Page 3 of I Did Something Bad
My natural human instinct is to jump out of my seat and promise her that I’m the woman for the job, but then I remember that I’m probably still being tested to see how good I am under pressure. So, “I’m a big fan of Singapore,” I say in a subtle acceptance of her challenge. “But I also still want that fifteen percent.”
“Fifteen percent it is.”
I grin as I finally shake her hand. I’m about to let go and dive into the rest of this salad, but she holds on to this handshake for just a beat longer than necessary.
And I clock them, even though they are the minutest of motions. A flicker of the eyes to my left hand resting on the table. A delicatepressing of her lips into a thin line, just for a millisecond. But when you’ve seen said motions enough times over the past couple of months, they become unmissable.
“It—” I begin.
“I heard the news. I’m sorry,” she says, and to be honest, I’m thankful she doesn’t make this awkward by pretending not to notice it. We both know that she knows Ben, too, so there’s no point in dancing around this. “How long has it been?”
I reflexively glance down at my ring finger, as though it will show me—what? Something different from the small light-skinned band that has stared back at me for so long and yet still seems strange to me, like this hand should belong to someone else?
“It’s been nearly two months since we signed the papers. We were already separated before that, though,” I say. “It’s not a big deal.”
Her eyes widen with encouragement. “Exactly! Every smart woman has a starter husband, darling. Better to get it out of the way when you’re young. Look at me.” She gestures at herself with her fork. “Took me three failed marriages to get here, and I’d say it worked out pretty well.”
I know it’s meant to be a reassurance, but the phrase “failed marriage” makes me want to throw back up the two sliced cherry tomatoes I swallowed earlier.
“Thank you. We’re okay. I wish Ben nothing but the best,” I continue by rote.
My Professional Face must’ve cracked despite my best efforts, because Clarissa dials down her enthusiasm and gives me a silent nod. I know The Nod. I know it meanssorry I brought it up.I know this becauseeveryoneis eventually sorry that they brought it up.
I clear my throat and raise my glass of wine, now realizing that this cover story is why Clarissa insisted on the most expensive bottle on the menu at the start of the meal. “To us,” I say.
Clarissa shakes her head. Instead, when she clinks my glass, she says, “Toyou.Knock this out of the park like I know you can, Khin. Don’t let me down. Tell our readers who Tyler Tun is.”
I know there are bigger things for me to focus on as I drive home, such as, say, getting assigned aVogue Singaporecover story, but my brain cannot stop hyper-fixating on the words “failed” and “marriage.” They keep ricocheting around in there while I say a passing hello to the doorman and walk into my still somewhat-new-to-me condo. I enter my twenty-first-floor unit with the spectacular view of Inya Lake, and as I awkwardly reach behind to unzip myself out of my Prabal Gurung dress, it’s like the words are now bouncing off of the new furniture in my living room, from the cream couch to the marble dining table to my beautiful vintage Persian rug: Failed. Marriage.
I’m removing my watch to start my six-step skincare routine when it buzzes. It is, of course, the group chat; precisely, the “Bitch Bucket,” as my best friends and I have named it.
Thidar
How was the meeting?
What did VOGUE SINGAPORE want from us??
Nay
And what are WE demanding from THEM in return?
Chuckling, I’m about to reply with a quick voice message when it happens again, ringing loud and clear to highlight the overwhelming quietness of this beautiful apartment and the giant bathroom with the rainfall shower in the corner:Failed. Marriage.
It’s not that I’m under any delusions that my marriage is still capableof salvation. I know we tried everything—couples counseling, living separately for a month, going on our own “self-discovery” trips (me to Bali, him on some cross-country trek in Bhutan), more counseling—before we called it quits. Or, more specifically, beforeBencalled it quits and told me point-blank that he wanted a divorce because he didn’t see a future for us anymore. I also know that a marriage that didn’t even last a year is, by all means, a failure; it’s nothing personal, just an objective fact. If I bought a new laptop and it combusted in my face as quickly and as spectacularly as my marriage did, I would march over to the store and tell them it was a piece of crap. And I meant what I said: Idowish Ben well.
I take a deep breath and begin rubbing my oil cleanser in small, tight concentric circles across both cheeks.
The last time I saw Ben was when we handed over the keys to our house—ouroldhouse—to its new owners. We were polite, like neighbors running into each other at the supermarket.I’m okay. This is actually okay,I remember thinking. And ithadbeen okay, that is, until we parted with an awkward platonic handshake that in the moment had felt more appropriate than a hug, and I’d noticed that all ten of his fingers were fine. Ring tan–less. Admittedly, it could’ve been because his white skin had tanned faster and more evenly than my brown skin, but it’d still felt like the final twisting of a knife that was already six inches deep in the center of my heart. The final piece of proof that confirmed my worst, most embarrassing fears: that our marriage had meant significantly less to him, and that I was extremely easy to get over, so easy, in fact, that it was already as though we had never been married in the first place.
I shut my eyes and splash water onto my face, focusing on washing off the oil.
The thing about having been in a relationship with the same person in the same city for six-plus years is that the overlapping space inthe Venn diagram of People We Know is almost a perfect circle. Even if Ididn’twant to know what Ben has been up to since we last spoke, I can’t avoid it; a few weeks ago, I ran into one of our (many) mutual friends at a restaurant, and, against my will, was informed that Ben is thriving, and, in fact, had just scored a much-coveted gig to shoot the behind-the-scenes photos of some Netflix documentary on whale sharks in Triton Bay (which is located in West Papua in Indonesia, as my Chardonnay-fueled Google search that night informed me).
I am aware that despite it being a natural human reaction, it is also the pettiest trope in the book, that of Partner Who Was Unceremoniously Dumped (or, in my case, Divorced) and Wants to Show Their Ex that Their Life Is Even Better Now.
But here we are.
Because I will move mountains to get Clarissa her story, her bigscoop,and she will offer me the full-time role on the spot, and that will be my literal plane ticket out of this miserable town, and by the time Ben and all of our friends see my name on the cover ofVogue Singapore,I’ll have already moved on to my next assignment. Singapore will be good. Change will be good. And although I enjoy freelancing and have never had any trouble finding work, the stability that comes with a full-time reporter role will also be good. Maybe I’ll be profiling Sandra Oh next. Or Viola Davis.
