“You told her about Julian?”
“She said I have to forgive him,” I said. “My father.”
“Maybe,” Fiona said slowly, “you’re trying to have some sort of do-over, with this Julian situation.” I looked up. For a moment I could see clearly through her eyes, all the way to the girls we used to be. “Because he’s suffering—depressed—like, well.” She paused a moment. “Your dad was—”
“No,” I said. “That’s crazy. Julian—he has nothing to do with that—”
“You’re trying to save him,” she said. “Why?”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “It was my fault—if it wasn’t for me, outing him, ignoring his calls—he would still be alive—”
“Jane,” she said. “No, that’s not true.”
“If I didn’t tell my mom about what happened—about Lee—”
“What happened wasn’t your fault,” she said.
“Fiona,” I said. “I killed him. What I did—”
“No,” she said. “You didn’t. You were his daughter. And what he told you about himself—it was too much for you to handle. You did the only thing you could. You told another adult.” She paused again and held me in her gaze, soft as anything. I almost hated her then. I wanted to look away, but something made me stay there. Her eyes. All the years between us. I was protected, under her gaze.
“It wasn’t your fault, Jane.”
I shook my head slowly and glanced down at my lap. I thought of Ping, my old piano teacher, the first girl I ever liked. How I’d run from those feelings—following desperate instinct—after my father told me he was in love with a man, one evening long ago in a subway station in Taipei, on our way home. I was eighteen years old. I was still my father’s daughter.
In New York last month, I’d looked for his birthday in those date paintings at the Guggenheim. I’d searched for his death date, too. Some sign from him, telegraphed to me from the ether, beaming through one of those canvases hanging on the immaculate gallery walls while I spiraled down, and down.
He wasn’t there.
“I needed you,” I said quietly. “I needed you when it happened. When he—”
Fiona was silent.
“You left.”
“I had to leave,” she said.
“Why?” I asked. “Because of Jasper?”
“I’m sorry,” Fiona said. “I just had to.”
“Why’d you have to leave?”
“It wasn’t Jasper,” she said. “Maybe at the time, I thought he was the answer.” She shook her head, her brow furrowed in thought. “I needed to get away from my mom, my family.” She paused. “Didn’t you ever want to leave LA?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I was waiting for you to come back.”
The waitress brought the next platter of meat, the marinated strips of pork belly. Fiona used the tongs to lay a few pieces across the hot grill. She asked if I still talked to Julian, and I said no.
I didn’t tell her that sometimes Julian still texted me. I am still alive. I got up today. I am still alive. I never answered him, but I read the texts, and I feel something loosen inside me each time. Sixteen years since my father died, and I was still alive. I got up, every morning. I lived, day by day.
I had my best friend, Fiona Lin. I had Mah, still, despite everything. Won was here, too—he was working late tonight on a magazine shoot, but Fiona and I had plans to meet up with him later, after dinner. The three of us together again. He’d probably complain that we stank like garlic crisp and charcoal smoke. We were moving fast now, everything sped up; the years seemed to fly past like nothing. I thought of Miss King, our second-grade teacher, who was probably retired by now.
“I have a new idea,” I said presently. “For a thing I’m writing.” I hesitated a moment. “It’s about us.”
Fiona shot me a suspicious look. “What are you talking about?”
“Remember your hoopty we used to ride around in?”
“Shamu!” she cried. “You still owe me gas money.”
“Remember those janky fake IDs we got from the swap meet?”
Fiona lifted a finger to get the waitress’s attention and ordered another soju. We waited for her to bring the green bottle.