Page 50 of I Did Something Bad
Besides, for some inexplicable reason, I get the sense that Tyler would see right through me if I even tried to fake it.
I shake my head, my chest squeezing when I notice the corners of his mouth droop. “I’m sorry I brought my personal issues to work and interrupted your shoot. I know we both agreed to stick to being professional, and I’m sorry I didn’t keep up my end of the bargain.”
“Kh—”
“It won’t happen again,” I say, and march toward my car without waiting for him to respond.
I know that I cry all the way home, and that I amstillcrying right now, bundled up on the couch withSVUplaying on the TV. What I don’t know is whether the tears are because I’m jealous of Ben, or because I am furious with him for reminding me of this investigation during the few precious hours today when I was determinednotto think about it. Or because this is the episode where Barba leaves and that final decision of his breaks my heart every time; I’m getting to the good sad part where he’s in the hospital room when my doorbell rings.
I scramble for my remote and press pause, hoping that if I stay still long enough, Nay and Thidar will leave. There’s another ring—which I expected, and to which I also don’t respond because they’re not going to break me with this amateur shit. A third ring, then a fourth. When there’s no fifth, I peer over at the door, stretching out my ear to listen for the sound of receding footsteps, but I don’t hear any.
Instead, what Idohear is the buzz of my phone on my lap.
It’s a text from Tyler:I know you’re in there. You really need to lower your TV volume or else you’re going to blow out your eardrums
I snort but don’t reply.
Another buzz.I should not be able to recognize Mariska Hargitay’s voice from down the hallway
Begrudgingly, I yank the door open to find Tyler—not model Tyler, but your friendly neighborhood Tyler, who’s changed into jeans and a plain black T-shirt. Disregarding how good he looks thanks to his outfit’s deceptive minimalism, I growl, “Howdareyou trespass onto my place of residence and critique my TV-watching habits. How did you even get up here?”
His expression turns sheepish. Guilty. “I filmed a video wishing your doorman’s daughter a happy birthday and he swiped his keycard for the elevator.”
Great, even my doorman has fallen victim to Tyler Tun’s charm. “You should go,” I say, knowing he won’t go, but still feeling compelled to insist.
“Ten minutes,” he says, using his palms to indicate the number. “Please.”
I rub the back of my neck, wincing a little at the giant knot between my shoulder blades. “Whatever it is that you have to say—”
“You’re right. Ihavebeen keeping a secret from you. The other week, I invited you to dim sum because my sister wanted to meet you. Or, well, she wanted to see you. Again.”
“What?”
He nods at the sliver of space between the door and the wall. “Ten minutes.”
“Speak,” I order as I sit back down on the couch and burrito-wrap myself back under the blanket. Tyler rolls in his lips like he’s restraining a smile while he takes in my giant pink faux fur throw, but doesn’t say anything.
“God, I rehearsed this so many times in the car ride over,” he says, propping one elbow on the back of my couch so he can face me. “Ihave a whole level of newfound respect for writers. This speech shit is ha—”
“Congratulations, you now have nine minutes. Now why did your sister want to meet me? Or”—What was it that he’d said?—“See me?”
He gives a dry chuckle. “You know her.”
“What? Jess?” He nods. I look down at the coffee table as I try to process this. Once I’m certain that he must have me (or his own sister) mixed up with someone else, I shake my head. “No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do,” he says, sounding as sure as I’ve ever heard him.
“Tyler, I don’t know a Jess—”
“She had an abortion.”
I sit up, the motion pushing the blanket down and off my shoulders. “What?”
Tyler nods once to indicate that I heard correctly. “A few months ago, my seventeen-year-old baby sister had to get an abortion because some old creep she hooked up with in a club bathroom knocked her up,” he says. His jaw hardens, teeth grinding silently. “And when she told him, he told her he was married, and gave her an unmarked bottle of pills from who the fuck knows where. And I only found out because she called me in tears, because she wanted an abortion but she didn’t want to take the pills, which, thank fuck she was still rational enough to come to that realization, but there was also no way she could tell our parents. And it was the middle of the school year, so I couldn’t just suddenly fly her out without making them suspicious. Which is—”
When his shoulders raise and drop, they slouch farther down than I’ve ever seen them, like it took him a while, but he’s finally gotten rid of the weight of the world. “Which is how I came across your article. Because all I could do while I was in LA was google ‘abortion clinics Yangon.’ And there was your article.” He closes his eyes while he recites the title. “‘Meet the Underground Clinic Performing Life-SavingAbortions in Myanmar.’ It was the first search result. And I swear I nearly cried. And then I emailed you.”
“No, you didn’t,” I say, because I would’ve remembered this.
