Page 3 of Here for a Good Time

TWO

Even after I signed with Ayesha, for years, not a single publishing house wanted the first manuscript we sent out, or the one after that.

“Lucky three,” Zwe had told me the night before Ayesha was going to submit Give Me a Reason, but by that point, “pipe dream” no longer felt sufficient to describe my dream of being a published author; “a fool’s errand” or “insanity” seemed more appropriate.

It was the terrible, corny, embarrassing adage: I was terrified to keep dreaming, because if you had dreams, that meant they could get crushed.

I think of Give Me a Reason as my fuck it book (not that I’d ever say that in an interview; my publicist would have an aneurysm).

I drafted it in a whirlwind—eight weeks, the fastest I’ve ever drafted any book—and made it exactly the book I wanted to write if it were the last one I’d ever get to write (after reading several blog posts and X threads about other authors who had had multiple books that never sold, I’d gotten it in my head that Ayesha was going to drop me if this one didn’t sell, too).

But then one editor made a preempt within twenty-four hours.

When Ayesha emailed me, I thought she’d sent it to the wrong client.

In fact, I literally responded, “Ha ha, I think you sent this to the wrong person.” But she hadn’t, she wrote back immediately.

This editor was, in her very Ayesha-esque way with words, “shitting her pants” to get this book.

And then another editor had replied saying they wanted it.

And then Ayesha had asked how I’d feel about taking it to auction, which could be risky, especially so soon, but this was a very good sign and she wanted to capitalize on the momentum.

Sometimes it still feels like it didn’t happen.

Or at least, like it didn’t happen to me.

Like I didn’t start sobbing when Ayesha called and told me the amount of the winning bid.

Like a few months down the line, I didn’t get flown out to the Netflix offices because they knew they weren’t the only one fighting for film rights.

Like everything I had ever wanted since I was approximately nine years old didn’t all happen over the course of eighteen months.

I wish I’d known back then that the only thing scarier than none of your dreams coming true is having all of them do.

A copy of my own book is waved in front of my face. I follow the hand holding it to a teenage girl, who whispers, “Oh my god, it’s actually you!” when we make eye contact.

“Hi, thanks for coming,” I say. Then, leaning over to look down the line, I say a little louder while forcing myself to make eye contact with as many more people as I can despite the bubbling anxiety in my stomach, “Thank you all for coming. I’ll see you in there!

Make sure you stay hydrated in this heat! ”

I push open the door to Sar Oat Sin, and although it takes a beat for the cool of the air-con to hit, once it does, a small, satisfied “Mmmm” escapes me, wisps its way out between my lips like the gorgeous lavender scent that’s always wafting from the various reeds strategically placed around the space.

That, combined with that woodsy book smell, is exactly like coming home.

If I could, I would live here and make this my home.

“Your Majesty, welcome,” Zwe says with a dramatic bow from the metal signing table that he’s already unfolded. He’s got the setup in its usual space: the corner beside the cash register, which Uncle Arkar is manning today.

“Please, the honor is mine,” I say, returning a small curtsy of my own.

Uncle Arkar beams, coming out from behind the desk to give me a hug. “How’s my favorite author today?”

“The usual. Anxious,” I say with a small laugh. “And I thought Toni Morrison was your favorite author.”

He winks. “She was, until you came along.”

His words help placate my anxiety. “Where’s Auntie Eindra?” I ask.

“Right here.” Auntie Eindra paces out of the stockroom in the back with a mug in hand. “And what do you have to be anxious about? We had people lining up before we even opened. But because I knew you would be—here.”

When she hands me the mug, my face instinctively scrunches up into a smile as my fingers hug the warm ceramic.

“Thank you,” I say, taking a deep inhale of the peppermint scent to calm my nerves.

I had kept a stash of peppermint tea at our apartment as well as the store the whole time I was working on Give Me a Reason since they were the only two places where I wrote, and it took me a while to realize that my stash here never ran out because Auntie and Uncle kept refilling it.

“Are you still okay to stay behind afterward and sign the online orders?” Uncle Arkar asks.

“Of course.” I take a careful sip of the tea, feeling myself already start to become calmer as the liquid trails down my throat. “I cleared out the whole afternoon for you. Zwe, did you get—”

Zwe holds up a rattan pencil holder with several of the same pens: the quick-drying UNI Jetstream Ballpoint 0.7mm in black. My favorite signing pen. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he says with another, smaller bow.

I roll my eyes. “Ready?” I ask, and they all nod, and we take our places.

I round the signing desk, place my mug down on a coaster, and settle myself into the pink armchair.

To my right, Uncle Arkar returns to his spot behind the cash register, and to his right, Auntie Eindra sits on the stool next to the carts lined with their bookstore’s exclusive edition of Give Me a Reason, the pink-and-black spine so familiar to me by now I could point at it even with the lights out.

Zwe takes his usual position by the door, ready to guide customers into a neat queue.

“Let’s go,” he says, pulling both doors and deftly propping them open.

This part never, ever, ever gets old. I hate 99 percent of the public-facing aspect of this job, but this is the 1 percent that I enjoy. The girl that I met outside is at the front of the line, and power walks over to me.

“Hi again!” I say.

“Oh my god, hi!” she says as she puts down her copy of the book, along with the slip of white paper that Zwe had handed out beforehand for them to write whatever name they wanted me to make the book out to.

“Are you Chu?” I ask as I sign the title page.

“Yes, oh my god, you know my name,” she squeals. “I love this book so much. I know you must get it all the time, but this is, like, my favorite book of all time.”

“Thank—”

“Is your next book a similar, erm, I’m not sure what the literary term for it is, but vibe ?

I have to be honest, when I saw this shelved in the ‘literary fiction’ section, I almost walked past it, but it’s not every day that you see the words ‘number one New York Times bestseller’ and a Myanmar name on a book cover so I was like, Okay, fine, I’ll check it out .

And it wasn’t boring at all! Please tell me the next one is going to be similar to this one! ”

I can feel a flush spreading across my face. The cool air isn’t anywhere near cold enough anymore; in fact, it feels like there’s no air whatsoever circulating in this room. “Well—” I stammer.

“Are Thuzar and Nyunt getting their own story in the next one? Please, please say yes. I can’t imagine what other story you could be writing next!”

I must not have done as good a job as I thought at holding back my grimace, because Chu’s eyes widen in apology.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, that was rude of me.

Look at me trying to tell you how to do your job.

You must’ve already turned in your next book.

” My grimace tightens, not out of anger or even annoyance, but the third A: anxiety.

My anxiety, however, simply worsens her anxiety over having said the wrong thing, and as I’m unable to reassure her that she didn’t actually say anything wrong, she keeps rambling.

“I’m sure it’s incredible. And I don’t know how, but I already know it’s going to top this one. Sorry, is that too much pressure? I—”

“Hi, I’m so sorry—” Zwe’s hand squeezes my shoulder as he comes to stand beside me. “—but there’s a long queue and we need to keep things moving.”

“Oh of course!” Chu says, taking back her book. “Well, thank you so much for writing this book, is basically what I was trying to say,” she says with a nervous laugh, and I will my mouth into a smile. “I can’t wait to read your next one.”

“Thank you,” I whisper up to Zwe as the next reader approaches the desk.

He squeezes my shoulder again, although the familiar pressure barely undoes the knot that is now my whole body. “Anytime, pal,” he says before returning to the door.

By the time the sign in the storefront is flipped to “Closed,” my wrist aches and my fingers are in what we’ve dubbed the Pen Claw.

We’re spread out amongst the cozy corner seating area, Zwe and I sharing the gray two-seater, Auntie and Uncle on the L-shaped couch opposite.

“So we hear you’re taking a holiday together?” Auntie asks.

“Well, I’m trying, but your diligent son here—” I shove Zwe’s shoulder with my own. “—says the store would fall apart without him.”

“I did not—” Zwe starts.

“Please, we need a break from him,” Auntie tells me, eyes glinting with mischief. “Thamee, we’ll be in your debt for giving us a couple of child-free weeks.”

“God, how long has it been since we took a coffee break ”—Uncle makes air quotes—“in the stockroom?”

It takes me a second, but a hacking sound leaps out of me. “Oh my god, you guys!” I scream.

When I turn in his direction, Zwe’s face is as pale as the white coffee table in front of us, which is an interesting juxtaposition next to his red ears. “Excuse me while I go drown myself in the toilet,” he deadpans.

“And you tried to use your parents as an excuse to get out of this trip,” I tell him.

“Two weeks is—”