I Did Something Bad

Twenty-two

I’m having dinner with Clarissa tonight; she’d flown into town for four other meetings yesterday, and as someone who always prefers to do business in-person, had stayed an extra day because she’d rather we go over her notes face-to-face. I filed the story two weeks ago, and so far, all I’ve heard is the “Received. Thanks. C” that she’d sent back within an hour. I don’t know if the silence is good or bad, if it means she has minimal edits and this is a celebratory dinner, or if there is such a long list of ways in which this is the worst celebrity profile she’s ever read that she wants to take me somewhere with a good, expensive wine selection to soften the blow while she takes it apart line by line.

Despite my being fifteen minutes early, Clarissa is already there when I give her name to the ma?tre d’. She’s sipping on a glass of red with the fortitude of someone who is at the end of a ten-hour workday and can go on for another ten.

“Clarissa!” I say, extending a hand as I approach.

She stands up, white dress shirt staying perfectly tucked into her pine green wide-leg pantsuit even as she tuts away my hand and hugs me. “Drink?” she asks.

“Yes, I—” She raises a brow at someone behind me, and in seconds, someone is at my side, filling my wineglass. “Thank you,” I say to the waiter.

“You did it, you filed a Vogue cover story!” Clarissa says, lifting her glass. I relax. This is a good start. With a bright smile, I clink my glass to hers. Right as the first few drops slip between my lips and onto my tongue, she states, “We can’t print this.”

I sputter red drops onto the white napkin on my lap. I hold up a hand and duck down, continuing to cough into the napkin until I regain myself. When I look back up, someone’s filled a glass of water for me. “I’m sorry?” I wheeze.

Clarissa gives me a short smile. It’s not a mean This is where I fire you smile, but also not a I was just kidding! one either. “The draft you filed,” she confirms. “We can’t print it. At least not in its current state. Good thing we have a lot of lead time with this one. I expect another draft in two weeks.”

“What’s… I…” I try to clear my throat as professionally as possible for someone who just spat out a mouthful of red wine. “Can you give me a bit more specific feedback?”

Clarissa opens her hands. “You didn’t write a cover story.”

“Oh,” I say. That was not what I was expecting, and I don’t know if that’s better or worse than a straight-out It was shit . I don’t know if this is standard Vogue feedback and I’m too ignorant to read between the lines, but I also need more than what she’s giving me if I’m going to turn in a second draft that she can print. “As in, my tone wasn’t exactly what you were looking for or…?”

“Khin,” she says with a short laugh. “You didn’t write a cover story.”

“I don’t—”

“You wrote a love letter.”

I had a feeling I shouldn’t drink any more wine for the next ten minutes of this conversation, and once again, my gut was right. I mean to say I’m sorry? or Can you elaborate on that? or even a contemplative I see, but what comes out is a succinct “Huh?”

Clarissa laughs again at my expression. “Darling,” she says, shaking her head. “You wrote a love letter in the third person and poorly disguised it as a profile. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great letter. When I finished it, I was next to my boyfriend in bed, and I turned to him and said, ‘I just read the most damn romantic thing I’ve ever read in my life. I hope someone turns this into a movie.’”

“Are you…” I swallow, cheeks flushed. “Did I email you the correct file?”

At that, she throws her head back and roars with laughter. I try to join her, but the best I can do is a frail “Heh.”

“It’s okay,” she says, laughter subduing into a soft chuckle. “It stays between us, I promise. Although I will need an actual story for the next draft. Several of my editors are already asking to read it. Everyone’s dying to get their hands on this one.”

I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a room with a dozen different isolated tiny fires, and I don’t know which one to address first. At last, I go for the most obvious one. “What do you mean it was a love letter ?”

“Khin, did you read what you wrote?”

“Yes! Of course! Multiple times!”

“Did you read it as someone who—” She cocks a teasing brow. “—is not in denial about being in love?”

“Clarissa—” I laugh, but it doesn’t sound funny. None of this is funny. This is my job, my career. And I cannot be sitting at a five-star French-Chinese fusion fine dining restaurant while my professional life falls apart before my eyes. “No offense, but do you think you read it through a biased lens? I know you weren’t thrilled about the rumors after what happened at the dim sum place, and—”

Somehow, I know to stop talking when she picks up her wineglass. She swirls it around, sips, and puts it back down, never once taking her eyes off of my face. “I believed you back then when you said you weren’t dating. And I don’t believe that you ever were. Dating, I mean. You’re too smart and too good of a journalist to let a man derail your assignment.”

I nod, exhaling for what feels like the first time in twenty minutes. “Thank you. I am, and I didn’t.”

“But Khin, that’s the stupid, infuriating, clichéd thing about love, isn’t it? You don’t get to choose who you fall for.”

“I didn’t—”

“I’m not going to press it,” she says, raising her hands to stop me mid-protest. “I’m simply telling you why we can’t print the draft you filed. By the way, I hope you don’t mind,” she continues breezily. “I went ahead and ordered us both the surf and turf. The steak and lobster here are sublime .”

“The—” My brain stumbles on itself as it tries to keep up. “Steak and lobster?”

“Yes,” she says, looking confused as to why I’m confused. “You’re not allergic to shellfish, are you?”

That’s not exactly why I’m stammering, but nonetheless, I say, “Uh, n-no.”

“Good. Oh, another thing,” Clarissa says, swilling her glass in the air once more. “The job’s yours.”

I do a double take, literally gripping the edge of the table to stop myself from falling forward. “What?” I breathe out. “The… full-time position?”

She nods once.

“But I… couldn’t get you your scoop. I tried, but I… didn’t do it.”

“But you did do the best possible job anyone could. Look, I know I put a bit of pressure on you about getting me a nice, shiny scoop that I could put on the cover and frame for my office,” she says, and I have to roll in my lips to stop myself from saying something along the lines of That’s putting it mildly . “But despite this, frankly, mess of a first draft, it’s clear that you’ve put in the work, and more importantly, that you cared about your subject. That’s what I should’ve asked of you from the beginning. It’s all I should’ve asked of you. Every single one of your previous pieces of writing, not to mention all of those stellar references, have proven again and again that you’re the type of journalist who goes all in and cares about her subjects, and you did exactly that with this article, too.

“And the longer I sat with your draft, the more I realized this is the kind of story I want. Not a love letter,” she clarifies. “But… good writing. Something that I’d be proud to print. And even though this first draft isn’t quite what I was looking for, I admit, in retrospect, I let my personal desire to brag to everyone about securing a Tyler Tun scoop get in the way of, you know, good journalism.” She shrugs, and I can’t quite believe what’s happening here. Clarissa doing a one-eighty and… admitting she made a mistake? “But I run Vogue, not some underhanded rumor mill. I want sharp, hardworking, trustworthy people with integrity in my office. Which is why you’ll fit right in.”

If I had felt earlier that my career was falling apart, now it feels like it’s reassembled itself into some sort of super-charged version of its previous iteration. “Just so I have this right,” I say, my chest squeezing tighter as the magnitude of the situation hits. “You’re offering me a job at Vogue ? A full-time job? At Vogue ? As a reporter? Right now? Here?”

“Yes. To all of the above,” Clarissa says with a wink. “How could I let a writer like you slip through my fingers?”

“Oh my god,” I whisper, more to myself. My hands are still on the table edge, and I have to grasp it tighter to keep myself grounded. This is it, I think. I’d been petrified about where my life was going next, but here it is. I can see it. A job at Vogue . A career at Vogue . I could be in an editorial position in a couple of years. Hell, I could eventually be in Clarissa’s position, I know I could. And beyond the job, I’m being offered a new life in Singapore. A fresh start. The fresh start I’d so desperately wanted.

I’m still lost in this weird hypnotic phase and only catch the last syllable of what Clarissa’s just said. “Sorry?” I ask, sitting up. “Can you repeat that? Sorry, I’m a little overwhelmed right now.”

She nods her head knowingly, as though this is everyone’s reaction to getting a job offer from her. “I said, take the next two weeks to consider it.”

Consider it? I open my mouth, ready to (politely) yell something along the lines of I don’t need to consider it! It’s goddamn Vogue!

But she speaks first. “While you’re writing that second draft. Every time you’re in front of your computer, think if you want to do more of this. There’s no rush here, and I know it’d be a big next step for you. It’d be a change, and change can be good, but you need to make sure it’s the right kind of change.”

Three-months-ago me would’ve waved away her suggestion and requested she draw up a contract right now so I could sign it on the spot and we could wrap up the night by celebrating with champagne. But the words “think if you want to do more of this” flash in my brain like a dim warning siren. At this point, our food arrives, and even in my dazed state, the scent of freshly grilled lobster and steak arouses my hunger.

I pick up my knife and fork while Clarissa is already popping a piece of rib eye into her mouth. “Thank you,” I say as I go to cut my own steak. And even though here is a next step, a plan that is bigger and full of more possibilities and more ambitious than anything I’d ever dared to dream for myself, handed to me on the most silver of platters, I hear myself say, “I will think about it.”

That night, I light my favorite mahogany-and-lavender candle, wrap myself in my couch throw, sit down at my laptop, and open the draft—which I haven’t so much as glanced at since sending it to Clarissa—and try to see it through her eyes.

“So what’s he like?”

Those are the four words I’ve had thrown my way the most frequently over the past few months. Everyone wants to know what he is like.

“Who? Oh, you mean Tyler?” I sometimes reply casually.

When my editor first offered me this assignment, I was very aware that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity; and while some things that initially feel like once-in-a-lifetime opportunities can turn out to be boring or regretful, shadowing Tyler Tun for two months has not been one of them.

Those two months were the first time he was back in Yangon after one and a half years away. He’s here to shoot (part of) Guns, Bars, and Getaway Cars with his costar and real-life best friend May Diamond—which, if somehow you missed the million or so announcements about it, is the latest action-slash–romantic comedy film on his résumé. It is a movie that is big and fun and exciting and leaves you grinning as the cinema lights come back on and you brush stray popcorn kernels off of your jeans. In other words, it is the film equivalent of Tyler’s personality.

Because the thing about Tyler Tun is, you get exactly the person you imagined, but also you don’t, because you get more . He is the perfect casting choice for any action flick or romantic comedy, the actor that walks into the room and the casting agent immediately goes, “Yes. Him,” before instructing their assistant to get rid of the other waiting hopefuls. Because there is no point in seeing who else will walk through the door.

I think that’s it: “Yes. Him,” is precisely what you think when he walks through a door, that door, or even this door, or any door. Yes. Him. Of course. Who else could it have been?

Yes.

Him.

Him, who is as handsome and charming and kind as he appears on your TV or laptop screen or whatever your streaming device of choice is, and also him who is sarcastic and silly and, frankly, easily tipsy. He is the diamond of every season, but he is also the friend who asks if you want to ditch the party and drives the two of you to the nearest McDonald’s. He is soft with his emotions and hard in his convictions, generous with his time but careful with his trust.

Yes, naturally, him. Always him.

I get it now. It’s been over two months since I last saw him, and all I can think about still is him.

Tyler is the kind of person that, when he looks you straight in the eye and tells you, “I’ve got you,” the words imprint in your mind for hours that become days that become weeks that become months, because it feels like a lifetime promise, one that you can cash in anytime, anywhere.

To know Tyler Tun is to wonder how you ever moved through this world unaffected by his existence. To know him is to love him, love every single part of him, from the etched crow’s-feet on his ridiculously perfect face, to the way his shoulders shake when he belts out a laugh, to the fact that his favorite song is Tina Turner’s “The Best.” Loving him is warm and slow, not in a stilted way, but sweet, warm honey taking its time melting and spreading; it is love that grows and grows, and just when you think you cannot be any more infatuated with a single person, grows some more when he does something that you thought only fictional men in romance novels did. I suspect he is the type of person who texts you “good morning” every day without fail because you once mentioned that you think it’s cute when people do that. I suspect if you fall asleep on his shoulder in a taxi, he carefully holds your head steady so that you’re not jostled awake by a speed bump. I suspect he picks you up at the airport and pulls you into him with a “There’s my girl,” regardless of how delayed your flight is. That if he has to leave town early in the morning, he unloads the dishwasher so that you have clean mugs ready for your morning coffee. I suspect he never lets you down, not once.

Perhaps this is a conversation I should have with my editor, but frankly, I don’t know how to distill Tyler Tun, and specifically the Tyler that I now know, into a single article. I could have spent three more months to three decades with him, and it still would not be enough time, because every time I learned something new about him, I would once again be overwhelmed by the fact that a person like this exists. After all, scientists have spent centuries studying the sun and yet they are not done, they will probably never be done, never get to a point where they go, “Okay, we know all there is to know.”

It is only fitting, then, that the world revolves around him, because that’s what Tyler is: the sun. Warm and bright and beautiful, commanding attention wherever he goes. When he walks into a room and the whispers of “Is that—?” start, the only thing I now think is Of course. Who else could it be?

Yes. Him.