12 Evie
12 Evie
Nha Trang, Vi ? t Nam
Evie hasn’t been clubbing in over six years. The last time, she was dragged to a neon eighties-style discotheque by Lillian,
who plied her with an endless train of syrupy shots bearing nondescriptive names like Virgin Daydream and GlitterPuss. Evie
had taken about four before making an ass of herself on the dance floor by dancing with someone else’s boyfriend. The girlfriend
was irate at first, but after seeing Evie’s flailing dance moves and her own boyfriend’s slightly petrified confusion, she’d
pityingly led Evie to the ladies’ room. There, Evie proceeded to start a fight with her own reflection, much to Lillian’s
chagrin.
This was before she achieved any level of public reputation, and before every embarrassment was filmed for public amusement
on TikTok. But still, when Evie woke in the apartment she shared with four roommates the next day, her arm wet from her own
drool, with actual bangs she didn’t remember cutting, she vowed that her partying days were over for good. And she meant it.
All or Nothing Evie, that’s what Lillian called her. No wonder Evie is a recluse in Midland; she no longer trusts herself
to have a good time without blowing it in some colossal way. As mind-numbingly dull as the academic events are, at least there
are nearly zero chances of bangs, literal and otherwise. Atlas aside.
But now the consequence of her self-imposed monastic life is that Evie has no idea how to outfit herself for a night on the town. She holds up the pink dress she hastily bought in H ? Chí Minh City, then throws it back on her bed. Everyone else will be dressed impeccably: sexy, but suitable. No spandex allowed.
For once, she wants to fit in and let loose—appropriately.
Nha Trang is known for a raucous nightlife that draws thousands of tourists and locals, with rooftop bars that stream darts
of multicolored lights into the sky, and underground clubs featuring the most coveted DJs, mostly white dudes with mesh tank
tops and ironic ’staches. She’d seen several wandering the beach with huge Focal headphones, bopping their heads to inaudible
thumping, sometimes brushing shoulders in greeting, as if they were part of a secret, subterranean hive.
She texts Lillian: SOS. Why did you not pack clubbing clothes for me?
Lillian’s reply is immediate: Because we’re not nineteen. And because I didn’t think you would risk it after The Night That Won’t Be Mentioned. You can’t
even glance at bangs without shuddering.
I have nothing to wear.
Can’t you go buy something?
No time.
Aren’t there like a ton of rich women on this tour? Go ask one of them for help. Let nothing stand between you and that throbbing
D.
WTF, Lillian. WHOSE throbbing D?
That’s up to you to uncover, grasshopper. (I mean uncover literally because of the D?)
Great. Now her cousin has become the sensei of sexual innuendo. Pregnancy has made Lillian even raunchier than usual.
Evie types: This phone is disconnected. Its owner unreachable, especially to family members who have clearly been watching too much Skinemax.
It hasn’t been that long since she had sex, has it? Well, maybe longer than she’d like. At this point, she’d take a tiny orgasm. Even a meaningful
brush on the side boob. A prolonged stare at her ankles? Is that too much to ask?
In the past few days, one-on-one dates have begun sprouting on the Love Yêu tour, like hopeful shoots of young bamboo. Tour
guests are starting to find their matches or, at least, try their hands at dating in earnest. A few have even scheduled virtual
appointments with the on-call matchmakers. Whether it is the heady scent of suntan oil or the sight of so much flesh splayed enticingly on the white sand, love wafts insistently through Nha Trang.
One tour guest, a woman from Hu ? , went on a romantic boat ride with a man from H ? Chí Minh City and came back with her arms full of roses, like Lady Bountiful. An older Chinese merchant took a wealthy socialite
out to dine at a famous starred sushi restaurant where a prime minister once took his favorite mistress. Even Pin managed
to ask Talia for a sunset walk, complete with two tiny bottles of champagne and crystal glasses perched on a table in the
sand.
Evie’s tried to be a good sport, but with all the romance around her, she’s finding it difficult not to feel just a little
left out. Maybe that’s why she can’t stop stealing glances at Adam Quy ? n. It’s not lust—it’s desperation. FOMO. At least that’s what she tells herself. But it doesn’t really matter, because Adam
hasn’t given her a second glance since the boat.
One moment, he was slathering sunscreen on her back with buttery temptation; the next, he acted like she was invisible. He’s
been practically glued to Talia’s side, except for that hour or so when Pin gallantly pulled Talia onto the sunset walk. It’s
not hard to see Talia’s appeal, to be sure. She is living, breathing perfection. Who wouldn’t want to bask in the glow of that seraphic presence? Evie is honestly half in love with Talia herself.
Evie glances at her watch. “Shitballs.”
Only fifteen minutes to get ready, and she’s wasted half of it contemplating everyone else’s relationship. Evie pokes her head out of the hut and glances over at the tiny porch next to hers, where Fen sits with her legs crossed, smoking a cigarette as she frowns out onto the water. She’s wearing a pair of leather pants and a one-shouldered silver top cropped to show a daring-yet-demure inch of creamy skin. Tiny diamonds dangle from her ears. God, that woman knows how to dress.
Evie hesitates, then, driven by pure desperation, calls out, “Uh, Fen? Any chance you have a spare outfit you can lend me
for tonight?”
Fen shoots her an amused glance from under her thick red bangs. “You don’t have anything for a snail shack?”
Before going to Karaoke Luxury, a venue with sumptuous private rooms and VIP service, some of the group will be enjoying one
of Vi ? t Nam’s greatest pastimes: ?n ?c , translated to “eating snails.” In many of the major cities are streetside stands with short plastic awnings advertising
buckets of snails and shellfish—clams, blood cockles, mussels—all prepared exactly the way each diner prefers. Fueled by an
endless amount of Tiger and Heineken, the ? c celebrations can often last well into the night.
For those who are not shellfish-inclined, Ruby has planned an elegant, multicourse French dinner at a four-star hotel. The
choice was a no-brainer for Evie.
“It’s the after I’m concerned about,” Evie says, gesturing down at her robe. “I didn’t pack very well, I’m afraid, for a karaoke club. I
thought maybe you’d be the person to ask.”
“For a makeover?”
“A light touch?” Evie says timidly.
Fen grins, then stubs her cigarette. “Come into my house of horrors.”
Evie thought her hut was a mess, but Fen’s is absolutely catastrophic. Every surface is covered in lingerie, used coffee mugs and champagne
flutes, and pots of expensive Korean makeup. There’s a pair of strappy sandals dangling from the doorknob.
“Okay, babe,” Fen says, stepping back to look at Evie critically. “What’s your vibe?”
“Dark academia? A little Goth? Like Madame Báthory meets Noam Chomsky?”
“I don’t know who those people are.”
“Fair enough,” Evie says. “How about you just do whatever you want and I give you my undying gratitude if you somehow make
me not late for once? It won’t matter what I’m wearing to Ruby if I hold up the bus again.”
Fen pushes Evie’s chagrin aside. “It takes as long as it takes. Women like Ruby need something to be pissy about; it helps keep their minds off their dismal failure of a relationship.”
“You know something we don’t?” Evie asks, her interest sparked. Ruby never talks about her marriage, which is odd, especially
for someone whose whole empire rests on the gushing promises of happily ever after.
Fen sits Evie down and whisks brushes from her overflowing makeup bag. Soon she’s inches from Evie’s face, skating powder
across her cheekbones with expert confidence. Evie has a niggling suspicion that there’s way too much highlighter involved—and
are those false eyelashes she’s applying?—but she listens without comment as Fen describes the phone conversation she overheard between Ruby and her
husband.
“She told him that if he didn’t get ‘his sorry ass’ to the H ? i An family estate, he could find somewhere else to live.”
“H ? i An?”
“Yeah, didn’t you know? Apparently Ruby and Adam’s parents have some kind of villa compound and will be hosting us there.
They’re very fancy and very traditional, so I’m sure it’ll be up to the usual tour standards. If they’re anything like my
father, I’m sure they insist on black tie attire just to use the toilet.”
“Oh, great,” Evie mutters. “More tight-asses who’ll hate me. Must be hereditary.”
Fen shoots her a look. “Right. Like you and Quy ? n the Younger haven’t been tearing each other’s clothes off with your eyes. Maybe with more than your eyes.”
“Definitely not,” Evie says glumly. “His eyes only seem to be focused on Talia these days. Not that I care.”
“Hm. I don’t see it.” Fen ushers her into the bathroom with a dress hanging from a hanger. “Put that on. No questions.”
“I don’t really wear red—” Evie says before Fen slams the door on her.
With a sigh, Evie pulls on the dress. It’s made from a smooth satin that hugs her hips, then flares out just slightly near
the knee. The straps are thin, sparkling rhinestones, so iridescent that they almost look invisible in certain lights. It’s
a knockout of a dress. But is it really her ? This isn’t something she would normally pick out. It’s bright, it’s flashy, it demands to be seen. And Evie Lang is no wallflower,
but she’s no starlet either, not like Fen.
In the mirror, her eyes look huge with the false lashes, while her cheeks are a perfect combination of dewy and luminous from
the highlighter. There are about five pounds of clear lip gloss on her mouth, making her lips gleam with the luster of a baby’s
freshly oiled butt.
“I look like a porn star,” Evie calls.
“Fantastic. Get your ass out here.”
When she walks out of the bathroom, Fen whistles and helps her spin with one hand. “You’re going to go home with somebody tonight. Maybe two someones, if you’re lucky.”
Evie flushes at the thought, though it’s not exactly an unpleasant one. She darts into her hut for her signature leather jacket,
draping it over her shoulders. There. Now she feels more like herself.
As they walk toward the tour bus, she says, “Thanks, Fen. You saved me.”
Fen waves her hand. “Don’t mention it. We’ll go shopping tomorrow for a real Vietnamese wardrobe. We have some of the greatest
designers in the world. You might think you’re into this whole combat-boot-tweedy thing, but I know you have a secret siren in there.”
“I like my combat boots. Helps me crush the hearts of misogynists everywhere.”
“Uh-huh. I’m not saying that you shouldn’t be yourself. Keep the boots if you must. I’m just saying that maybe ‘yourself’
is someone you haven’t gotten to know yet. Fashion is about so much more than covering yourself. Or in your case, hiding. Look at how confident the women around us are. You think they care about making themselves less for anyone?”
“They are so chic.”
“They are,” Fen says with a smile. “I want to take half of them home myself.”
Evie blinks. “Oh, I didn’t realize.”
“That I’m pansexual? I guess it didn’t make it into that dossier. Doesn’t exactly fly in this hetero circle-jerk the Quy ? ns are selling. Truth is, I just love the person, not the gender. It’s an easier way to live, especially since most men are
absolute pricks. I avoid them when I can, romantically.”
“Show me your ways.”
“Well, it only works if you’re attracted to women.”
“No dice,” Evie says morosely, thinking of Adam’s strong arms cutting through the ocean. The way the sea droplets clung to
the cords in his neck. How his muscles jumped as he hoisted himself back onto the boat. Power and grace and devastatingly
good looks—plus, she thinks with a scowl, a personality as consistent as an oven with a broken temperature gauge.
Fen interrupts her thoughts. “But the thing is, I’m already sort of in love, so I’m not on the market for anyone, no matter
how amazing their abs are.”
Evie cocks her head. “So why are you...”
“On this sham of a tour?” Fen finishes. “Babe, it’s a long story and we’re almost in the clutches of Chairman Quy ? n, so I’ll be quick—I kinda fell for my father’s secretary, Mei. She’s this sexy librarian type; a little like you, without
the rampant anxiety.”
“That is my chief personality trait, thank you very much.”
“I can tell. Mei would never take my shit, even when I was trying to piss her off every time I went to see my father. Every
time I pushed her, she pushed back, but harder. She’s smart , in a totally not-normal, alien way. She actually scares me sometimes, which is hard to do.”
“Is that... what you want in a partner?” Evie asks doubtfully.
“Listen: if your relationship doesn’t at least teeter on the knife-edge of fear, are you really in love?”
Evie is beginning to question the wisdom of taking advice from Fen.
Fen continues, “The first time I tried to ask her on a date, she gave me the most intimidating dressing-down of my life. Said
I was a spoiled brat. Wondered if I could find it in me to tear myself away from the mirror long enough to make conversation
with another person. And the weird part is—I liked it. I really liked it. You know how sometimes when someone you admire tells
you the hard truths about yourself, you just kinda—”
“Feel seen?”
“Exactly. No one had ever dared to talk to me like that. My agent, my friends—all a bunch of yes-men. I could have launched
an unprovoked attack on an island of baby koalas, and they would have just... let me. Mei was right. I was spoiled.”
“Until she came along.”
“Until she came along. Wasn’t easy, but I won her over eventually. Proved that I was more than a gorgeous face with really
good legs and a smile that could light up any room and—”
“I get it,” Evie groans.
“Long story short, one thing led to another and another, and then one day my father found us in flagrante on his desk.”
“On. His. Desk,” Evie enunciates. She’s biting back a grin, trying to decide whether to be shocked or amused. Both.
“He was supposed to be in Shanghai at the time,” Fen says indignantly, as if her father were the one with the audacity to unlock the door
to his own office in the middle of a workday. “Anyway, he was furious about it, not because I’m pansexual or anything, but
because he thought I’d ruin things with Mei, who’s the most competent secretary he’s ever had. I think she puts cocaine in
his morning tea, personally. He was worried she’d end up quitting and he’d have to hire his dimwit cousin, who’s been angling
for the job for years. Plus, he had to get a new desk.”
“Naturally.”
“So then he said that I had to go on this tour and ‘take a breather’ from Mei, or he’d cut off my inheritance. I’m not usually inclined to obey, but, well—the acting gigs have dried up, and this look is expensive to maintain. Besides, Mei and I will just get together after I come back and go on a luxury tour of our own, paid for by my father.”
“A fuck-Yêu tour?”
Fen throws her head back and laughs. “I like you.”
Though they are the last to arrive, Fen and Evie make it onto the bus with at least thirty seconds to spare. Seeing Evie,
Riley shoots up with a huge grin, running his eyes down her dress until he reaches the silvery sandals on her feet. She knows
she doesn’t look completely like herself, and rather than that making her uncomfortable, she’s feeling confident and capable,
as if she’s wearing a kind of armor. Who doesn’t like to be lightly and curiously ogled? She slides the jacket down one shoulder
and tilts her head up, allowing just a quick bat of her lashes.
“You’ve got something in your eye,” says a voice near her elbow.
Adam, with a lifted brow, an impenetrable expression.
She leans close to his ear and whispers, “And you’ve got something up your ass.”
Evie can tell he’s fighting a grin. She plunks herself down on an empty seat with a smile of her own. The beach whizzes by
as they drive into town, a blue sea line leading their way. The sun is slinking into the horizon, casting a flush of neon
pink over the city. Leaning palms silhouette in the light, a postcard come to life.
Once again, Evie thinks of Auntie H ? o, wishing she were here. Wishing she could meet Fen and Riley and even Ruby. Adam. What would she have to say about this
motley crew?
There’s a home for all the weirdos.
Again, that image of the San Francisco row house rises, unbidden. A bonfire, surrounded by friends holding cups of spiked
cider, sharing their stories. Their larger-than-life personalities. A kind of safe house for the creative, the idiosyncratic.
Folk musicians strumming guitars into the night, dancers with their impromptu performances on tabletops. A poet taking blurry,
ill-lit photographs. Marking the memories of a time when they were all young and wildly inspired.
She’d never been there—at that bonfire, among those raised voices—but she feels as if she had. An eerie sense of déjà vu overtakes her. Not a memory, then, but a premonition? A wish?
But the row house is meant to be sold, inflating her pathetic bank account with more zeros than she’s ever seen in her life.
Right?
She catches Adam’s eyes lingering on her hemline from across the aisle, then sliding quickly away. She hears Auntie H ? o’s voice in her ear, like a mischievous whisper. A little repressed, but if anyone could loosen him up, it’s you, my Evie-pie.
Like that, Evie is seized with a longing for her aunt that is so pure, so deeply rooted in grief, that she gazes into her
lap to avoid meeting anyone’s eye. A small tear wets the crimson fabric of her dress.
Then a tissue, appearing at her elbow. Talia doesn’t say anything, but smiles at her kindly, without expectation. Not for
the first time tonight, Evie finds herself grateful for the unexpected kinship around her. Perhaps she has been shut off to people for a while. Perhaps it’s time to change that. It must mean something that her most beloved fantasies
circle around community, something she’s never really had, except in brief, stolen snatches. To belong, you have to be present.
Vulnerable. She can learn to do that—or fall on her face trying.