Page 5 of I Did Something Bad
“Oh, wait, what purse are you taking?” Nay asks.
“The dark denim Kate Spade. With the wooden handle.”
“Oooh, good choice.” Nay nods. “And you moved all your stuff?”
“Yep. Wallet, portable battery, notebook, pen, Tide pen, tissues, hand sanitizer—”
“And the pepper spray and alarm?” she asks, referring to the presents they’d bought me after I got my first piece of hate mail years ago and made me swear, literal hand on heart, that I would carry them with me everywhere,even if I one day take an assignment where I go underwater in a submarine(they literally wrote an oath that I had to recite out loud).
“Yes, I—”
“Because men are men. And Chinatown at night can be sketchy. Are you driving?” Thidar asks.
“No, I’m getting a cab.”
“Good.” She nods. “Because you know it’s not just carjackings these days. I heard a story the other day about a guy breaking into a car and hiding in the backseat until the woman got back and—”
“I said I was taking a cab,Mom.”
Nay purses her lips to one side. “But you won’t forget the alarm and spray, right?”
“I think,” I say, reaching to open the door, then gripping their shoulders and forcing them out into the hallway, “that I will be just fine eating Chinese food with Tyler Tun.”
“I—” Nay starts.
“But no, I won’t forget the spray and alarm. Now can you please leave so I can shower and get dressed and not fuck up this job before I’ve even started?”
Three
Crow’s-feet. Maybe it’s shallow, but it’s the first thing I notice about him: Tyler Tun has crow’s-feet. I hadn’t seen them in any of the TV appearances or magazine spreads I’d diligently studied in preparation for tonight, but there they are: deep and unmistakable.
Otherwise, and while I know it’s trite to say he looks exactly like he does on-screen, he does. For a split second, my brain’s neurons lag in their firing—a consequence of seeing a face that I’ve only caught in movie trailers and magazines and late-night social media scrolling now staring back at me from a few feet away: short, unruffled hair and full brows, both of which are just two shades darker than his dark brown eyes; jawline that you could use as a ruler; that famous million-dollar smile. He’stall,and despite the distance separating us, I have to slightly tilt my head backward to meet his eyes. He’s also usually clean-shaven, but tonight he’s got a five-o’clock shadow that makes him, well, hot. Not that I’ve ever thought he was unattractive, but it’staken me until this moment to realize that, actually, I find Tyler Tun quite hot.
I blink to clear my mind ofthat,and focus back on the present moment. He’s still smiling politely, and it hits me that I’ve spent the past few seconds staring at him—although he doesn’t seem the least bit disturbed, like this is something that happens all the time.
“Hi.” I take his hand, and, apparently continuing tonight’s trend, am caught off guard by how soft they are. It’s probably written into all of his contracts that he has to stay moisturized to the point of feeling like a baby’s butt at all times. Nobody wants a crusty Hollywood heartthrob. “I’m Khin.”
“I’m Tyler. I hope you don’t mind this place,” he says as he leads us back to the small, metal folding table where he was sitting when I walked in. I memorize his outfit while he’s still standing: white sneakers, gray chinos, plain black polo shirt with a subtly imprinted Burberry logo on the right chest. Clean, crisp, classic. Immaculate. Did his publicist pick it out?
He retakes his seat at the red plastic stool, and I plop down on the matching one opposite. Because the table is pushed up against the wall, there’s only one more stool in the aisle, and, assuming that no one else is joining us, I put my purse down on it.
When I look around the narrow space, he continues in a somewhat apologetic tone, “This is my favorite restaurant in the city. I know it doesn’t look impressive, but I’ve been craving their wonton soup for years.”
“Was that the last time you were in Yangon?”
I notice a flicker of a knowing smile before he answers. “Yes.” I open my mouth but he speaks first. “A little over one and a half years ago. I haven’t been back since.” He says it not only like heknowshe was one step ahead of me and what I was going to ask next, but that heprideshimself on it.
“I see, good to know,” I say. I can’t help but also think,This is going to be more fun than I thought; after all, there are few things in life I love more than taking someone down a peg, even—especially—if that someone is a bigwig Hollywood star who thinks I won’t be able to see past the smoke and mirrors.
It doesn’t take me long to clock that, despite the stool being a flimsy, backless piece of plastic, Tyler Tun doesn’t slouch, his back instead a taut, straight vertical line. He steers the conversation, talking me through each of the menu items, throwing out recommendations when he arrives at a dish that he’s particularly fond of. I nod, even though I’m already in interviewer mode, making mental notes of as much as I can. For instance, I also observe that he hasn’t uttered a single “um” or “ah” this whole conversation—tics that I look out for to judge how a personreallyreacts to something I’ve said. He doesn’t tap his foot or crack his neck or exhibit any of the other signs that people usually show when they’re nervous about being alone with a stranger.
As I study him like a Nat Geo researcher studies an animal in the wild, it occurs to me that the reason Tyler Tun has managed to simultaneously maintain such a public professional life and private personal life isn’t because past interviewers have been bad attheirjob—it’s because he’s extraordinary at his. The man is unreadable and presumably unshakable; in other words, a publicist’s dream. Or, in other words, a challenge for me.
“How did you find this place?” I ask as I peruse the laminated A4 sheet of paper. I flip it over to find a blank page. I flip it back.
“It’s been here for ages. The current owners’ grandparents started it when they lived here.”
“Aww, that’s sweet. Didyourgrandparents bring your parents here whentheywere kids?”
