Page 90 of I Did Something Bad
“Hey, guys?” I say, and they both perk up in their seats.
With a low groan, Nay says, “Pleasedon’t tell us you snuck out last night and accidentally potentially murderedanotherman. I mean, of course we’ll help you cover it up, but I have to start work in a few hours and—”
I let go of my mug so I can take both of their hands. “I wasn’t running away fromyou two,you know that, right? Singapore, that was… I was chasing that because I’d wanted something solid. I figured that even if the rest of my life fell apart again, at least I would have a full-time job that was stable. Something reliable. Something that wouldn’t snatch the rug out from under me on a random afternoon. A safety net.”
“But you love freelancing,” Thidar states in a matter-of-fact way.
I nod. “I do. You know what else I love?”
“What?” she asks, although the smile tugging her lips tells me she already knows the answer.
“You two,” I confirm. “Your friendship, our love—that’s the most stable, reliable thing I’ve ever had in my life. It’s the one thing that has never,everlet me down. You guys are my safety net, the one constantthat catches me every time I fall on my ass. I love you, promise me you’ll never doubt that.”
“We know,” Nay says, squeezing my hand. “Forever.”
“And ever,” Thidar says.
Like the sun melting a Popsicle, the incontestable warmth of their love makes my grin unfurl to an uncontrollable length. “And ever,” I say.
Twenty-two
I’m having dinner with Clarissa tonight; she’d flown into town for four other meetings yesterday, and as someone who always prefers to do business in-person, had stayed an extra day because she’d rather we go over her notes face-to-face. I filed the story two weeks ago, and so far, all I’ve heard is the “Received. Thanks. C” that she’d sent back within an hour. I don’t know if the silence is good or bad, if it means she has minimal edits and this is a celebratory dinner, or if there is such a long list of ways in which this is the worst celebrity profile she’s ever read that she wants to take me somewhere with a good, expensive wine selection to soften the blow while she takes it apart line by line.
Despite my being fifteen minutes early, Clarissa is already there when I give her name to the maître d’. She’s sipping on a glass of red with the fortitude of someone who is at the end of a ten-hour workday and can go on for another ten.
“Clarissa!” I say, extending a hand as I approach.
She stands up, white dress shirt staying perfectly tucked into her pine green wide-leg pantsuit even as she tuts away my hand and hugs me. “Drink?” she asks.
“Yes, I—” She raises a brow at someone behind me, and in seconds, someone is at my side, filling my wineglass. “Thank you,” I say to the waiter.
“You did it, you filed aVoguecover story!” Clarissa says, lifting her glass. I relax. This is a good start. With a bright smile, I clink my glass to hers. Right as the first few drops slip between my lips and onto my tongue, she states, “We can’t print this.”
I sputter red drops onto the white napkin on my lap. I hold up a hand and duck down, continuing to cough into the napkin until I regain myself. When I look back up, someone’s filled a glass of water for me. “I’m sorry?” I wheeze.
Clarissa gives me a short smile. It’s not a meanThis is where I fire yousmile, but also not aI was just kidding!one either. “The draft you filed,” she confirms. “We can’t print it. At least not in its current state. Good thing we have a lot of lead time with this one. I expect another draft in two weeks.”
“What’s… I…” I try to clear my throat as professionally as possible for someone who just spat out a mouthful of red wine. “Can you give me a bit more specific feedback?”
Clarissa opens her hands. “You didn’t write a cover story.”
“Oh,” I say. That was not what I was expecting, and I don’t know if that’s better or worse than a straight-outIt was shit. I don’t know if this is standardVoguefeedback and I’m too ignorant to read between the lines, but I also need more than what she’s giving me if I’m going to turn in a second draft that shecanprint. “As in, my tone wasn’t exactly what you were looking for or…?”
“Khin,” she says with a short laugh. “You didn’t write a cover story.”
“I don’t—”
“You wrote a love letter.”
I had a feeling I shouldn’t drink any more wine for the next ten minutes of this conversation, and once again, my gut was right. I mean to sayI’m sorry?orCan you elaborate on that?or even a contemplativeI see,but what comes out is a succinct “Huh?”
Clarissa laughs again at my expression. “Darling,” she says, shaking her head. “You wrote a love letter in the third person and poorly disguised it as a profile. Don’t get me wrong, it’s agreatletter. When I finished it, I was next to my boyfriend in bed, and I turned to him and said, ‘I just read the most damn romantic thing I’ve ever read in my life. I hope someone turns this into a movie.’”
“Are you…” I swallow, cheeks flushed. “Did I email you the correct file?”
At that, she throws her head back and roars with laughter. I try to join her, but the best I can do is a frail “Heh.”
“It’s okay,” she says, laughter subduing into a soft chuckle. “It stays between us, I promise. Although Iwillneed an actual story for the next draft. Several of my editors are already asking to read it. Everyone’s dying to get their hands on this one.”
