I Did Something Bad

Ten

“Excited to get some time away from me?” I ask as the lot security barrier lifts and the car exits the area. It’s a few days later since our park rendezvous—Saturday, to be specific, which also means tomorrow I get to stay in, order pizza, and binge old SVU episodes to my heart’s content. No movie. No murder. No Tyler. Ideally, I won’t leave my apartment for a full twenty-four hours.

“Huh?”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” I remind him. “No work, plus you get rid of me. No antagonistic journalist hounding you all day long. Win-win.”

“Of course,” he says, with a laugh that lags behind for a second and a half. “I have brunch with my parents. You know I haven’t seen them once since filming began?”

“Oh?”

“It’s terrible, I’m a terrible son.” He laughs again and scrubs his chin with his palm. “We’re going to some dim sum place that my sister insisted on. It’ll be my first time meeting her new boyfriend .” He cracks his neck and chances a glance at me, one that I catch and in which his discomfort could not be more blatant.

“Tyler Tun,” I say, picking up on his emphasis on the word “boyfriend.” “Don’t tell me you’re the macho protective older brother type.”

He lets out a chuckle. “I try not to be. But it’s hard. She’s my little sister. But my parents say he’s great, so that’s a good start. And some of my aunts and uncles are in town from Mandalay so they’ll be there tomorrow, too.”

“Wow,” I say, smiling at the image. “Big crowd.”

“Yep. How about you?”

“Hmm?”

He lifts his chin at me. “My day off means it’s your day off, too. What’s on the agenda for you? Seeing your folks?”

“Oh,” I say, redirecting my attention anywhere but his face. How do I say, My big plan tomorrow is to become one with my couch, without sounding like a total loser? “My parents actually live in Hong Kong,” I say. Feeling like I’ve looked away for long enough, I glance back only to find him still waiting for an explanation, which I really don’t want to get into, but this is what I get for prying. “They do a lot of overseas work,” I say, realizing I sound like a walking cliché, but there’s a reason clichés became clichés, right?

My parents and I don’t have a strained relationship or anything like that, but we’ve also never been particularly close. It’s not like they skipped out on my wedding, but I also didn’t turn to them for emotional support throughout my divorce.

“Do you miss them?” Tyler asks.

I don’t want to get into the boring details, but considering how close he is with his family, I can see why this would be an important topic in his eyes. “Sometimes,” I admit. “But we’re at a point in our lives where there really isn’t that much overlap.”

“Gotcha,” he says with a short nod, getting the memo this time. Then, right as I’m about to exhale, he says, “Khin.” What is it about the way he says my name, an otherwise incredibly common and average name, that makes my lungs forget how to function? “Are you… seeing people tomorrow?”

I huff in offense. “Of course I’m seeing people.” I’m seeing the pizza delivery guy. And probably the doorman when I go down to check my mail. “What, you think my whole world revolves around you and the cast and crew of this set?” Even as I ask it, I’m doing a mental rundown of the last time I saw someone who wasn’t associated with this movie. Apart from my doorman and that dinner with Patrick and Thidar, I’m drawing a blank. No, that can’t be right. I must have interacted with other people. In my defense, I’d normally make plans with Nay and Thidar on my day off, but Nay is out of town for the weekend and Thidar and Patrick are hosting his parents who are visiting from Chicago.

“Khin,” Tyler repeats, a teasing lilt to his tone that I don’t like because it feels a lot like he’s laughing at me.

“What?” I snap.

“Do you… wanna come to brunch?”

I blink and scrunch up my nose, making a sound that’s supposed to sound like Huh?

He shrugs with an aura of casualness that I can’t fathom, as though he’s just asked to reconfirm our pickup time on Monday and not if I want to have brunch with his parents. “If you’re not doing anything tomorrow and you like dim sum, you should come to brunch.”

“Why?” I ask, my confusion making the word sound more offended than I intended.

That corner of his mouth twitches and gives him away. He wasn’t expecting that. When was the last time anyone, especially a woman, turned down an offer to have brunch with him? In fact, he almost looks disappointed.

“What, do you have another date in the park?” he asks, recovering in a blink. “Is this the same guy, or a different but similarly invisible man?”

I scoff but can feel the heat zing to my cheeks. “Both. Trying to assemble an orgy.”

“In the park.”

“Hey, it’s my day off. A girl’s gotta de-stress somehow.”

His Mona Lisa–esque expression unfurls into a real smile, which, against my will, makes me smile. “Come to brunch with me,” he repeats.

As I revel in the fact that I’ve won this round of banter, my brain hitches on that “with me.” I make it unhitch itself.

“Why?” I repeat.

“You want the truth?”

I tip my chin inward. “I would know instantly if you gave me anything else. My bullshit meter is impeccable.”

His eyes glint with amusement. When he talks, though, his voice is low. “Fine, the truth is, while I know you’ve put the fact that this guy was very possibly stalking you behind you, it’s still bugging me. I can’t stop thinking about it, about what would’ve happened to—” He shakes his head as if halting himself from going down a dark, familiar route. “And I know it’s our one day off and god knows we could both use it, but I don’t want to spend my day off worrying that you’re dead in a ditch somewhere, so”—my gaze cuts to the way his forearm muscles flex as he rubs the back of his neck—“can you please do me a favor and come to brunch with me? Just for a few hours.”

“Tyler, you worry about me?” I say, feigning sentimentality. Although, if I’m being honest, I am slightly touched. Just slightly. He seems to be gauging whether I’m asking a serious question or not. Feeling nice, I let him off the hook. “Or are you trying to get an invite to my park orgy?” I ask. “You know, tit for tat. It is RSVP only, though. We keep it discreet.”

There’s that mouth twitch once more, and this time, it’s out of control. “You’re asking if I’m trading brunch with my parents for a park orgy with you?”

“Are you?”

“Will there be refreshments?”

“Not included, I’m afraid. Too many logistics as it is. But you can bring your own booze with no additional corkage fees!”

“Damn,” he says with a heavy sigh. “I’m afraid I’ll sit this one out, then. Brunch, on the other hand, does include drinks. For free.”

Despite this gratifying back-and-forth, I’d already made up my mind as soon as Tyler asked the question: Nope, thanks but no thanks. Because why would I agree to have Sunday brunch with Tyler Tun and his family? I am overworked and exhausted and I miss my couch. Besides, what would Clarissa say if word got out that I had a meal with his parents and aunts and uncles who flew in from out of town?

I’m about to point out as much when I stop and think. Actually, she’d probably think that was a prime opportunity to find out more about him. Who is he when he’s not on set? Who is he around his parents?

Find out his favorite dim sum dish, I hear Clarissa clairvoyantly insisting.

“You’re not worried your mom will spill some huge family secret about you that’ll make its way into Vogue ?” I ask, half teasing, half not.

He shakes his head, fingers raking through dark brown hair that doesn’t have to be done up for the next thirty-six hours. It’s starting to get floppy in front, and I wonder when his last haircut was. “Obviously, I’ll prep her beforehand,” he replies. “Besides, I’d like you to meet Jess. I think you guys will get along.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” I ask, wondering how much time he’s spent thinking about me and his sister hanging out together (and why).

“Because considering the amount of time and energy the two of you put into it, it would appear that you both are pursuing doctorate degrees in how to antagonize me. So, you know, there’s at least one common interest. I’m sure you’ll find others, too.”

Despite myself, fresh, delighted laughter bursts out of me, and he grins back. “But… what if people see us?” I ask, a new, more crucial reason to turn down his offer occurring to me. “What if the police find out? Won’t it look like we’re colluding outside of work hours?”

He pauses, and resolves it with a chuckle. “It’s just brunch, Khin. It’ll look like we’re two coworkers having brunch on the weekend.”

I’m too anxious to be entirely convinced, but on the other hand, this could be a potential gold mine for my story. “And you’re… really okay with this?” I ask to double-check.

“Yeah. It’ll be fun.”

This isn’t right. Something is off. I am aware that it feels ridiculous-bordering-on-paranoid to say that this feels like a trap, but it feels like a trap. Or a trick. How could the biggest movie star in the world not be wary about inviting a journalist to brunch with his family? And on his one day off? This feels like the type of damage-control setup your publicist arranges because someone just leaked a secret voice recording of you going off on a racist tirade.

Maybe he is worried about you, I fleetingly think.

Or more likely, another voice perks up, he wants to keep a close eye on you so he can keep making sure he knows everything you know .

That has to be it. He doesn’t want a repeat of the park incident. What was it that he’d said? Guess we’re always watching each other. If he wants to watch over me this badly, then I’m at least going to twist this to my advantage.

“May will also be there,” he adds. “If that… I dunno, makes a difference either way?”

It does, actually. I haven’t gotten a chance to get to know May outside of work, and I wanted part of the profile to include her reflections on their friendship. Maybe I can tease out some of that tomorrow.

“Text me the details,” I say.

“You don’t think they’ll think it’s weird that we drove over together?” I mumble as I back into a parking spot in the basement garage of The Dumpling Dealer. It’s one of the oldest (and best) dim sum restaurants in the city, but it recently moved to a new location with more space. Despite its new, more central and trendy-ish location, however, the menu has more or less stayed the same since my childhood, and my stomach is already craving their crystal shrimp dumplings.

“I can’t exactly get a cab now, can I?” he replies over the beep beep beep of the car’s backup camera. “Besides, carpooling is good for the environment.”

“Didn’t you fly here on a private jet?”

“All the more reason for me to play my part in saving the earth.”

“How about May?” I ask while I use my rearview mirror to reapply my lip gloss. “Why didn’t you carpool with her?” I put the gloss back in my purse and rearrange my curtain bangs.

“Because she’s a terrible backseat driver, and, more importantly, she was at her sister’s house on the other side of town. I would’ve used more gas going to get her first,” he replies. I’m giving my bangs one final touch-up when I detect him looking at me. He’s chewing his bottom lip; when I worry my lip like that, I’m trying to hold myself back from saying something that I’ll most likely regret later.

“What?” I ask.

“You… look good,” he says with a nod. When he adds, “Your hair looks good, too. And that… lip. Color,” I feel the tips of my ears begin to heat up. He’s flirting. It’s nice to be reminded that I am an attractive woman with whom attractive men want to flirt. Hey, maybe I’ll even give the apps another go once all of this is over.

I run my hands through my hair and smile to signal a silent thank-you. “By the way,” I start, curiosity getting the better of me. “How did you… describe me? To your parents.”

One brow arches before he answers. “I said you were the rudest, most persistent, least charming journalist I’d ever met in my whole career. Left out antagonistic, though.”

I scoff and, as a reflex, whack his shoulder. I do not linger on the tingle in my fingertips that spreads and makes my whole right hand go a tiny bit wobbly before I can retrieve it. “First off, I am brimming with charm—”

“Is that why you just physically assaulted me?”

“That was not assault.”

“What do you call it then?”

I purse my lips to the side, trying my best not to focus on the sudden sparks of static that seem to be fizzing in and out around us, like tiny fireflies that disappear the second you look at them. “Physical banter.” As soon as I say the word “physical,” I feel my crotch clench.

I expect him to laugh or lob back something clever, but Tyler goes quiet and simply stares . In my peripheral vision, I note the previously upturned corners of his mouth fall, and a muscle in his jaw jerks. I want to look away, but I also don’t—god, this man is hot—and I want him to look away first but also… I don’t.

And now I’m aware of how dark and secluded this corner of the parking garage is, how well those chinos fit him, how easy it would be to—“Do your parents know I’m a journalist?” I ask abruptly, because nothing kills the beginnings of an erection like talking about your parents.

Tyler startles as though I’ve snapped him out of a trance, but if he was preoccupied by something, he eases back into the conversation with zero hiccups. “Yes,” he says.

“And they didn’t mind?” I ask, stepping out.

“No,” he says, coming around the front of the car. He waits as I re-tuck my pink scalloped camisole into my jeans. “I told them you were also a friend, and my mom jumped in and said I should invite you and I told her that I already had.”

“You know, moms love me. It’s my shining yet effortless charm, despite what some people think,” I say and start for the elevator. When Tyler pulls his baseball cap farther down, I give a small chuckle. He looks over like, What?, and I point at the plain black cap. “I thought the whole incognito sunglasses-and-baseball-cap disguise was a highly inaccurate trope.”

Smirking, he’s about to say something, but gets distracted and snaps his fingers. “Oh, one thing I forgot to mention. We have a seating chart.”

I stop, one foot in front of the other. “A seating chart?” I echo.

Two couples pass us and Tyler turns and takes one large step in my direction, lowering his head even farther down, toward me. Pine trees. It hits me, and that tingle from earlier returns, stronger now and spreading farther and faster, right down to my toes. You smell like a weekend away, I think without quite knowing what I even mean by that, but it’s my brain’s knee-jerk response.

“An informal seating chart,” Tyler answers.

Without meaning to, my lungs take in a deep inhale of his minty breath, and before I can help it, I’m thinking, Have you ever let a date smell your morning breath? And then my gut doubles over with mortification because why am I thinking of Tyler Tun’s morning breath?

I hope I sound breezy and not like someone who’s thinking of morning breath as I ask, “Is this a quirky family thing?”

At the elevator, he presses the button four times in rapid succession, and breathes out an audible sigh of relief once when it opens, and again when it closes without anyone else joining us. “It’s a my-father-insisted-that-getting-a-private-room-would-diminish-the-authentic-chaos-of-the-dim-sum-experience-so-we-need-to-be-strategic-about-seats thing,” he grumbles.

I jerk backward once I process his words. “Tyler!” I yell a bit. “Don’t tell me that we’re eating in the main—”

Ding.

You know it’s a good dim sum place when you can hear and smell it before you see it. The cacophony of chopsticks clanging on porcelain plates, kids squealing as they run around, impatient adults calling out to get the servers’ attention, the aroma of stacks of freshly baked, steamed, and poached foods—all simultaneously hit our senses. Tyler grimaces as he pulls his cap so low I wonder if I should hold his hand so I can guide him to the table—for safety reasons, obviously.

Before we reach the front desk, though, a female voice calls out, “There you are!” For a moment, I’m convinced someone’s already recognized him, and panic, unsure what the protocol is for getting a celebrity out of a restaurant unscathed. But by the time I’ve turned in Tyler’s direction, he’s hunched over, a pair of someone else’s hands placed on his back.

“Hi, a may,” Tyler says into his mom’s ear before placing a kiss on her cheek. When they part, he takes a small step back and gestures at me. “This is Khin. Khin, this is my mom, Su.”

“Hi, Auntie.” I smile. I let out an inadvertent oomph when my upper torso lurches forward three seconds before my feet can catch up, and I find myself in the middle of a tight hug from Su. She’s tall, about Tyler’s height, so my face meets her collarbone, but, unlike him, she’s round and very, very smiley.

“We’re so glad to meet you,” she says. “We love meeting Tyler’s friends! May’s already here! Your shoes are gorgeous, sweetheart,” she says, and we both look down at my black floral Gucci pumps.

I wonder if she’s had five cups of coffee or if this is all her sans caffeine. “Thank you!” I say loudly so she can hear me.

“Are you into fashion?”

“I—” I stammer. I’m trying to compose myself but the noise and screaming children aren’t helping; neither is the fact that Su is still gripping my arms. I settle on a straightforward “I like fashion.”

“Oh great!” she says, squeezing me. “You’ll love my older sister. She’s a tailor!”

Her enthusiasm takes the corners of my courteous smile and effortlessly stretches it out into a genuine grin. Despite being parents, my parents aren’t really “children people,” and growing up, I always had the suspicion that having to pay attention to one biological child was more than enough hassle for them, so I never really invited friends over to my house. I knew my mom and dad would pretend to care only to forget their name ten seconds later, and even at a young age, I knew that was a small but acute heartbreak that I didn’t want to bear, the idea that I could try and try to integrate them into other parts of my life, but they simply didn’t have the time and energy to want to on their end.

Su, though, seems like the kind of mom who happily chaperoned field trips and took great pride in embarrassing her teenage children with an incessant stream of hugs and kisses out in public, and who whipped up homemade snacks for every sleepover while being aware of each of Tyler’s friends’ dietary allergies and restrictions. The kind of mom who wants to be a mom, to her children but also to any child, including, right now, me.

“Hey, where’s…” I turn to Tyler just in time to catch him glancing at me before redirecting his full attention to Su. “Jess?”

“Didn’t you see the family group chat this morning? She left for Bangkok.”

Tyler’s shoulders tense, and the side of his mouth pulls; I’m sure to anyone else, it’d be interpreted as a subtle half smile, but I know what it is. Something’s up. “She left for Bangkok? Are you serious?” he says, the words stilted like someone made a last-minute change in the script and thrust it to him while the cameras were still rolling. “So she’s not here?”

“Her boyfriend surprised her last night with concert tickets to… what’s that artist she likes?” Su, releasing me at last, swats the suddenly uneasy air. “Oliver? Something Roberts? Oliver Roberts? No, you know her. Very purple. Olive? Starts with an R ? Olive Roadkill?” She tsks with frustration. “The young girl with the long hair with a lot of teenage angst—”

“Olivia Rodrigo?” Tyler and I both offer at the same time. Su nods, face brightening with recognition.

“Did you seriously just say Olive Roadkill ?” Tyler asks. I have to stifle a laugh at that.

Su rolls her eyes. “You knew who I meant! Anyway, Jess texted the chat. I’d assumed you’d read it.”

Tyler’s deep sigh is more annoyed than I’d expect. “I’m about seventy texts behind in there. You all have a lot to say.”

“You know how our family is.”

“Yeah, apparently the kind that cancels last minute without even following up,” he mutters, then, catching my eye, slaps his (clearly fake) movie-star smile back on. “Shall we eat?” he says, and drapes one long arm around his mom’s shoulder.

With his head down, we pass the front desk where there are several families who committed the frankly rookie error of not making a reservation and are now mingling to the side in the hopes that they’ll be squeezed in between preexisting reservations. Inside, and although it’s a huge space in comparison to your average restaurant, the place is packed, and I almost trip over a toddler on two separate occasions. The large round tables are laid out in four parallel lines, with just enough space between the backs of chairs for one slightly-larger-than-average person to squeeze through. To be honest, though, now that we’re here, the havoc works in Tyler’s favor. Unless you really zoom in on him—and everyone is too busy to be zooming in on any one person, the staff included—he passes as someone who makes you go, Huh, that guy kind of looks familiar .

Our table is located in the far back of the restaurant, wedged in the right corner. “Speaking of, Khin!” May says, jumping to her feet when we arrive. She’s wearing a matching purple knit short-sleeved top and midi skirt set, and a white bucket hat that both looks chic and executes the job of keeping half her face hidden. “I was just telling everyone how incredible you are to work with!” She pulls me in for a hug while making sure never to face the rest of the restaurant, and then reaches for Tyler. “And you, Jesus, it’s like you’ve been intentionally avoiding me outside of the lot,” she mumbles. Tyler and I make eye contact, our lips simultaneously pressing into a taut line, although no one else notices.

It turns out that when Tyler said there would be a seating chart, he meant he and May would sit with their backs to the restaurant while the rest of us slightly scooted our chairs closer together so that there were no gaps for a server or wandering fan to pop their head in. I’m directly opposite him, facing the restaurant, about two millimeters of space between the back of my chair and the wall, and a straight, clear view of my subject(s). Perfect.

I meet his father, two aunts, three uncles, and two cousins, all of whom are shockingly down-to-earth for members of Tyler Tun’s family. It’s not that I thought they’d be stuck up, per se, but I know Ty ler’s net worth, and I can imagine he’s bought his parents a nice present or two over the years—I was picturing at least a non-flashy Rolex on his dad’s wrist, or an Hermès bag hanging behind his mother’s seat. But instead, Alex (his dad) is sporting a regular stainless steel silver watch, and Su’s bag is a plain navy Longchamp tote with a few scuff marks. And the only reason people throw stray peeks our way is when Alex and Su lean in for an innocuous kiss, although it takes me a few minutes to realize that not only is Alex the only white person in this restaurant, but the two of them are also the only interracial couple here. Despite the general increase in the city’s immigrant population over the last decade, you don’t really find them (especially if they’re white and middle-class) frequenting restaurants like these that are older and don’t do marketing the way the new, say, fusion bistros do, and where the menus are entirely in Myanmar (and in this case, also Mandarin). I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit that I had assumed Alex didn’t know any Myanmar language, but he’s fluent. And then I remember what Tyler said about their old apartment in Chinatown, and about how it was his father who wanted to eat dim sum the right way. Alex was probably a regular at this restaurant’s old location, too, has probably known about this place longer than I have; something about him refusing to forego the “authentic dim sum experience” even for his movie-star son makes my heart squeeze. At this table, Tyler is just Tyler. I’m not the kind of person to be sentimental at the sight of other families’ obvious tight-knittedness, but the portrait of this family together sparks a small flame inside me.

Unable to whip out my phone and write my notes due to social protocol, I stay quiet and try to observe as much of the scene as I can, taking mental Polaroid pictures of every single one of Tyler’s interactions.

Click : the way he sucks in his cheeks after taking the first bite of his favorite dim sum dish, har gow, which is apparently his one “weakness” in regards to his new vegan lifestyle. Click : his shy, embarrassed expression when his aunt pulls his face flush to hers for a surprise selfie. Click : the roar of his inadvertent laugh when his mom recounts a story about an address mix-up that led to his sister’s weed brownie delivery arriving at their house to the ignorance of their father who just so happened to be peckish that day after a particularly long morning jog. Click : his sneaky, relaxed smile as he watches his parents mock-bicker.

“Khin, I have to say—” His cousin Aye’s voice seizes all of our attention, but not before Tyler finds me looking at him and… smiles. Before I can even be embarrassed, Aye says, “We were all so excited to hear you were joining us today.”

“Oh?” I am… confused? Surprised? Flattered? All three, possibly. “Why’s that?”

“Auntie and Uncle told us that Tyler can’t stop talking about you. Which, by the way”—she points her chopsticks across the table at him—“I don’t understand why you haven’t mentioned her in the cousin chat. I thought we were friends.”

In an effort to clear up my ongoing confused-surprised-flattered state, I look at Tyler for answers—and find him cheeks flushed and widening his eyes at Aye as he tries to communicate something through Cousin Telepathy.

“Khin is the best, ” May answers on his behalf (sort of), but her tone and the shoulder nudge she gives him feels less like she’s saving him and more like teasing. “She’s probably the best journalist I’ve ever encountered. Very dedicated to her work, including this profile. She and Tyler are practically inseparable on set.”

Now it’s my turn to have heat stretch out across my face. Despite my spaghetti-strap top, I can feel my elbows start to sweat. Everyone’s eyes are ping-ponging between me and Tyler, and in spite of my instincts, I make sure not to look at him.

“Two months isn’t a lot of time to shadow someone—” I hear him start to say.

“Interesting,” his other cousin, Paing, interrupts. “Because remember when the New York Times wanted just half a day with you and you said you could spare an hour, max?”

Aye snorts beside me. Perhaps against my better judgment, I sweep a swift gaze across the table. I don’t need Cousin Telepathy to read the blatant embarrassment (and anger) on Tyler’s face as he glares at Paing, who is smiling back with an innocent What? expression. Everyone else is trying to hide their unbridled glee by looking down or away. Everyone except for May. When my eyes land on May, she’s already watching me. She gives me a warm smile, but doesn’t break eye contact. She is, I realize after a few seconds, pulling a me. That is to say, she’s observing me, gauging how I’m reacting to all of this. Does she… does she know? No, she can’t know. But her quip about Tyler and I being inseparable definitely hints that she suspects something—I’m just not certain how farfetched (or not) her suspicions are.

“I have to go to the bathroom!” My announcement comes down like a sledgehammer, but hey, at least it breaks the uncomfortable tension. “Sorry.” I grimace. “I…” I scramble around at the table before my eyes land on my glass of watermelon juice. “I had a lot of watermelon juice,” I say.

“Oh, I feel you, thamee,” Su quips. “Once, I made the mistake of eating half a watermelon for breakfast before a road trip, and it ended up taking us three times as long to get there!”

I nod enthusiastically, like I’ve never heard a truer statement in my life. “Yeah, and I have a really small bladder. My doctor was concerned at my last checkup.” I want to suck the words back in as soon as they’ve left my mouth. It’s not even true! As far as I know, I have a normal-sized bladder.

“Oh!” Su says, taken aback but not wanting to appear rude. “You should go then, thamee. Don’t want a UTI!”

I give a weak laugh, not believing that I’m talking about UTIs with Tyler Tun’s mother. “No, I don’t!”

I push my chair back against the wall and stand up. To my right, Alex does the same and everyone to his right follows suit, the last person being Tyler. It’s a tight squeeze thanks to our proximity to the corner, and as I awkwardly wiggle my way out between these near-complete strangers and a table stacked with bamboo trays of dim sum, I try to recall why I said I had to go to the bathroom right now even though I could’ve probably held it in for another hour?

Oh right, because Tyler shot me a single smile and the feral part of me that hasn’t had sex in six months wanted to jump up and crawl across the table and undress him then and there. Tyler, who—

“Tyler!” Su yells, but it’s too late.

Two kids playing a game of tag run right into him, and I watch him fold, knees buckling. He tries to grab his mother’s outstretched hand but misses. I extend my arm to catch him as he stumbles in my direction. He manages to grip my shoulders , only for us both to tumble backward and rest horizontally on the maroon carpeted floor, Tyler right on top of me. I catch sight of the cap hurtling in the air above his head while the sunglasses that he had hung on his shirt’s neckline slide under the table.

“Fuck,” he whispers a nanosecond before somebody screeches and screams, “It’s Tyler Tun!”

I freeze as murmurs of “Is that Tyler Tun?” and “Holy shit, that’s Tyler Tun!” become louder and less murmur-like around us until they’re an overlapping chatter, like birds squawking in the jungle over two shiny pieces of fruit ( we are the fruit).

“We have to go,” Tyler says through gritted teeth. Before I can nod, he’s already scrambling to his feet and stretching out for me.

“May—” I whisper, but Tyler squeezes my arm before I can look for her.

“Don’t look at her,” he says sharply. “They’re looking at us. If you look at her, they’ll look at her, too.”

“Okay,” I say. In fact, I don’t look anywhere but the floor as I clutch his hand and try to get up without one of my boobs popping out in front of the entire restaurant. “My shoe,” I mutter when, once upright, I realize I’m tipping to the left.

“Here!” Tyler’s aunt Nilar (the tailor) says, grabbing the shoe which had flown under her chair. Tyler takes it and gives it to me, and, holding on to his shoulder, I hop on one foot to put it on.

“Here’s your bag,” Alex says, and they fling my purse around the table before one of Tyler’s uncles hands it to me.

“Ready?” Tyler asks.

I nod. Only then do I look up—and my whole being spasms with regret when I come face-to-face with a sea of cell phones that boasts the steadiness and intensity of a SWAT team’s lasers. They’re all pointed right at us, and they stay trained on us as we run out of the dining area and toward the fire escape stairs, Tyler leading the way, my feet following his, our hands clasped as though we’re hanging from a cliff and either we both survive, or neither does.