Four
The movie is a rom-com about two private bodyguards, Nanda and Mra, who work for the same security company but loathe each other’s guts. Despite their history, they both end up being assigned to protect the crown princess of a fictional European country while she’s on vacation in Myanmar. But on her first night in Yangon, the princess escapes her protection detail, gets kidnapped, and it’s obviously up to Nanda and Mra to find her. They track her down across the globe, and as they rush to save her before political chaos erupts, they get close, realize their hatred for one another is actually misplaced passion, have sex in the bathroom of their company’s private jet, et cetera, et cetera.
I have to admit, it sounds (as Tyler noted) like a fun movie. Obviously, it’s also cool because it’s the first romantic comedy backed by a major Hollywood studio that’s directed by a Myanmar director and stars two Myanmar actors and is (partly) shot on location here. But all that aside, even though I haven’t read the script, the synopsis alone makes me want to watch it.
At 3 P.M. , we’re in the backseat of Tyler’s assigned car on the way to the first day of shooting, which is apparently supposed to go late. I’ve never been on a movie set so I don’t know if this is normal, and while I’m not thrilled at the idea of hanging out with the mosquitoes and bugs in the park until midnight or whatever “late” is, my curiosity and that familiar journalistic rush override my disdain for all insect life. Additionally, if I don’t get the Vogue job, then I’m probably never again going to get the chance to be this close to a movie set, let alone a movie this big.
Today’s scene will take place in Kandawgyi Park. This is the inciting event where, in the middle of a night market, the princess gives Nanda and Mra the slip. Tyler gave me a peek at the storyboards, and it looks like rows of vendor stalls with white canopies will cover approximately a third of the grounds, complete with fairy lights and hundreds of extras—a near one-eighty from the usually lush but sparsely populated grounds. When I asked what was going to be the hardest part of this scene, his sincere answer of “trying not to trip while I repeatedly run through a park on command” made me smile.
“So why was this one of the scenes you wanted to shoot in Yangon?” I ask as I consult my notes. “Surely you could’ve replicated it closer to home back in the US, say, in Central Park? All you need is literally a park.”
He nods, vaguely distracted by something on his phone. “True, but parks are different, even within a single country, but especially across continents. The main differences are the flora and fauna. The trees and animals that you’ll find in Central Park are completely different from what you’re going to find here.”
“Will that matter to most viewers, though? Unless you’re a professional botanist and/or ornithologist, will you even notice?”
“It matters to us. To me,” he replies, and although he says it with a smile that (I think) is meant to assure me that he wasn’t being mean, I am nonetheless left feeling the most professionally ignorant I’ve felt in a while. “We’re actually going to do all of the scenes that require Myanmar extras here, mainly because, unsurprisingly, it’s much easier to find the correct attire and props here than in LA. Turns out American costume departments, as lavish as they can be, don’t exactly stock an array of hta meins and taikpons.”
After taking another five to recover from that internal embarrassment, I mentally rummage through my list of questions from the other night. “Tell me why you picked this movie.”
“What do you mean?” Tyler asks, his eyes shifting sideways toward me.
“You have your pick of projects. This must’ve thrown a wrench in your schedule, having to come out to Myanmar to shoot and all.” After studying him, and keeping Clarissa’s theories in mind, I venture casually, “I thought you were going to be the new Rolex spokesperson just in time for their holiday campaign, so shouldn’t you already be shooting ads for that?”
His chest puffs slightly as he chuckles. “Is that so?”
“That’s what the internet says.”
“And you believe everything the internet says?”
“Would the internet ever lie to you?”
He leans his head back as he laughs. “I signed up to do this movie for many reasons, but will you be disappointed if I say that the main one is because I wanted to work with May?”
“Have you wanted to work with May for a long time?” I’m tempted to ask if there’s ever been something more between them, but I also know that tons of people before me have asked them some variation of the same question and that his answer has always been a firm “no.” If there is something going on between them now, I need to get it out of him another way.
“Kind of.” He nods. “I was approached first, but as soon as we did the chemistry read together, I told the producers that this movie needed both of us. I know it’s not a particularly juicy or deep answer, but that’s kinda it. I wanted to make this really fun movie with my best friend in our hometown.”
It’s such a simple answer that I don’t entirely buy it. He was abrupt in shutting down the May conversation the other night, but he seems to be more open to it today. “How’d you two become friends?” I ask.
“Hollywood connections. Met at a party. The usual.”
“And—”
“No, we didn’t hook up that night. We haven’t ever hooked up.”
I frown at his assumption, a little offended that he thinks I would ask such a tactless question. “That’s not what I was going to ask at all.”
“Oh?” he asks, caution tinting his voice. “What were you going to ask?”
“I was going to ask,” I sharpen my tone to reiterate my irritation at his presumptuousness that I’d be so obvious about it. What am I, a novice celebrity gossip blogger? “What made her different from everyone else? Surely you’ve met thousands of people at thousands of parties. What was the connection there? Was it just that you’re both Myanmar?”
He’s angled his body to face me directly now, but I’m not fazed. I can almost see his brain taking its time crafting the perfect answer, aware that anything and everything he says can be used against him. For a second, I can’t help but feel tired on his behalf, for always having to think three steps ahead before you speak.
Finally, he puts his phone facedown on his lap. “The first time I was ever invited to a big-shot Hollywood party—and this was ages ago, probably a decade by now—it was the Vanity Fair Oscars party. I don’t know how my publicist scored me an invite considering I wasn’t even invited to the actual Oscars, but somehow she did. And this was before Renegade, before Campfire and even P.S. Forever .” He pauses, and I try to picture what that Tyler Tun must’ve been like, before all the madness and the lights and glamor and award show invitations, let alone the permanent front-row seats. “As you can probably imagine, I was nervous as all fuck that night. I knew I had to socialize and mingle, get people to remember my face and my name, but I was terrified. I walked in, grabbed a drink, and then walked over to a corner and just… stood. ”
“You… stood? For how long?”
“It felt like hours, but then I checked my watch and it’d been six minutes. Anyway.” He cracks his neck. “Eventually, just as I’m wondering if maybe I should, I dunno, go get drunk in the bathroom first so that maybe I’ll be a little braver and actually talk to people, May walks over to me and says, ‘Hi, I’m May.’”
“Had you met her before?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. But obviously I knew who she was. My little sister was obsessed with her on the Disney Channel, and Kiss Her had come out just a few months prior, so everyone wanted to talk to her. At one point, I could see a literal line forming behind her. But she never turned around, and instead she kept talking to me, a nobody who could’ve easily been mistaken for an overdressed server. And then we both found out that we were Myanmar, and that wasn’t the whole or even the main reason we clicked so well, but it was kinda the final puzzle piece. Half an hour later, and to the horror of her publicist, we ditched the party and got a taxi to a McDonald’s an hour away, and we sat in a corner booth for hours. We demolished six Big Macs and four bags of fries between us.”
I don’t realize that I’m grinning until my cheeks start to ache. “Sounds like a good night,” I say. The way he recounts it, I feel like I somehow lived the memory myself.
He nods, his own grin expanding like he’s right back there, too. “It was one of the best nights of my life. And that’s just who she’s been for me since then. I’m sure you’ve heard about how Hollywood is ruthless and this industry will spit you out once you’re a second past your prime and all that, and unfortunately it’s all true. But I never—” At this point, he turns the other way and looks out the window, and for a second, I’m worried he’s stopping and self-censoring again. But then he says, voice steady like this is the surest thing in the world, “I never have to worry if she won’t stay. Because I know ninety-nine percent of the people who are currently cheering me on will jump ship the moment something goes wrong. But not May. Because she’s the kind of person who excuses herself from a conversation with Madonna to go say hi to the new kid who’s standing all alone in the corner. That’s who she is.”
In the moment, I’m stunned, trying to process this much honesty all at once. It feels like such a raw, earnest story that I can’t even think of any follow-up questions, because the way he’s said it is just perfect.
My bubble of awe is popped, however, when he throws me a sly sideways smile and reminds me exactly what our setup is by adding, in a tone whose smugness is not lost on me, “And you can absolutely quote me on that.”
As we near the vicinity of the park, it’s clear that word has gotten out. The car crawls toward the entrance while what looks like Yangon’s entire female population aged between thirteen and thirty-three (and a few outliers on either end) swarm the area. I know they can’t see inside the tinted windows, but part of me feels tempted to tell Tyler to duck in case, I dunno, a freshly divorced middle-aged auntie tries to push herself through the glass.
We make it past the gates without hitting anyone, but cars aren’t allowed inside the park grounds, not even for Tyler Tun, so we park in the front parking lot, just a few feet of grass and a half-crumbling brick wall separating us from what I can only describe as mayhem wearing shirts plastered with Tyler’s face and holding up signs with messages like I’D LIKE TO TY YOU UP IN MY BED and YOU LIGHT A CAMPFIRE IN MY PANTS and a very succinct TYLER LET’S FUCK .
“I’m going to go say a quick hi,” Tyler says to Tun (“Nice name!” he’d also joked), his PA who greeted us at the car.
“Oh, no, I don’t think—” The poor kid, who is probably no older than twenty-one and for whom this is clearly the most important job he’s had to date, tries to say. ( I don’t think you should go into the throng of screeching women, at least one of whom is waving a Sharpie and starting to remove her shirt was probably what he was going for.)
“Just five minutes, promise,” Tyler says, clapping Tun on one shoulder.
As soon as he rounds the car and starts walking toward the crowd, it’s like an invisible hand turns the sound dial up to a thousand. Tun and I exchange looks that say, You’re seeing this, too, right? And then, when three different bras are flung over the wall, Do you think he’ll make it out alive?
But he does, and once Tyler is ushered away, the guards get to dispersing the crowd. I don’t know how they do it, but in less than half an hour, I can’t spot a single fan outside the gates. I imagine the threat of legal action and/or (worse), confiscation of phones, was used more than once.
Speaking of phones, absolutely no recording of any kind is allowed, which means I have to do things old-school. I scribble down as many notes as I can while mumbling a quick “Hi!” to everyone Tyler is (and consequently I am) introduced to as we make our way around. As I predicted, he’s polite beyond belief, saying yes to every single photo and autograph request from whoever asks, even the park janitorial staff. But every time he gets a break from introductions, I can tell he’s looking for something. Or someone.
Another thing I learn about Tyler: he prefers having his hair and makeup done in his private trailer so he can run lines with someone if he needs to; so that’s where I sit and scrawl furiously while he, script in hand, alternates between quietly running lines by himself and conversing with his stylists. Finally, Tun knocks and pops his head in. “Ready?” he asks. When Tyler nods, he says into his headset, “Tyler’s heading for set.”
“You excited?” he asks me as he holds the door open.
“Actually, yeah,” I say, smiling. The converging realizations that I’m about to watch the first few scenes of the new Tyler Tun movie and that I’m covering it for Vogue start to sink in, and every nerve in my body begins to thrum with nervous electricity.
We’ve only advanced a couple of feet, though, when a voice calls out, “Who let the riffraff in here?! Security!”
Tyler, his small hair and makeup army, and I all swivel to see May Diamond—the chicest bodyguard I’ve ever seen (fictional or not) in her black skinny jeans, cropped gray mock-neck top, hair in a low ponytail—full-on sprinting in our direction, a giant grin on her own perfectly made-up face.
Before I can react, Tyler takes one large step forward, open arms locking tight as soon as May’s body launches into his. “Hi, asshole,” he says into her ear.
It’s one of those moments that almost feels too intimate for an outsider to witness, especially in such a public setting. For a split second, I’m tempted to put my notebook away and pretend I never saw this. But then I remember what Clarissa had said about how maybe this is the lead-up to the reveal of a secret relationship between May and Tyler, and, coupled with his vague answer earlier about why he chose this movie, I inconspicuously jot down my notes so I can revisit this moment later. How their eyes glint with something familiar, like ships spotting the warm beacon of the lighthouse. How, in spite of the raucous mob running and yelling into headsets around us, you can see their bodies relax, palpably feel them shift things around to welcome each other into their space. I think of how comfortable he’d looked earlier when he was talking about May, and I thought I’d gotten it at the time, but now I really get it.
And out of nowhere, a memory: Thidar and Nay letting themselves into my house at 6 A.M. the morning after Ben had packed a suitcase and walked out, three iced lattes and five boxes of tissues in hand, dressed in pajamas because they’d known that we weren’t going to get out of bed that day, crawling under the covers on either side of me and holding me while I cried and cried like it was the end of the world. Because that day, that was exactly what it’d felt like, and if I had to face the end of the world, then there was no one else I wanted by my side.
I’m thankfully yanked out of my own brain by May’s voice saying, “Hi! I’m May!” with her arm already stretched out.
“H-hi,” I stammer as I take her hand, a small inner voice unable to stop itself from quietly squealing, Holy shit, you’re touching May Diamond . “I’m Khin.”
“She’s the one doing the profile,” Tyler says at the same time that May says, “You’re the one who wrote that piece on the abortion clinic, right?”
I blink once, then another two times.
“The one in Time ?” she prompts.
“Yes,” I answer, apparently having forgotten my own article that I wrote earlier this year and that has already been nominated for two Society of Publishers in Asia awards.
May jerks her head at Tyler. “Ty’s the one who sent it to me. I forwarded it to everyone I know.” She takes one step forward, and her mouth curves into a small, sweet smile. “I bet it wasn’t easy to get all of those stories on record,” she says. “Thank you for what you do. Journalism is important, necessary work.”
I’ve had people, especially women and particularly Myanmar women, reach out to me with some variant of the same sentiment over the past several months, but I did not expect May freaking Diamond to be one of them.
“Thank you,” I parrot back at last.
May gives a nod before turning her attention back to Tyler. “You ready?” she asks, linking their elbows together.
“Am now,” he says.
That was approximately five hours ago. It is now nearing midnight, and I am exhausted and perspiring like we’ve been shooting on location with the location being the sun. My arms and ankles are covered in red, blotchy mosquito bites, and we still have about two more hours left. And apparently this is one of the shorter shoots. I’m surprised that May and Tyler are still as cheery and nice as they were when we first arrived, because truthfully, I now get all those stories about actors banning people on set from talking to them. I would like to ban anyone from talking to me if I could. I already miss being able to hear myself think.
When a thirty-minute break is announced—the longest we’ve had all night—I start toward the wooden walkway that surrounds the lake, not caring where my feet take me as long as it’s away from all of this . A few other crew members also disperse in different directions, as well as a group of three extras who’re passing around a lighter, unlit cigarettes in their mouths as they stride toward the parking lot. A few paces ahead, one guy is headed in the same direction as me for the walkway, his face scrunched up as he concentrates on his phone screen.
I take out my own phone as I walk, and as predicted, the group chat has been going nuts this whole time, even though Nay and Thidar both know that I don’t answer when I’m on assignment. The texts are basically different all-caps iterations of DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY PEOPLE’S INSTAGRAM LIVES YOU’RE IN!!! and HAVE YOU SEEN HIM SHIRTLESS YET? and IF THERE IS AN AFTERPARTY TONIGHT AND YOU DO NOT INVITE US, WE WILL NEVER EVER EVER FORGIVE YOU.
Trust me, nobody here has the mental, physical, or emotional capacity for an afterparty, I type before I realize that there’s no signal in this section of the park. I look around to see if anyone else is having the same problem, but there isn’t anyone around. I actually can’t hear anybody anymore either, not even the majority of the cast and crew who were still hanging around the set; all I can see of said set through the trees and across the grass are the white canopy tops, and that’s only because they’re lit by the string lights. I didn’t mean to get this far away from it all, but then again, I have been told (read: reprimanded by my friends) more than once that my regular walking pace is most people’s power-walking pace, so.
I’m lifting my hand in a feeble attempt to find a single bar when I feel the hairs on my neck stand up a millisecond before I hear the cough. It’s deep and drawn out, and my body takes in a huge gulp of air and doesn’t exhale.
When I turn, the man from earlier has done a one-eighty and is now approaching me, phone gone, hands tucked into each of his pockets. Under the sparse, dingy yellow lamps, I can tell that he’s white, dressed in jeans, a black T-shirt, and a baseball cap, and, most important, looks not insignificantly taller and stronger than me. My brain’s first automatic command to my body is to find my pepper spray and alarm—which are sitting attached to my bag in Tyler’s trailer. All I have on me is my phone, which is a glorified rose-gold brick right now. My eyes subtly scan around for anything I can use as a weapon—a rock, a large branch, pebbles to throw in his eyes—but there’s nothing. All there is is darkness and the silent lake and me and a stranger and this narrow walkway.
“Hi there,” the man says in what sounds like an Australian or possibly a New Zealand accent.
“Hey,” I say, making my voice as unperturbed as possible, my unfounded optimism positing that he’s just a friendly (and socially awkward) crew member trying to make conversation. After all, it’s too dark for me to see if there’s a set-regulated lanyard tucked under his shirt.
“Khin, right? You’re working on the movie? The one with those two big stars?” He jerks his head toward the loud, bright set, which now looks and sounds like it’s on another continent.
I nod, now certain that he does not work on the movie. How long has he been hanging around the set if he knows my name? How did no one notice him?
“Yeah,” I say. “I should actually be heading back.”
“Cool,” is all he says.
I don’t want to turn my back to him, but I also can’t leave without turning away. “What’s the movie about?” he asks, still strolling toward me at a steady pace.
How could I be so stupid to leave my entire bag behind? I thought the whole park had been sealed off to outsiders, but he must’ve snuck in through another entrance and loitered in the background. Was he just waiting for any of the women to wander off? Why the fuck had I strayed so far?
“Oh, just your standard rom-com,” I say with a light chuckle. My left foot takes one cautious step backward, every brain cell screaming, Get the fuck out of here right the fuck now.
“I like rom-coms.” With two, three, four steps, the guy is much closer than I thought he could or would be in just two seconds. “They always cast such… pretty gals.”
I feel the boulder sink in one heavy motion, right from the top of my throat to the bottom of my gut. Any previous foolish notions I’d had about misjudging this guy have evaporated into the thick humidity. I want to cry. I know what happens next.
“My crew is waiting.” I’m still trying to remain calm, breezy, not let my spine-warping fear show.
“They can wait a little longer, can’t they…” And then he does it. He takes one final step and he’s so close I can smell the alcohol on him, so searing and pungent I gag, see the stubble on his chin, feel his disgusting warm breath on my forehead. “… sweetheart ?”
My brain switches off the moment his hand grips my left shoulder. When I feel the tightness of his hold, I know that he’s not going to let me go, not unless I make him. I attempt to scream but he thrusts his free fist into my mouth. On reflex, I bite down into his salty palm.
“Fucking journalist bitch,” he growls. Tears trail down my cheeks as he sandwiches me between him and the rail and starts grinding against me.
Something. I have to do something. I scratch his face with my right hand, and as my free hand falls to my side, right as I’m thinking that I should just let him do what he wants, because then at least maybe I’ll get out of this alive, I feel it: the long, thin bulge of my pen in my front pants pocket.
Without thinking, I pull out the pen and, in one smooth motion that six years of using this exact pen has trained my thumb and forefinger to do, twist the cool silver top, and stab the newly protruded tip into his ear.
“What the fuck!” he screams, letting me go completely. His eyes bulge to the side of his head where the pen is still hanging from his ear. Blood trickles down his cheek and onto his shirt. “You crazy Asian bitch! I’m going to—”
When he lunges for me, I kneel. And when I see him wobble forward, hands trying to grasp at air before clutching his chest, I summon the strength of every single barre class I’ve ever gotten up at 6 A.M. to attend, wrap my arms around his calves, and lift him up and over the rail and toward the lake eight feet below like one of those mothers lifting a tractor off of their child.
But the sense of relief that I’m anticipating doesn’t drop, and it takes me several beats to realize that it’s because he hasn’t either. Despite the blood pounding in my ears, I’m aware that I don’t hear the splash I was anticipating. Still stunned, I’m trying to figure out what the fuck is happening when, through the railings, I see violent movement in the dark, something thrashing in the air. It doesn’t occur to me that the movement is his legs flailing about because the fucker has managed to hang on to the rail—this doesn’t occur to me, that is, until he grips my wrist with one sweaty palm, the act making me lurch forward, and I can see the full scene. I try to shake him off, but he digs his fingers under my watch to use it as a sort of hook. His eyes are huge, but not in a pleading Please save me, I’m sorry way, more in a You crazy Asian bitch, if I’m going down, you’re coming with me way.
“Let me go!” I scream. His whole weight is pulling me lower, and although I’m already digging in my heels, I have to use my free hand to grip the rail. I want to reach over and bite his hand, but I’m worried he’ll use it as an opportunity to grab my hair and take me down with him that way.
My throat burns. I’m fighting too hard to spare a moment to shout for help. Thidar’s and Nay’s faces flash through my mind. Then my parents. Even Ben. Even Tyler.
“Khin,” comes Tyler’s low voice as my brain goes haywire. I blink, but before I can make out how my imagination came up with that, there’s a heavy enclosing pressure around my waist, and a third hand comes out of nowhere and smacks the guy’s fingers with a large rock. He lets go and I stumble forward, but the pressure around my center tightens and stops me from falling over, too.
There is a thud before there is a splash.
I squint into the dark. With only some dim lamplight at my disposal, I can just make out the small trickle of blood already spreading out in the water.
I wait for him to scream. To splash around. To call me a fucking bitch again, but he just floats there, facedown.
My mouth makes a gasping motion, but there’s no sound.
Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no oh no. I watch in mounting horror as the half of my pen that was jutting out from his ear floats out and sinks into the murky lake water. My favorite pen. My favorite pen… that has my fingerprints on it. Suddenly, every Law another forms between his brows as he thinks. “I’m just taking a stab here—”
“Heh.”
“Wh—” He lets out a groan. “Okay, that wasn’t intentional.”
“Still funny.”
He smiles. “You don’t happen to know how long it takes for a body to sink, do you? I’d google it, but no cell service. Also, we probably shouldn’t have that kind of thing in our search history.”
“Actually.” I sniffle. “Soon. It’ll start sinking soon.”
With a quick, dry laugh, he asks, “Do I want to know how you know that?”
I return a meek smile. “I watch a lot of SVU .” I swallow and continue, “But it’ll resurface quickly. Maybe a few days. Bodies stay submerged longer in cold water, but because of the heat, this one won’t stay under for too long.”
Tyler nods. “But this is a public park. Hundreds of people come here every day. By the time it resurfaces, it’ll be impossible to track down anyone. The water will wash away any DNA. The fish will probably start nibbling, too.”
“The humidity will help speed up decomposition,” I add.
“Good. That’s good.”
I stare at him, unsure whether I’m about to burst into tears or if I’ve already emotionally shut down. I’m beginning to shiver even though my cheeks feel like they’re on fire.
“What?” he asks.
“How do I know I can trust you?” I blurt out.
There’s that line between his brows again. He scoots an inch closer, although still making sure to leave plenty of space between the two of us. “Because I trust you, ” he says.
“Why?”
“Because you—” And then he catches himself. He tries to play it off as though he’s trying to come up with an answer, as though he didn’t already have one that, for whatever reason, he thought twice about telling me. A backup explanation doesn’t come as quickly as he’d like; I think the shock and adrenaline are slowing him down, too.
“Because I what?” I prompt.
“Because you have to trust me, too, right? That’s how this works, right? We just… have to trust the other. We… we have to. We both have things to lose.”
I want to tell him that that’s not nearly a good enough reason. Minutes ago, he wanted to call the police. He still could, at any moment, and I’m aware that I have to keep a close eye on him going forward.
But also… he’s right. We just… have to. I have my career (not to mention the rest of my life), and, to an extent, so does he. He wouldn’t be destroyed the way I would, but I bet a lot of things would be taken off the table. Bond, for example.
I freeze when I remember something, a last burst of cognizance. “My pen. It’s still lodged in his ear.”
We both look over at the water. “It’s gone,” he says resolutely. “And considering that it’s a single pen in a large body of water, the odds are good that it’s never going to turn up.”
“But if it does—” I can’t even finish the sentence, but I don’t have to.
“ If it does,” Tyler says, picking it up. “It’s still going to be one of hundreds, possibly thousands, of random objects that are in that lake. It’s almost definitely going to fall out of his ear, and whoever finds it will just toss it back in. They can’t match a random person with a random pen that was found in a public park. There’s nobody else around. It’s just you and me.”
Just you and me. He says it so effortlessly, like it doesn’t occur to him that we now possess the ability to blow up each other’s lives in a matter of seconds if we want to. But I guess mutually assured destruction is one of the most airtight ways to keep secrets.