Page 46 of I Did Something Bad
On Sunday, I’m out the door by ten, and to pump myself up because it hits me that I’m casually on my way to aVoguephoto shoot, I put on a loop of Reyanna Maria’s “So Pretty,” Beyoncé’s “Run the World (Girls),” Fifth Harmony’s “That’s My Girl,” and Lizzo’s “Like a Girl.” I might be a one-woman team, but being a one-woman teamis nothing new to me, and I’m not going to get overwhelmed now. As soon as this shoot is over, I’m going to haul ass over to Nagar’s Breath and sort out the rest of this mess.
Thuzar must either come from money or have recently won the lottery, because how else does an “up-and-coming” photographer afford a house with a front yard this size? It definitely screams “artist”: terra-cotta bricks starkly contrasted by neon-yellow shutters, mismatched wooden animal sculptures lining the concrete pathway, and tall metal gates whose imposition is undermined by their aquamarine-and-neon-yellow-flowers design. Not my taste at all, but I’m always a fan of someone who knows exactly what they like. Does it fit in with the neighboring white mansions and black gates? No. Does it seem like it cares? Also no.
I give my lips a final touch-up in the car mirror before I step out. Maybe I can find a way to apologize to Tyler without actually apologizing, for the sake of my article. Maybe something neutral likeHey, are we cool?without explicitly mentioning what it is I’d like us to be cool in regards to.
Despite its size, the pathway is already filled with cars, and I wedge myself into the last remaining space as the automatic gate doors rumble back shut. I press the doorbell—gold and shaped like a twinkling star with two long triangles jutting out from north and south, and two smaller triangles on either side—and a couple of seconds later, the door opens and I’m greeted by—
“Jason?” I ask, retreating backward.
If his bulging eyes and the pink tinge on his cheeks are any indication, Jason wasn’t expecting to answer the door to me, either. “Khin!” he says with a tad too much enthusiasm that snaps me to attention. “I… thought we were doing only photos today. What… are you doing here?”
“My editor wanted me to sit in on the shoot so I could have an idea of how to frame the story. What areyoudoing here?”
“I—”
“Khin?”
Every nerve in my body goes numb while the blood zings straight to my head. The result is an inability to blink, let alone speak. Is this what people experience when they get shot? Like you technically know what’s happened, but for a few seconds that extend for several eternities, you can’t feel anything, including the bullet inside of you?
It’s Ben’s voice (again) that snaps me out of that liminal state. “Khin?” he repeats.
“Ben?” I ask, probably looking like I’ve seen a ghost. He looks generally the same, still a solid foot taller than me, medium-length-ish hair still pomaded up and out of his face. The only noticeable new addition is his tan, although I guess spending several months on a beach in Indonesia will do that to you.
“I didn’t know you’d—”
“What are you doing here?”
“This—” Ben looks at Jason, who returns a panicked smile. “This is my… girlfriend’s house,” he finally says without looking at me.
I can feel the bullet now. I can feel the searing heat burrowing deeper inside my chest, feel my blood pooling and boiling in places it shouldn’t. Unsure where to look, my eyes wander around the foyer, up at the staircase with side glass panes, before skipping over each of the several dozen photographs that cover the walls. Ben always wanted to have walls plastered with photography, but I never saw the appeal of black-and-white portraits of strangers’ backs or the inside of a volcano as it explodes. Sure, they make great screen savers, but why would I want to stare into the volcanic abyss while sipping my morning coffee?
“Khin?” Every time my name leaves Ben’s lips, my insides have a small seizure. “I can leave if—”
I don’tmeanto sound like a member of Alvin and the Chipmunks, but that’s what happens as I squeak, “What? That’s ridiculous!”
“Are you—” Ben eyes me like he’s getting ready to catch me in case I faint. “Sure?”
“Of course!” I roll my eyes in apleasemanner. “This is your girlfriend’s house! Who I’msoexcited to meet!” I say, now thankful that I chose the jeans that make my ass look nice and perky.
“Okay then.” Ben nods. “Shall we?” He starts up the stairs with the speed of someone who has taken this route hundreds, if not thousands, of times before.
Thuzar is short, even shorter than me. It’s the first thing I notice about her, because despite her size, her presence is undeniable. Face framed by large, round, neon-pink-rimmed glasses, she’s marching around and talking to people, camera in one hand, the other free to gesticulate as she speaks, and I can tell even from over here that she knows how to toe the line between reminding everyone who’s in charge and not being a dick. Her smile expands into a grin when she walks over to us.
“Hi,” she says with a quick wave. “I’m Thuzar. I’m the photographer.”
“Hey, I’m—” I pause, not sure how serious the two of them are, and consequently, how much she knows about Ben’s personal history. “Khin.”
The smallOthat forms on Thuzar’s lips tells me instantly that she knows. She glances up at Ben, who returns an acute, confirming nod. To my shock, she doesn’t snap into some weird or tense mode. Instead, she opens her arms, exclaiming, “Oh my god, Khin! I’ve heard so much about you!”
“Really?” I ask, frowning.
“Yes! Ben has sharedsomany of your articles with me! You know,” she says, raising her brows at Ben, who rolls his eyes like he knows exactly which story she’s about to tell, “the day after our first date, he texted me one. Of your articles, I mean. And he was going on and on—”
“Okay,” Ben says, opening his palm in the air. “First off, I texted you because the article was relevant to our conversation the day before. And I wasn’t goingon and on—”
“—and at first I was like,Oh great, this guy is clearly hung up on his ex.But then I opened the link and started reading and then I was like,Ah shit, I’d be bragging about her, too.It was your interview with that writer who was the first to translate bell hooks’sAll About Loveinto Myanmar. And then I was like,Well, fuck, this Khin is so cool.And I’ve been a huge fan of your work ever since! I’m so glad you’re here! Ben didn’t tell me he invited you, though. Not that that’s a problem, but I would’ve prepared myself to tone down my fangirling beforehand if I’d known.”
Not knowing how else to process the avalanche of information that she’s just thrown in my face, I give a weak laugh. “Ben didn’t invite me,” I say. “I’m writing this story.”
