Martin lets me call him and cry whenever I need to.
The rest of the week passes. The hardest time is just before I fall asleep, when the vision tries to slither its way into me. It tries, but I slam my mind shut. It’s easier than I expected. According to Mom, the human body can do all sorts of amazing things, including pass out, to protect itself from pain.
The first Saturday after the competition, Mom comes to see me in my room before leaving for another date with Dr. Bob.
“Your father is on his way,” she says.
I groan. “Why’s he coming over here?”
She frowns and sits down on my bed. “I thought things were getting better between you two,” she says.
I don’t say anything. Things were getting better, but that was before. That was when I was starting to trust the world again. When I wanted to trust the world again.
“Besides,” she says. “He’s worried about you. We all are.”
“I’m fine,” I tell her.
She narrows her eyes at me and set her arms akimbo. “Have you showered today?”
I shake my head.
“Eaten?”
Another shake.
“Left the house?”
Her point is made.
She sighs. “I asked him to come over. He was always better at cheering you up when you were little.”
It’s true. Mom was always good for hugs and kisses after I hurt myself. But Dad was the one who made me laugh. And if I was laughing, then I wasn’t thinking about the pain.
“I don’t want to see him,” I say.
“Too bad. He’ll be here any minute now.”
After she leaves, I go out to the patio. The sun has already set, and the air is slipping from warm to cool.
I don’t want to remember X and me dancing to Indian music in this very spot, but that’s not how memory works. Was that laughing, dancing girl really me? I don’t recognize her. Just like I don’t recognize the girl who used to read all the romance books and knew all the subgenres and believed in all the acronyms: One True Pairing （OTP） and HEA （Happily Ever After） and HFN （Happy for Now）。 Just like I don’t recognize the girl who thought her dad could do no wrong. How many versions of me will there be in this one lifetime?
Dad rings the bell ten minutes later.
“I’m fine,” I say to him, instead of hello.
He’s wearing another pair of glasses I don’t recognize. His goatee is now a full beard.
“I don’t doubt you’re fine,” he says. “But let me check on you anyway.” He shakes a takeout bag of Mariscos Chente at me.
“Thanks,” I say, and lead him back out to the patio.
“This is nice,” he says, taking a few steps out into the courtyard.
It takes me a moment to realize that he’s never been out here before. He’s never seen so much of this place where I live. How can our lives be so separate now?
I sit down in the armchair, tilt my head back and close my eyes. I can feel him studying me, deciding where to begin.
“Mom thought you could use some guffaw therapy,” he says.
“I’m fine,” I say without opening my eyes.
The chair across from me scrapes against the concrete as he sits down. “Sweet pea, you know you can tell me anything.”
I open my eyes. “Why do you still call me sweet pea? You know I don’t like it.” I’m not angry. I’m just tired.
He rests his elbows on his knees and looks down at the ground. “You used to love it when you were little. There was a drawing you made of a pea that fell into a bowl of sugar.” He shakes his head, but I think he’s shaking it at himself. “I’m sorry. I’ll remember not to call you that anymore.”
He hands me a burrito. I’m not hungry, but I still eat half of it.
When he’s done with his food, he leans back and wipes his hands. “So—” he begins.
But I stop him and ask the thing I’ve wanted to ask him for a year. “Why did you cheat on Mom?” I ask it so quietly I almost don’t hear myself.
Watching his face is like watching clouds race across the sky. Guilt chasing sadness chasing shame.
For a long time he doesn’t say anything, but then he does. “Your mother was the first woman I ever loved. We had you girls and we were happy for a long time.” He covers his eyes with his hands. “But the last few years, things changed.”
I almost wish I’d seen their vision. I’d love to know what they were like in the beginning. It’d be nice to have those memories.