Page 68 of I Did Something Bad
I nod, not needing to know anything else. “You’ve got the wrong number,” I say.
“This isn’t Tyler’s phone? Tyler…” The woman hesitates but ultimately finishes, “Tun?”
I give a loud laugh. “Auntie,” I say. “I would know if this was Tyler Tun’s phone. Sorry, I’m afraid you have the wrong number. Have a good night!” I hang up before she can speak again. “Do you,” I tilt the phone still in my hand, “want me to block her?”
Tyler seems surprised at my suggestion. Still, wordlessly, he nods.
We swivel back around to resume our prior forward-facing positions. I feel like it’d be imposing of me to stay, but also like it’d be wrong to leave. I start counting the seconds in my head. If he doesn’t talk after a minute, I’ll take that as a hint that he wants to be alone.
One, two, three, four, five, six—oh my god, since when did sixty become such a high number to count to—seven, eight, ni—
“What’syourfavorite song?”
I keep my eyes trained on my plate. “‘Treacherous.’ By Taylor Swift.”
“Why?”
“Because it… sounds like falling in love.”
“I see.”
“Have you listened to it?”
He shakes his head. “Afraid not.”
“Heathen,” I reply, and he chuckles before falling silent once more.
Just as I’m wondering whether I should reset the counter or pick up where I left off, Tyler clears his throat and says simply, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For… ruining our night. With that call.”
I shift my head to find him staring at the empty spring roll container, eyes blank but glistening.
“Hey,” I say. I adjust my body to face him, one palm settling on his knee.
When, instead of jostling, he places his own palm atop the back of my hand, every single one of my nerves responds to the pull of his touch.
“You didn’t ruin the night. If anything, I’d saymycall ruined the night. Ithinkmurder investigation trumps random old woman.” His mouth stretches and opens, but no laugh comes out. “But I can go—” I start, already stopping the recording and going to put my phone away.
“That was my grandmother,” he says.
There’s a muffledthudas the phone slips out of my hand and back onto the table. “I thought your grandma was dead,” I reply without thinking.
Wordlessly, he squeezes his eyes shut, and the action pushes the tears over the edge and down his cheeks. He grabs a tissue with the hand that was under his chin, the other still firm on mine, like he needs it to keep himself grounded lest he floats away.
“No, my grandmother is alive,” he says, and blows his nose. “Both of them are, actually. So are both of my grandfathers.”
I frown, because he’s wrong. I know he’s wrong. He doesn’t often mention his grandparents, but he was the one who reminded me at our first meeting that his grandparents were dead. “But you—”
“My dad’s parents were outraged that he was marrying a Myanmar woman. Or, really, someone who wasn’t white. And my mom’sparents were the same about her marrying someone who wasn’t Myanmar. You know—” He chuckles before dabbing his eyes again with the tissue. “Sometimes I think it’ssucha shame they never met because I think they would’ve gotten along. Just four bigots meeting up for afternoon tea.”
At my snort, Tyler shifts to face me. “I’m so sorry!” I say, horrified. “That wasn’t funny. Well, no, itwas,but the situation isn’t. I don’t think racism is funny. Just for the record.”
“Glad we clearedthatup,” he says with a small laugh.
I’m babbling, which I only do when I’m either a) extremely nervous, or b) extremely caught off guard; in this case, it’s the latter. I recall us at that first dinner, me asking if it was his grandparents who had taken his parents to that Chinatown restaurant, Tyler flinching, guard going up. Hehadbeen hiding something about his personal life: hurt. The kind of hurt that no amount of time passed can ever quite erase. Hurt over what would’ve been the first, honest answer to jump to his brain:No, because my grandparents wanted nothing to do with our family.An answer that he hadn’t told any journalist until now. Until me.
