Twenty
When I first met Tyler for that dinner in Chinatown, I thought he had been on his best behavior, a prime example of how to act and what to do and say, right out of the Universal Publicist’s Handbook. I thought I’d been getting the Tyler Tun that every interviewer got.
I had been wrong.
It’s been nineteen excruciating days since That Night, and now, every day that I show up on set, now I get the Tyler Tun that the rest of the world gets. “Morning, Khin,” he says in the morning, mouth curving into a smile that, I swear, is the exact same length each time—wide enough to come across as convincingly genial, tame enough to be professional. He doesn’t come find me in between takes; I try not to take it too personally—now that all the red tape has been cleared, we’re shooting at rapid speed, everyone working even longer and harder than before, especially him. He’s so exhausted, he barely speaks to anyone at the end of the day, I reason to myself. He still sits with me at lunch, probably because it would look suspicious if we began eating separately and the last thing he wants is for more rumors to spread, but makes the precise amount of small talk that you’d make with a coworker whom you run into at the water cooler. May, on the other hand, hasn’t said a single word to me; I don’t think he’s told her about his retirement, but he’s certainly told her about the whiteboard.
Every night, I tell myself that it will hurt less in the morning, but every morning, it turns out I was wrong. Instead, for the rest of our time together, the pain is piercing and prolonged, easily the worst I’ve ever felt; ignoring it doesn’t work, but neither does giving in and letting the wave wash over me. By the last day of shooting, I’m so numb that I don’t feel an ounce of emotion as I say my goodbyes to everyone.
The wrap party for the Myanmar cast and crew takes place at a rooftop Thai restaurant the following night. By the time I arrive, everyone is already drinking, and most people are already drunk.
“Khin! Holy shit, you look gorgeous!” Jason engulfs me in a hug from behind. He makes a twirling motion with a finger, and I oblige, pulling off a 360-degree spin in my Alice + Olivia forest-green halter dress with a cream-colored bow on the back. “Absolutely stunning,” Jason says with a grin. His grin spills over when he notices something behind me. Eyebrows waggling, he tips his chin toward the room. “And clearly, I’m not the only one who thinks so.”
I spin, and like a polarized magnet, latch onto Tyler, who stands with May and two extras at one side of the bar. May is wearing a simple little black dress with two side cutouts, large gold hoops, strappy black heels. He’s wearing dark blue jeans with a black leather belt, a light pink linen shirt tucked in, navy suede sneakers. They look like people who were born to be famous. I expect Tyler to look away, but he doesn’t, and in response, my body stills as his gaze slowly travels down to my feet until moving back up and fastening onto my eyes once more. Whatever our separate reasons may be, we can’t look away. May tiptoes to say something into his ear, and he shakes his head. She follows his gaze to me and says something else, something that makes half of his mouth quirk into a smile this time.
Self-consciousness floods my body, but before I can stop the nearest passing waiter for some liquid courage, Tyler motions to the left with his eyes, at a hallway that rounds the corner. Handing his drink to May, he walks over and disappears down the hall. I count to three, and, ignoring May’s scrutiny, follow.
At the end of the hall is a bright red fire escape door. When I near, Tyler pushes the horizontal metal bar and steps in, holding the door open until I cross over. I turn, he eases the door shut, the muted thud rings through the empty staircase, and then there’s only the sound of us breathing.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he says with a small smile. Then, “You look good.”
“Thanks. You too,” I say, hoping he knows I mean it.
He inhales the way I’ve watched him do on set right before the cameras roll for a big emotional scene: deep, measured, deliberate, like he knows this breath has to last him a while. “I’m not going to keep you for long,” he says, nodding around at the empty space.
“Well, we both know what happened the last time a guy tried to get me alone.”
And then it happens. He laughs. It’s small, throttled, a surprise. But he does it, and the grin that spreads on my face must look maniacal. Before I can add anything, he shakes his head as though scolding himself for making the mistake of sharing a laugh with me. “You know, May thinks this, ” he makes a wide circle in the air with one palm, “is a bad idea.”
“What is? Talking to me?”
His nod is a gut punch. “She said to look at how much trouble talking to you has already gotten me into.”
“Tyler,” I try again—and again, the words don’t come out, maybe because I’m scared I’ll say the wrong thing, or maybe because I already know that there’s no right thing to say here.
“I don’t want to be mad at you, Khin.” He looks up at me, really looks at me, in that way that makes me feel transparent in a matter of seconds. “I don’t want us to end on a bad note. I don’t want to go back to LA on Saturday and—”
“Saturday?” Somehow the silence around us has gotten louder, stiller. But that’s the day after tomorrow, I want to point out. Surely you’re mistaken.
“Yeah. I’m going to be here for a long time, so might as well get in as much of LA while I can. Plus it’ll be nice to have a longer break before we shoot the rest of the movie there.”
“Do you know when you’re moving yet? Back here.”
His forehead wrinkles with surprise at my question. Which, fair. Why does it matter to me? I’m about to let him off the hook when he answers, “After the movie comes out. Makes more sense for me to stay there until then. We’ll finish filming, rest, do the press tours. And I’ll need that extra time to ship all my stuff over.”
I feel my head bob like, Of course. That makes total sense. Of course it does. It’s not like I was counting on an extra two weeks to—
“But if you have any follow-up questions, you can always email me,” he adds like we’re wrapping up a meeting. “You were promised a full two months, so anything else you wanna know, just shoot me a message.”
My heart buckles with a near-debilitating blow as I realize that this is what we’ve come to. Follow-up questions and shooting messages. “Okay,” I croak out.
“Anyway, I—” He coughs into a fist that doesn’t fully uncurl even once it returns to his side. “I wanted us to clear the air.” He’s taking his time considering each word before he speaks, and the realization that this is also what we’ve come to is a new, penetrating hurt. “I needed the time and space over the last few weeks to cool down, and now that I have, I want to apologize for… overreacting. Apart from, obviously, the note about Jess and the abortion story, the rest was you doing your job. I can’t be mad at you for treating this article and our time together like a project when, well, that’s what it was, right?” he asks with a chuckle. I think I smile back, but I can’t be sure.
“But—” he continues, although I don’t want him to. I want him to stop talking right now, to stop unraveling this messy, confusing, but also incredible thing we’d built together over the last month. “I know things got… intense for a while there. I was grateful for what you did for Jess, and you were grateful to me for keeping your secret, and after we were thrown into such a high-stakes situation, we mistook that for… you know… feelings. We were emotionally overwhelmed and crossed a professional line, and I’m also sorry for my part in that. I’m sorry I lost my objectivity and blew up at you. You didn’t deserve that.”
His words feel like one Alka-Seltzer tab after another, fizzing and dispersing in my head until I’m just trying to stay afloat in this sea of bubbles. “That… makes sense,” I say, because at this point, it feels easier to let the wave of humiliation carry me forward and crash me into shore than to fight it. After all, what do you say when the man you love tells you he’s sorry he developed feelings for you? What’s the point of explaining that I’ve decided I’m not going to write this article at all, because if it comes down to him or any assignment, even Vogue, there’s no competition? He’ll just assume I’m doing it out of guilt. It’s not going to bring him back. Nothing is going to bring him back to me.
“I’m sorry, too,” I mumble.
A shadow drops across his face before instantly disappearing. He swallows, and says, voice so hoarse my first instinct is to ask if he needs a drink, “I’m glad we cleared that up.”
A memory sparks in my head, an unexpected burst of flash. And you’re in love with her, May had said in his trailer, when neither of them had known I was in the bathroom. He hadn’t denied it.
But he hadn’t confirmed it either.
“I’ll miss you,” I say before I lose the courage to say it.
The uncontrollable corner of his mouth twitches into a smile. I hold my breath, hoping he’ll say it back. He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Perhaps our paths will cross again one day.”
Our paths will cross again one day. It’s so civil I want to hurl. “Maybe—” I get out. Then, “When are you announcing it?” He blinks. “Your retirement.”
His brows lift almost imperceptibly. “Also probably once the movie comes out,” he says, swallows, then adds, “but you can have the exclusive if you want. I can clear it with my publicist. I’m telling May on Saturday, on our flight home.”
And then I understand. I want to clarify that that wasn’t why I asked, that I’m genuinely curious—but why would he believe me? Nonetheless, I attempt, “No, Tyler, that wasn’t—”
But he stops me with an open palm. “It’s okay,” he says, nodding resolutely like this is something he’s had a lot of time to come to terms with. “I get it. Again, you’re just doing your job. And hey, how could you turn down Vogue ?”
I should leave. I should say something like, Well, we should get back to the party, or I should return you before May starts getting worried, but I don’t. In fact, my jaw is aching because I’m gritting my teeth, because I have to physically clamp my mouth shut, because otherwise I’m going to cry, and it’s not going to be a pretty, demure cry the way May cries on camera. No, it’s going to be a full-on sobbing breakdown, and I don’t want to do that. Not here. Not in front of him. It’s already embarrassing enough to have him admit to my face that he regrets developing feelings for me; I don’t want him to now awkwardly try to make me feel better as well when the only reason he pulled me aside for this conversation was to “clear the air” before he moved back and on with his life.
Tyler doesn’t leave either. It feels like we’re two cowboys in a standoff, except neither of us has any weapons, and there’s not even something or someone that we’re fighting over.
“Enjoy LA.” Even before I’ve finished the sentence, my hand makes a beeline for my face, but it’s not fast enough. The tear rolls down.
He presses his lips tight, looking increasingly uncomfortable. “Enjoy Singapore,” he replies, granting me the grace of ignoring what just happened.
He does a half-turn to open the door, but before he can push the bar, I say, because he deserves it, “I am sorry. You don’t have to believe me, but I was never going to use Jess’s story. I wouldn’t.”
Glancing sideways, he nods. “Thank you” is all he says.
We go our separate ways once we rejoin the party. I don’t eat anything, opting to nurse one watered-down Coke all night, because it’s all I can stomach. At one point, Yasmin calls out, “Tyler! May! Speech!” and the room whoops.
I swear I try my damndest to stay, to look professional, look happy . But as I clock him sliding out of one of the velvet booths, bashful smile aimed at the floor as May fixes the collar of his shirt, something in me snaps, breaks clean in half. Maybe it’s my heart, or maybe it’s my dignity, or my tolerance. But suddenly, my throat starts closing up, and I move backward until I’m seeing the backs of everyone’s heads and I can stride toward the door.
The coolness of the copper knob feels good against my skin, every inch of which feels like it’s catching fire. I quietly turn it, step through, and, right before shutting it close, take one final look. And find Tyler watching me. Yasmin is talking, and May is laughing, and his mouth is smiling but his eyes are vacant, expressionless.
His brows furrow, discreetly asking, What are you doing?
I want to return a smile, but I can’t. It’s getting near impossible to breathe and to blink away the encroaching blurriness. So I do what I can, which is mouth Goodbye . And then, because it’s my last chance, I’m sorry.