Page 8 of I Did Something Bad
“Ugh,” I groan, rolling my eyes. “What a walking cliché.”
“Do you call all of your interviewees a walking cliché?” he asks, eyes glinting as they scour my profile.
“To their face?” I look up at the ceiling as if trying to recall. “Only the ones that I also consider my friends.”
He nods, then shakes his head as though he changed his mind mid-reaction.
“But,” I point out. “You do know you can set the settings to make it clear that you’re only in town for a few months and are looking for something short-term.” That corner of his mouth that I’m now checking in on every few seconds pulls. Is he secretly dating someone here and he’s trying to throw me off? “Wh—”
“And how would you know that?” he asks. “About the apps. Personal experience?”
“Unfortunately.” I sigh. “It’s a war zone out there.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“From whom?”
“May.” His expression, which shifts toI walked right into that onein a blink, makes it clear that he didn’t have time to double-think his answer.
“May Diamond?” I ask innocently.
All he does is chuckle and nod in answer. “Who’s your celebrity crush?” he asks.
“Why? If it’s someone you know, are you going to set us up on a date?”
Once again, his eyes shine with the reflection of the fluorescent lighting and a pinch of teasing. “Depends. Who is it?”
“Chris Pine. The most underrated of the Chrises.”
“And the only one whose number Idon’thave,” he says with an exaggerated sigh that, against my will, makes me giggle. Actually fuckinggigglelike he’s the prettiest boy in school and I’m thrilled to be getting even a modicum of his time.
“Who’s yours?” I ask.
“Jane Fonda.”
“Tyler Tun,” I say, raising a brow.
His eyes widen like I’ve uttered an obscenity. “What?”
“I didn’t know you were into older women.”
“It’s Jane Fonda,” he replies, unfazed. “Why did you take this job?”
We’re playing ping-pong, him trying to get a point when he thinks my guard is lowered, me (obviously) not letting him.
“Easy,” I say and take half a bite of a dumpling, being careful not to let the remaining stuffing fall out. “Vogueasked me to do a cover story.”
“Is that it? Because it wasVogue?”
And because I wanted my ex-husband to hear that I was writing forVoguenow.“Yes,” I say. “Why?”
He takes a sip of beer. “It’s… different from your past work. Like that abortion clinic piece inTime.”
I am not a fan of how often this man zigs just as I’m sure he’s about to zag. I make a noise that sounds like I choked on some invisible beer, as though my body, along with my brain, cannot physically digest this new piece of information. He smiles. Point to Tyler.Damn it. “You read that?” I ask, regaining my composure.
“Like I said,” he says with a chuckle. “You didn’t thinkyouwere the only one who did research for this interview now, did you? It was a fantastic piece, too. Then again”—he lifts his chin at me—“I guess that’s how they do it at Columbia Journalism School.”
“Wow, name-dropping my college? You really went all in on my LinkedIn, huh? Areyouthe fourteen anonymous views I got last week?”
