The only question is why Alyssa keeps playing fairy godmother.
It doesn’t occur to me to refuse. I’m way too curious about what Alyssa wants from me.
Ignoring everyone’s questions—including Jake’s excited one of whether I know Alyssa—I slide into the back seat, and she quickly makes room for me.
“Thanks for sending the guards.” I sink into the buttery soft leather of the seat. “And the hotel upgrade.” Have I really never thanked her for the hotel room? “So, what are you doing here? Thought of a few insults that you couldn’t fit on a pink note?”
She bites her lip. “I keep screwing up. I’m sorry.”
Just like that, my irritation disappears. I don’t actually want to be fighting with my own cousin. And I’m relieved that she doesn’t want to either. “It’s OK, but just to clarify, what are you sorry for this time?”
Alyssa laughs. “For starters, how about calling you an ignorant American?”
I can’t help but smile. “That’s a good starting point.” Then my smile fades as I think about everything she’s told me. “But you weren’t totally wrong. There’s a lot I don’t know about Chinese history.”
She opens a compartment in front of her, takes out two tumblers, puts ice cubes in each one, and then pours a rich amber liquid into them out of a cut-crystal decanter. “To be fair, with censorship in China, there’s a lot of history that the people here don’t know either.”
“Like the Tiananmen Square massacre,” I say, accepting a tumbler from her. Tentatively, I take a sip, thinking it will be scotch or brandy, but it’s just iced tea with hints of fruit and flowers. Actually, this is delicious. Not surprising, since it came from Alyssa.