Page 18 of I Did Something Bad
“Yes, I can.”
“Khin—”
“I just need to sleep it off,” I repeated, aware that I sounded like a single-minded toddler. “And it’ll look suspicious if I don’t show up tomorrow.”
After a long silence during which I’d refused to be the first to break eye contact, he at last sighed and nodded. “I’ll come pick you up,” he said. “We can… sort out a story.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay,” he repeated. “I’ll see you at one thirty.”
I take a Xanax right before I change into a pair of cream silk pajamas—my favorite, although unlike in the past, they don’t improve my mood—and then I crawl into bed, pull the covers up right under my chin, and prepare to drift off.
Except I can’t close my eyes. Because every time I close my eyes, I’m there again. And again. And again and again and again. It won’t stop.
At 5A.M., I do my laundry. By seven, I’m re-color-coordinating the pile of clothes in my wardrobe that Nay and Thidar had flung around while trying to choose my First Dinner With Tyler outfit, Saweetie’s “Best Friend” blasting in the background. I know that night was less than a week ago, but it feels like a memory from a distant life. Like someone else’s life. Someone who did not commit first-degree murder.
So this is how it’s going to be,I think as I grab a stray purple Kate Spade dress from between the pinks and hang it in its correct section.There’s going to be a before and an after. When people talk about defining moments that split your life into two distinct segments,thisis what they’re talking about.
I have another coffee, take another shower, have a small sandwich while still in my pajamas, then decide on my outfit for the day: dark blue jeans and my favorite black vintage Prada halter-neck top. If I’m going to feel numb, I might as well look hot while doing it.
Except—I can’t be feeling numb. I can’t go through the rest of today on this precipice of a panic attack. I want to talk to someone. Not Tyler because I can’t afford to freak him out (even more). The first names that I want to reach for are Thidar and Nay. Nay wakes up earlier because she likes to have a run before going into the office for another day of Important Publicist Things, but I can’t bring myself to go further than stare at her name in my call log. For one, I don’t want to bring them into my mess. And two, as I recall the way they were worried about me just last week, worried about things that,objectively, are much less important and urgent than my committing a murder, I can only imagine what this news will do to them. I can already picture them whisper-arguing while I’m out of the room, telling each other,We should’ve checked on her more,andSee, I told you she was barely hanging on. In spite of them being my best friends in the whole world, the thought of having them see me like this, at my absolute, definitive rock bottom, ignites a searing shame.
I have a habit of checking my email as often and as thoughtlessly as most people check their Instagram feed, so I open my phone and refresh my inbox—and right at the top is an email from Clarissa from five minutes ago.
From:[email protected]
Subject:Checking in
Hope yesterday went well. Let me know if you need anything on my end. Can still send you that company card if you need one.
Remember—write me a good story. I want to beastounded.
C
As much as I want to forget last night, I take a deep breath and force myself to rememberwhyI was in the park in the first place. The shoot. The film. Tyler. The article.
There’s also the rest of my fucking life.
What happened has already happened, Tyler and I have both agreed we can’t tell anyone about this, and now I have to put it behind me. Ihaveto. I can’t spend every single night of the rest of my life inan insomniac daze, unable to do something as simple as make myself a breakfast that’s more substantial than a slice of cheese between two pieces of bread.
Unsure of where exactly one starts when embarking on The Journey to Get Your Life Back on Track After Killing Someone, I gravitate toward what I’m most familiar with: work.
The night after that dinner with Clarissa, as the start of my research, I’d stayed up to gather as many celebrity profiles as I could find by entertainment writers I admired. Now, opening my laptop, I swipe to the browser window that has approximately ten tabs still open. Caity Weaver on Cardi B forGQ.Jia Tolentino on Selena Gomez forVogue. Allison P. Davis on Meghan Markle forThe Cut. Ashley C. Ford on Serena Williams forAllure. All of E. Alex Jung’s profiles inVulture.
I start with the Selena article, and keep a blank document open to compile a list of questions and observations to be mindful of for my own story. But despite being a fairly quick reader (at least, pre-murder), sentences keep blurring as I reach the end, and I have to return to the beginning, only to realize I’ve lost focus again by the time I read the last word. Fifteen minutes later, and I’ve read the first—I scroll back to the top of the page to double-check—one and a half paragraphs. Even better is the fact that I’ve absorbed approximately 10 percent of it.
My frustration begins to fuse together with my exhaustion and anxiety, and it takes me another fifteen minutes to finish that second paragraph.
A break. I need a ten-minute power nap to recoup.
I put the laptop down on the floor, pull my throw blanket tighter around me, and flip so I’m facing into my cushions. As I rest my burning eyes, I congratulate past-Khin for splurging on the larger, more expensive couch.
The next thing I’m aware of is my phone vibrating from where it’s fallen underneath my chin. It’s Tyler.
“Hey,” he says. “I texted you to say I’m downstairs but you didn’t respond. If you’re still asleep, I—”
