The elevator door slides shut, and I breathe a sigh of relief to have escaped.
“How are you doing?” Eric asks.
“I’m fine.” I’m not about to tell him that something his sister had said to Alyssa seemed to have struck fear in Alyssa’s heart. Shaking off the unsettling image, I ask, “How was Alyssa able to get Gen XX to play at her private club?”
“Money. How else?” Eric says sardonically. “Alyssa, or her family, has more money than they know how to spend. The huge amount of money it must’ve taken to get a wildly popular band like Gen XX is nothing to Alyssa.”
“Do their fans know that Gen XX is made up of all girls?” It’s hard to reconcile everything I’ve heard about a conservative China with the popularity of a gender-nonconforming band of girls.
“Of course,” Eric replies. “Girls talk openly about their crushes on the group members. Gen XX is as popular and gets as much fan mail as any other boy band.” As I take that in, he adds, “You have to understand that there’s the Chinese government’s stance and policy, and then there are the actual Chinese people’s views and practices—it would be a mistake to think the two are the same.”
The elevator slides noiselessly down the many floors, and I look out the glass walls of the elevator at the space-age Beijing skyline, all spires and lights. “My parents are from China, but I don’t know a thing about this country. Not what you call ‘actual Chinese people’s views and practices.’ What your sister said about me—it’s what I feel I am sometimes. Wai guo ren. Foreigner. Because I’m not just Chinese. I’m Chinese American.” I laugh hollowly. “I sometimes feel like a foreigner in the U.S. too. But there I’m Chinese American.” No matter where I am, one part of who I am marks me as different.
“Hey, don’t listen to my sister,” Eric says, taking one of my hands in his own. “You’re not a foreigner. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t been to China before now. Or that you were born in America. None of that matters. You are Zhong Guo Ren. Chinese.”
Something squeezes at my heart. When I first came to Beijing, I wasn’t thinking about what I wanted or what I was looking for, other than my success as an actress. But now I know. I want to belong. And Eric is speaking as if that’s already true—that I already belong. “But if your grandmother and Alyssa are right, then my mother gave up her family and homeland because she’s a criminal.” The elevator stops smoothly on the ground floor, and we step out into the marble hallway.
I shoot Eric a covert glance, but he doesn’t reply until we’re back out into the still-warm night full of people. “After the Summer Palace,” he says at last, “I called my father and asked about the painting. I asked if your mother had stolen it like my nai nai said.”
“What did he say?” My hands grow damp with anxiety.
“He said to forget the painting. That it’s better for everyone that it’s gone.”
“What? You said that painting was priceless! That it may have come from Empress Wu’s own art collection.”
“Yes,” he agrees, “but my father didn’t seem to blame your mother for stealing it. He wouldn’t even say that she had. In any case, as you pointed out, my family never pressed charges.” He stops a little distance from the guards flanking the doors to the club. “Listen, neither of us knows the whole story of that painting or what happened to make your mother leave. Until we do . . . or even if we do . . . can we call a truce? Be friends?”
Eric’s father believes it’s better that the painting is gone. Except that it isn’t gone, and I know exactly where it is. On a wall in my mother’s office. The lady with the red dress and calligraphy brush. But Eric is right that we don’t know the whole story.
“OK, let’s call a truce,” I say. “And as a friend, can I give you some advice?”
He looks at me warily. “Sure.”
“If you can give my mother the benefit of the doubt, then maybe you can do the same for Alyssa.”
His eyes widen in startlement. “Why would I do that? Why would you even want me to give her the benefit of the doubt?” he asks. “After ten minutes with Alyssa, you came out of that room looking like you’d seen a ghost!”
It’s a good question, and I don’t have an answer ready. I think of Alyssa’s unexpected acts of kindness and the shocked look on her face when I suggested that she didn’t know the whole truth. Maybe there’s more to Alyssa than meets the eye. Plus, I’ve never had a sibling, but it seems silly for Eric and Mimi to be fighting over who Mimi gets to be friends with. “Your sister did have a point—you and I are friends. Why can’t Mimi and Alyssa be friends too?”
“That’s not the same!” Eric argues. “You and Alyssa are nothing alike. I just don’t understand why Mimi would want to be friends with someone as superficial as Alyssa, and I don’t like the way she acts around Alyssa. Mimi is smart, talented, and kind. But ever since she became friends with Alyssa, Mimi’s been . . . different. Guarded and even rude.”
Yeah, I got a dose of that head-on. But no matter how rude Mimi was to me, she’s still important to Eric. “Look, maybe it would help if you gave Mimi some space. Show her that you’re not trying to control her life or her choice in friends.”
He nods reluctantly. “You’re probably right. Mimi has a good head on her shoulders. I should trust her to take care of herself.”
My stomach chooses this moment to let out a loud rumble. Mortified, I clap my hand to my stomach. “Sorry! I didn’t have dinner.”
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry!” Eric says. “One small shared plate of green onion pancakes is definitely not enough food.” He glances around at the jumbotrons and big-name stores surrounding us. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
Eric hails a taxi and takes me to Wangfujing Street, promising that I’ll be able to knock off everything I have left on my food wish list and then some.
We end up at the Wangfujing night market, which is lined with red lanterns and crowded with people. Our first stop is a food stall wafting out clouds of fragrant steam from big bamboo steamers.
“This place makes the best hum bao,” Eric boasts.
Hungrily, I eye the pillowy white hum bao being lifted out of the steamers. “Let me pay,” I insist, reaching into my purse.
Eric, no stranger to the rules of this game, throws himself bodily in my way. “No way!”
I try to duck under his arm, but he’s too quick and hands the amused vendor some bills before I even get my wallet out.
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.