Page 9 of Here for a Good Time
“Did you check out that activities brochure?” I ask.
“I did.” He looks up from his Kindle, popping an egg sandwich in his mouth. “Andallof that is free?”
“All-inclusive, baby,” I say, pulling up my feet to settle cross-legged into the soft, scratched leather. I know Zwe’s right aboutthe airline industry’s class system being literally classist, but I could get used to this. “You know what the first thing I’m going to do there is?”
“What?”
“Book a four-hour massage.”
He arches one bemused brow. “Can a masseuse even massage for four hours?”
“Okay, fine, I’ll split it up into two two-hour massages then. Stop letting logistics get in the way of my dream holiday,” I huff.
Zwe’s brow raises again, this time pulling the corners of his lip northward as well. “As long as it doesn’t cut into your writing time.”
“Okay, Dad,” I say through a pout, already knowing I’m going to regret making him my human daily word-count tracker. “I’m still allowed to have fun, though.”
“You are, as long as it—”
“I will cut intoyou,” I hiss, and his mouth opens into a full grin.
“Save some of the sweet talk for the honeymoon, my love.”
When we were in university, Zwe and I would regularly email each other our essays to hold the other accountable for upcoming deadlines. When Zwe eventually declared his major and started taking exclusively maths-related classes, I stopped being able to help out, but he’d still offer to read my English essays.
You don’t have to pretend to care about Balzac andThe Human Comedyyour whole life, I’d told him once.
Idon’tcare about Balzac andThe Human Comedy, he’d said.I care about what you have to say about it.
I’d studied English because it’d seemed like a safer bet thancreative writing; if things didn’t work out for me as a writer, my degree would at least help me get a job as an English teacher. I worked hard for my good grades, partly because I loved books, and partly because I knew that if I wanted to be a good writer, I needed to be a good reader first. I was also the first in my family to get a degree from a foreign university—“Oxford!” my mother had gasped when the acceptance email arrived; when I looked up from my computer screen, my father was already crying—so there was that extra pressure.
University had been fun. Growing up, we didn’t have enough money to take many foreign holidays, so when I flew out to the UK for my first year, it was the third time in my life that I had ever flown internationally. I cried the whole plane ride, feeling like I was being taken to the first day of kindergarten all over again, except this time I didn’t even have my parents beside me to reassure me that everyone would be nice, and yes, I would make friends and soon enough I’d actually come toenjoyit. I was certain everyone would be more fun, more attractive, richer, smarter; and a lot of them were one of those, or some combination of the four. I had graduated at the top of our class back in Yangon, but at Oxford, everyone had graduated at the top of their class.
I feel stupid,I’d sobbed on the phone to my mom when I saw the grade on my first essay.
I’d be surprised if you felt smart at Oxford,she’d told me.
What if I don’t get better?I said.
Then I’ll file a missing person’s report,she chuckled.Because that sure as hell wouldn’t be my daughter.
I know the boring outdated trope is that Asian parents aren’t supportive of children who want to go into the arts, but my parents hadnever tried to dissuade me from becoming a writer, not once. They knew the teaching route was a backup, and that writing was what it’d always been about for me. When it came time, there was never any question about whom I’d dedicate my first book to.
Pangs of love and longing poke at my heart. Uncle Arkar was right—I needed to make time to see my parents soon.
Of course, Mom had turned out to be right (as she always is), and I ended up loving Oxford—both the university and the town—and the community I’d built there so much that I stayed another year to do my MA. Soraya and I got a place off-campus in our final year, and we stayed there until we were both done with our master’s degrees.
And through it all, Zwe remained a constant, reading my essays, staying on the phone until the early hours of the morning, he and Soraya vetting my Tinder dates together.
I pick a raisin off of one of the muffins on my plate and throw it at him. “Speaking of love—”
“Oh boy—”
“How’s the dating going?”
“How’syourdating going?”
I give aYeah, rightscoff. “I asked first.”
