Page 63 of I Did Something Bad
That night, I enter my office—noting guiltily that this is the first time in weeks that I’ve opened this door—and write on the whiteboard, not at all a note for my assignment but a giant, block-lettered reminder to myself for if and when I come close to having a lapse in judgment:DOESN’T KNOW WHAT HE WANTS. NOT FOR YOU.
Fifteen
“Sooo how’s the story going? Got anything juicy for me yet? We’re a little over four weeks away!” Clarissa reminds me, like the little blue entry on my iCal hasn’t been counting down for me every day, murder cover-up be damned.
Snapping to attention, I smile up at my car’s speakers like Clarissa’s is the voice of God, which, in certain circles—mine included—she kind of is. “It’s going great! I’ve got… stuff!”
“Great to hear!” Clarissa replies. “Oh, and as an FYI, we’ve secured Sandra Oh for our April cover. I was chatting with her yesterday, and Sandra mentioned that she’d ideally like an Asian woman writer for the story, and I might have told her that I already have a stellar person lined up.”
An inelegant hacking sound bolts out of me. “Sandra Oh?” I ask up at God-slash-Clarissa. “TheSandra Oh?Killing EveSandra Oh?”
“Yes, Khin.” Clarissa laughs. “This isVogue,sweetheart. We go big. But of course, this is all contingent on you delivering onthisstory.”
I nod with such ferocity that the people in the next car start to look at me like they’re wondering if I’m having a seizure and they should call an ambulance. I hold up a palm to reassure them I’m not dying. Not physically, at least. “Clarissa,” I say, straightening my shoulders. “I’m already putting together the outfit I’ll be wearing when I meet Sandra for the first time.”
Clarissa’s laugh rings out through the car once more. “I’ll speak to you soon, Khin. Looking forward to reading this…” There’s a twinkling lilt in her voice. “…stuff.”
I crank Ariana Grande’s “7 rings” on full blast. Sandra Oh. I nail this one story, and I will be months away from sitting down with Dr. Cristina Yang herself. The mental image is enough to make me squeal.
In an unjust, maudlin moment, right as I think,When was the last time you wanted anything this badly?, I pull onto the lot and Tyler’s figure is the first thing my eyes hook onto, like lightning to a metal rod. A tall, handsome rod who’s standing in his usual parking spot, arms folded and leaning against the back of the car while chatting to Yan.Be fair—May’s voice jumps out like she’s a ghost haunting my passenger seat.
I park several spots away so I can take my time collecting my bag and my thoughts. Clarissa wants something juicy? How about the lineAt one point, even May Diamond confesses to me that she used to be in love with Tyler? But I can’t print that… can I?
I let out a small groan and drop my forehead against the wheel. This is ridiculous. Why am I feeling guilty? I’m a journalist. Everyone here knows that that is my job. My duty, even. And May and Tyler are both professionals; if they’d wanted something to be off the record, then they know to specify that beforehand,andthey know that I don’t necessarily have to agree. I have every right to write that May told me she used to be in love with Tyler. Or about his three morning coffees or—
Rap rap rap.I jump up and a sharp pain grips into the back of my scalp, literally—my claw clip is squished between my head and the headrest, making the claws dig into my skin. Tyler mouths asorryand steps back so I can open the door.
“You good?” he asks.
“Mm-hmm,” I say, smoothing down my shirt. “Any word from Yasmin today? About the… you know…” Tyler stares at me with a blank expression. Is he being serious? I make sure the coast is clear before I mumble, “M-U-R-D-E-R?”
“Ohhh,” he says, snapping his fingers. “N-O.”
“Are you choosing violence today?” I ask with a scowl that dissolves the second his crow’s-feet wrinkle with laughter.
“Sorry,” he says, his blatantly unapologetic voice speckled with amusement.
For a few moments, we stand there, doing nothing but grinning at each other. But then in my head, I hear Clarissa saying,Sandra Oh,which is an excellent reminder that I have a story that’s due in a little over a month, and so far I have enough information for approximately two paragraphs (and that’s if I am very generous with my employment of adverbs).
“Hey,” I say, thinking up the plan on the spot. “Do you mind if I come over tonight?”
“T-tonight? My place?” he stammers, and briefly, I remember May last night.I’m pretty sure he’s looking to start dating again.
“Yeah. For the story,” I clarify, both for him and myself. Because this is not a date and I am not doing this to, god forbid,flirtwith him. This is for work. “We’ve been so busy taking care of my, you know—”
“You mean the M-U-R-D-E-R—”
“Yes,” I respond with a glare. “But Idostill need to file a story by the time you leave. I’d like to do a standard sit-down Q and A. If that’s alright with you.”
“You want to come to my place? Tonight?”
“It’ll only be a few hours. And now that everyone knows you’re in town, I can’t think of anywhere else where we’ll have privacy. And we can order in dinner, obviously, since we need to eat.” I’m acutely aware that I’ve started blabbering, but I can’t make it stop. “But it’s strictly work, so it’s not like we’re crossing any ethical lines, even though it’s at your place. Because it’s work.”
Amusement pulling at his features, Tyler nods, and I pretend not to notice the way he rolls his shoulders back, like suddenly there’s an intense buildup of tension. “Sure,” he says. “Let’s get Thai for dinner?”
The second he switches on the lights, I do a double take at how homey Tyler’s apartment is. I’d expected something sleek and minimalistic, with very little furniture, something out of a condo showroom photo—so essentially,myplace—but this looks like someone lives here.
The large brown leather L-shaped couch looks soft and worn-in with lots of faint white scratches, like it’s been witness to hundreds, if not thousands, of movie marathons and late-night gaming sessions (if the PS5 beneath it is anything to go by). There’s a stack of books with bookmarks haphazardly sticking out on one side of the coffee table. Over in the kitchen, there is an array of mugs of various sizes and colors and shapes hanging from a mug tower—a far cry from my perfectly identical IKEA yellow four-piece set. A faded cream-colored apron adorned with bright yellow padauk flowers hangs on a hook next to the stove.
