Sometimes I liked my father. There are times where, for an instance, an hour or two, laughing came easy with him, albeit his impartial sobriety—William Black is never completely sober; there is always at least an ounce of alcohol in his system.

I say this now as I remember a twelve-year-old Sage leaning on the counter in our muggy blue and white checkered kitchen that reeked of onions and cooked beans. It was a midsummer day when air hugged your limbs, pressing down on you with every step you took. Mom was sitting in the living room, feet in a pitcher of cold water. She watched me from afar as she sewed together a hole in my stockings—close enough in case this went wrong, but too far to show my father her support of the idea.

"Well?" I asked again, sure to keep the impatience out of my voice. This was the best time to ask him for something. He wasn't completely drunk but on the inevitable way to that path.

"Well what?" He stood, towering over me, as he poured himself a cup of whiskey. There were no windows in our kitchen, only dim lighting that made his dark skin even darker. Made his anticipated expression at my question harder to read.

"The dog, Dad." That was the last I called him Dad, and it is for reasons you will understand later on.

"Right," he grunted, placing the glass bottle on the counter with a clank. "See, Sagie-kid, I would let you get one." He paused, letting the possibility float in the air. But I was smart and heedful, even as a kid, and waited for the blow. "Except getting a dog is like a rich little girl getting a Rolls Royce. She can get one, but it's the maintenance that kills her."

From my peripheral vision, Mom smiled softly at me: at least you tried.

But I wasn't disappointed, having had thought of a completely different outcome to this conversation before I stepped into the kitchen. A more painful one.

It was rare for him to take his time to explain things to me, even as simple as to why getting a dog in our two-roomed apartment was going to be hard. I thought to myself that day, maybe that's how my friends in school get denied something by their Dad's—reasonably and kindly.

And so I spent that afternoon dreaming of the possibility that my father would treat every other interaction in our house in the same way. I dreamt of the possibility that sometimes, things could be normal around here, and once I grew older and wiser, my father would like me even more.

That night, he got mad at me for tripping over the cable wires and cutting off the Yankee game he was watching. There were yelling, tears, and shaking roofs. I spent the next two days locked in my room.

༺༻

I'm brought back from my reverie when Marli nudges my shoulder with the back of her hands.

I blink. I've been staring at the lake blue eyes of Charlie, their Siamese cat for too long. It's the same shade as our blue tiled kitchen.

"Pass me the gravy," Marli says, not looking up as she cuts into her turkey leg. I blink away the remains of my flashback and reach over the table for the hot ceramic bowl.

Mom, Roan, Marli and her mom, Lilly, and I sit for Thanksgiving dinner at their house. It's not the first year my father misses this dinner, yet I think too much of his absence at this cozy, round table covered with earthy green embroidery. Because this year, his absence is certain, undeniable, and justified. I play a big part of it.

As if reading my mind, Roan squeezes my knee under the table—he's always been too smart for his age. I smile back at him.

"I had the foulest young man come into my store today," Lilly says, tucking a stray of jet black hair behind her ear. I've never understood the term 'carbon copy of someone' until I met Marli's mom. Marli shares her every feature so that Lilly is just the slightly aged version of her daughter, slightly being the key term. Her strong Asian genetics only allow for the few wrinkles around her mouth.

"Racist white kid," she goes on. "He came in drunk, got into a fight with a poor little dark-skinned boy." She gestures wildly with her fork. "I spat in his food and kicked him out."

Next to me, Roan laughs in delight. "Bro, that's what I call a clapback."

I roll my eyes with a stifled smile at his calling Lilly 'bro' and Mom smacking the back of his head. Nevertheless, Lilly high-fives Roan across the table.

After dinner, Marli and I head to her room while Roan watches TV in their living room. I hear the distinct theme song of Friends playing as Marli closes the door to her bedroom. The notable amount of money they were granted from David for Jack Lui's death as an honorable employee was used to move into a better apartment, one on Sixth Avenue.

This canary walled-bedroom is almost double the size of her former room. A desk sits in one corner, littered with wadded up pieces of paper and pens. A few shelves are pushed against the walls and filled with books. Some books sit on the floor in front of the shelves.

I make my way to the neatly made bed, feeling a hard lump under her comforter. I feel around and push it to reveal a laptop underneath.

"Sorry for the mess," she says, plopping on the pink beanbag next to her window. She grunts and pulls a pen from under her where she sits, then using it to tie up her hair in a complicated knot. "I was working on a research paper."

"Of course you were," I reply, my lips curving with mirth. "On Thanksgiving day."

"I don't mind it." She shrugs. "Mid-terms are soon and I have to be caught up."

I lean backwards and flop on her bed with a soft thud, seeming to have momentarily forgotten the tattoo on my back. I wince and sit straight in reflex, cursing under my breath.

She giggles, unfolding her legs in front of her as she taps through her phone. "Who told you getting a tattoo with that fish brain of yours was going to be a good idea?"

I glare at her. "I didn't really think about its convenient spot across my back. It seemed like a good idea at first."

Readjusting myself so I lay on my stomach, I grab the remote from the bedside table and start flipping through old recordings of sitcoms, movies, and documentaries we usually like to watch.

"You feeling more of a murder mystery kind of night?" I ask her, my eyes faltering over an interesting title. I wait for an answer. "Marli?"

When I glance back at her, she's leaning at the edge of her seat with her phone clutched tightly between her hands, a crease forming between her brows. She looks tense.

"Marls, what is it?"

It takes her a beat too long to tear her eyes from the phone. She looks at me, then at the phone again as if she's seeing me for the first time. The silence makes me apprehensive. Faintly, I hear the sounds of plots clanking and water running in the kitchen.

Finally, she stands up and walks to the bed, gingerly sitting on the edge. She passes the phone to me, and I take it from her, wondering what soured up her mood like that.

Seven blinding smiles stare back at me. It's a frame of dazzling gowns, sharp suits, arms hugging one another, watches glinting, flasks sparkling, colors striking. I stand between Theo and David, a smile matching them so perfectly like I belong there. My cheeks are flushed and my white dress is blinding. Beautiful.

It is so beautiful and perfect and grand, I feel sick.

Anyone who sees this picture won't understand the reality behind it. The moment of panic that seized me right before the flash made us shine like stars; won't understand how wrong my skin felt when David's arm brushed against mine. Anyone who looks at this will think of seven happy, perfect figures. Myself included.

Marli stares at me looking at the screen until I glance at her.

"You look . . . Different."

Of course, I look different. I look like everything Marli and I vowed to never be.

"Good different?" I don't know why I ask that. I immediately want to take it back, just like many things I've done afresh. Things that have lead to this moment: sitting in a room I'd sat in so many times, yet feeling like a stranger that's managed to get in here.

"Just different," she finally answers, looking at the window. Nearby her window are the tips of trees letting in filtered light in hues of velvet orange and magenta. It colors the room warm, a contrast against the unfamiliar coolness growing inside me.

"You know I had to go to that event. It was part of the deal."

"Right," she says slowly. "The deal."

We lapse into a silence, me trailing the floral pattern on her comforter, her not tearing her gaze from the window.

Why else would I have gone to that fundraiser? Much of what I do is because of that deal. Does she think I willingly do these things, willingly get panic attacks in public, willingly get nightmares every other night?

After a few minutes, she looks back at me. "Do you regret it?"

I open my mouth, imagining the answer would come easily, but the words lodge in my throat.

Do I regret the picture? Going to the fundraiser? Or do I regret agreeing to that deal altogether.

They are all questions that worm their way into my brain every night. I think of all the things I've done recently and find myself trailing events, looking for where it all began. And just as I've done countless of times, my mind goes back to the moment in the café. The moment David Roman asked me to 'sit'. It all comes back to him.

I wonder if I'm wrong to find solace in using him as a scapegoat.

"No," I finally say. "I don't regret any of it."

She shifts so that she faces me with an earnest expression. "I'm worried about you. You've been acting strange lately. First your tattoo, then your dad, then dressing up and going to things you don't believe in."

Like a click, any uncomfortable feelings of doubt about myself are pushed back at the mention of my father. That is one of the few things I don't regret. And if she thinks they are to be measured the same way as getting a tattoo or going to a fundraiser, then she's wrong.

"You have nothing to be worried about." I place my hand on her hands. They are warm against my cool palms. "I already said I don't regret it. I'm fine."

She doesn't look convinced but nods nevertheless, and lies down next to me, head next to head, shoulders brushing. We finally decide on a movie and get comfortable next to each other as the sun sets and the room darkens.

But I don't concentrate on the characters on the screen. I can only think that for the first time since I've known Marli, I've lied tonight. Twice.