THE FIRST PERSON I called after I found out Iโd placed in the North American Portrait Societyโs huge career-making yearly contest was my dad.
Which is weird. Because I never called my dad. Not voluntarily, anyway.
Sure, I called on birthdays or Fatherโs Day or New Yearโsโhoping to get lucky and miss him so I could leave a singsongy message like โSo sorry to miss you,โ get the credit, and be done.
But I called only out of obligation. Never for fun. Never, ever just to talk. And neverโgod forbidโto share things.
My goal was always not to share things with my father. How broke I was. How I was stillโendlesslyโfailing in my chosen career. How Iโd given up on yet another relationship and moved into my not-fit-for-human- habitation art studio because I couldnโt afford a place of my own.
That was all need-to-know information. And he definitely didnโt need to know.
It gave me some structure, in a wayโcrafting ongoing fake success stories about myself for him and my evil stepmother, Lucinda. I was always โdoing great.โ Or โcrazy busy.โ Or โthriving so much.โ
I didnโt actively make things up. I just worked devotedly to obscure the truth.
The truth was, Iโd defied all my dadโs instructions eight years before, dropping out of premed and switching my college major to Fine Arts.
โFine Arts?โ my father had said, like heโd never heard the term before. โHow exactly are you supposed to make a living with that?โ
I gave him a little shrug. โIโm just going to โฆ be an artist.โ Wow, those words did not land well.
โSo youโre telling me,โ he demanded, that little vein in his forehead starting to darken, โthat you want to be buried in a pauperโs grave?โ
I frowned. โI wouldnโt say I want that.โ
Itโs possible my dad wanted me to be a doctor because he was a doctor. And itโs possible my dad didnโt want me to be an artist because my mom had been an artist. But we didnโt talk about that.
He went on, โYouโre throwing away a good careerโa good livingโso that you can waste your life doing something that doesnโt matter for no money?โ
โWhen you put it that way, it sounds like a bad idea.โ
โItโs a terrible idea!โ he said, like that was all there was to it. โBut youโre forgetting two things,โ I said.
My dad waited to be enlightened.
โI donโt like medicine,โ I said, counting off on my fingers. โAnd I do like art.โ
Suffice it to say, he didnโt think any of that was relevant. Then he went on to imply that I was spoiled and foolish and had never known true suffering.
Even though we both knewโon that last one, at leastโhe was lying. Anyway, it didnโt matter. He didnโt get to decide what I did with my
life.
I was the one who had to live it, after all.
My dad was not a big fan of losing. โDonโt ask me for help when youโre
broke,โ he said. โYouโre on your own. If you choose this path for yourself, then you have to walk it.โ
I shrugged. โI havenโt asked you for help since I was fourteen.โ
At that, my dad stood up, scooting back his cafรฉ chair with a honk that announced he was done. Done with this conversationโand possibly done with fatherhood, as well.
I still remember the determination I felt as I watched him leave. It seems almost quaint now. Iโll show you, I remember thinking, with a self- righteous fire in my eyes. Iโll make you wish youโd believed in me all along.
Spoiler alert: I did not show him. At least not so far. That was eight years ago.
Iโd gotten that BFA in Fine Arts. Iโd graduated all alone, and then Iโd marched past all the families taking proud pictures, and then Iโd driven
triumphantly out of the university parking lot in my banged-up Toyota that my friend Sue and I had painted hot pink with flames for the Art Car Parade.
And then?
Iโd embarked on many endless years of โฆ not showing him.
I applied to contests and didnโt win. I submitted my work for shows and didnโt get accepted. I eked out a living selling portraits from photos (both human and pet) on Etsy at a hundred dollars a pop.
But it wasnโt enough to make rent.
And whenever I talked to my dad, I pretended I was โthriving.โ
Because he might have been right that day. I might be headed for a pauperโs grave. But I would be under the dirt in that grave before Iโd ever admit it.
That must have been why I called him about placing in the contest.
The contest itself was a big dealโand huge prize money, if you could win it.
I guess the lure of having a genuine triumph to report kept me from thinking clearly.
Plus, donโt we all, deep down, carry an inextinguishable longing for our parents to be proud of us? Even long after weโve given up?
In the thrill of the moment, I forgot that he didnโt care.
It was a good thingโand no surpriseโthat my call went straight to his voicemail. It meant I could make my next call. To somebody who did care.
โWhat!โ my friend Sue shouted as soon as the words were out. โThatโs huge!โ She stretched out the U for what felt like a full minute. Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuge.
And I just let myself enjoy it.
โThe grand prize is ten thousand dollars,โ I added when she was done. โOh my god,โ she said. โEven huger.โ
โAnd guess what else?โ โWhat?โ
โThe big showโthe juried show where they pick the winnerโis here.
In Houston.โ
โI thought it was Miami this year.โ โThat was last year.โ
โSo you donโt even have to travel!โ Sue said.
โWhich is perfect! Because I canโt afford to!โ โItโs meant to be!โ
โBut is it too meant to be? Is it so in my favor, itโll jinx me?โ
โThereโs no such thing as too meant to be,โ Sue said. Then, as if thereโd been a question, she said, โAnyway, itโs settled.โ
โWhatโs settled?โ
โWe have to throw a party!โ she said. Ever the extreme extrovert. โA party?โ I said, in a meek attempt at resistance.
โA party! A party!โ Sue practically sang into the phone. โYouโve been tragically failing at life for years and years! We have to celebrate!โ
Tragically failing at life seemed a bit harsh. But fine. She wasnโt wrong.
โWhen?โ I said, already dreading all the cleaning Iโd have to do. โTonight!โ
It was already close to sunset. โI canโt throw aโโ I started, but before I even got to โparty tonight,โ it was decided.
โWeโll do it on your rooftop. You needed a housewarming party, anyway.โ
โItโs not a house,โ I corrected. โItโs a hovel.โ
โA hovelwarming, then,โ Sue went on, taking it in stride.
โWonโt your parents get mad?โ I asked. Mr. and Mrs. Kim owned the buildingโand technically I wasnโt even supposed to be living there.
โNot if itโs a party for you.โ
Sue, whose Korean given name, Soo Hyun, had been slightly Americanized by an immigration official, had also disappointed her parents by becoming an art major in collegeโwhich was how weโd bondedโ although her parents were too softhearted to stay mad for long. Eventually theyโd kind of adopted me, and they liked to tease Sue by calling me their favorite child.
All to sayโthis party was happening.
This was our Oscar and Felix dynamic. Sue always optimistically, energetically, and joyfully searched out ways for us to extrovert. And I always resisted. And then grudgingly gave in.
โYou canโt organize a party in two hours,โ I protested.
โChallenge accepted,โ Sue said. Then she added, โIโve already sent the group text.โ
But I still kept protesting, even after Iโd lost. โMy place isnโt fit for a party. Itโs not even fit for me.โ
Sue wasnโt going to fight me on that. I was sleeping on a Murphy bed Iโd found in the large trash. But she was also not brooking protests. โWeโll all stay outside. Itโs fine. You can finally hang those bulb lights. Weโll invite everybody awesome. All you have to do is get some wine.โ
โI canโt afford wine.โ
But Sue wasnโt liking my attitude. โHow many people entered the first round?โ she demanded.
โTwo thousand,โ I said, already giving in. โHow many finalists are there?โ
โTen,โ I answered.
โExactly,โ Sue said. โYouโve already annihilated one thousand nine hundred and ninety competitors.โ She paused for impact, then snapped her fingers as she said, โWhatโs another nine?โ
โHow is that relevant?โ I asked.
โYouโre about to win ten thousand dollars. You can afford one bottle of wine.โ
AND SO SUE set about making a last-minute party happen.
She invited all our art-major friendsโwith the exception of my ex- boyfriend, Ezraโand some of her art-teacher buddies, and her longtime boyfriend, Wittโnot an artist: a business guy whoโd been the captain of his track team in college. Sueโs parents approved of him, even though he wasnโt Korean, because he was sweet to herโand also because he made a good living and so, as her dad put it, she could be โa starving artist without having to starve.โ
Sue saidโlovinglyโthat Witt could be our token jock.
My job was to put on the vintage pink party dress with appliquรฉd flowers that had once been my motherโs and that I wore only on very, very special occasions โฆ and then to go off in search of the most wine I could get with a twenty-dollar bill.
I lived in the old, warehouse-y part of downtown, and the only grocery store within walking distance had been there since the 1970sโa cross
between a bodega and a five-and-dime. There was fresh fruit up front, and old-time R&B played on the sound system, and Marie, the ever-present owner, sat by the register. She always wore bright-patterned caftans that lit up her warm brown skin, and she called everybody baby.
Just as I walked in, my phone rang. It was my dad calling me back.
Now that the initial rush had passed, I debated whether to answer.
Maybe I was just setting us both up for disappointment.
But in the end, I picked up.
โSadie, what is it?โ my dad said, all business. โIโm boarding a flight to Singapore.โ
โI was calling you with some good news,โ I said, ducking into the cereal aisle and hushing my voice.
โI canโt hear you,โ my dad said.
โI just have some good news,โ I said a little louder. โThat I wantedโโ was I really doing this?โโto share.โ
But my dad just sounded irritated. โTheyโve got dueling announcements going over the loudspeakers and Iโve got one percent battery. Can it wait? Iโll be back in ten days.โ
โOf course it can wait,โ I said, already deciding that heโd forfeited his chance. Maybe Iโd tell him when I had that ten-thousand-dollar check in my pocket. If he was lucky.
Or maybe not. Because right then the line went dead.
He hadnโt hung up on me, exactly. Heโd just moved on to other things. We were done here. Without a goodbye. As usual.
It was fine. I had a party to go to. And wine to buy.
As I moved into the wine aisle, Smokey Robinson came over the sound system with a song that had been one of my momโs favoritesโโI Second That Emotion.โ
Normally I would never sing along out loud to anything in publicโ especially in falsetto. But I had many happy memories of singing along to that song with my mom, and I knew it was all too easy for me to stew over my dadโs toxicity, and it kind of felt, in that moment, like Smokey had showed up right then to throw me an emotional lifeline.
I glanced over at the owner. She was on the phone with somebody, laughing. And as far as I could tell, there was no one else in the store.
So I gave in and sang alongโquietly at first, and then a little louder when Marie didnโt notice me at all. Shifting back and forth to the beat, there in my ballet flats and my momโs pink party dress, I just gave in and let myself feel betterโdoing a shimmy my mom taught me and throwing in an occasional booty shake.
Just a little private, mood-lifting dance party for one.
And then something hit me, there in the aisle, singing an old favorite song while wearing my long-lost motherโs dress: My motherโalso a portrait artistโhad placed in this contest, too.
This exact same contest. The year I turned fourteen.
Iโd known it when I applied. But to be honest, I applied to so many contests so often, and I got rejected so relentlessly, I hadnโt thought too much about it.
But this was the one. The one sheโd been painting a portrait forโof me, by the wayโwhen she died. She never finished the portrait, and she never made it to the show.
What had happened to that portrait? I suddenly wondered. If I had to bet? Lucinda threw it away.
Iโm not a big weeper, in general. And Iโm sure it was partly all the excitement of placing in the contest, and partly the unexpected harshness of my dadโs voice just then, and partly the fact that I was wearing my long-lost motherโs clothes, and partly the realization that this contest was her contest โฆ but as happy as I felt singing along to that old favorite song in an empty grocery store, I felt sad, too.
I felt my eyes spring with tears over and over, and I had to keep wiping them away. You wouldnโt think you could do all those things at once, would you? Dancing, singing, and getting misty-eyed? But Iโm here as proof: Itโs possible.
But maybe that song really was a talisman for joy, because just as the song was ending, I spotted a wine with a celebratory polka-dotted label on sale for six dollars a bottle.
By the time I made it to the register with my arms full of wine, I was feeling like Sue had the right idea. Of course we should celebrate! Iโd have to put my dog Peanutโwho was even more introverted than I wasโin the closet with his dog bed for a few hours, but heโd forgive me. Probably.
I picked up some little taco-shaped dog treats as a preemptive apology.
Theyโd take me over budget, but Peanut was worth it.
At the register, I eyed a little bouquet of white gerbera daisies, thinking it might be nice to have one to tuck behind my earโsomething my mom used to do when I was little. It felt like she might like to see me celebrate that way. With a flower.
But then I decided it was too expensive.
Instead, I set the wine and dog treats on the counter, smiling at the store owner, and I reached around for my purse โฆ
Only to realize I didnโt have it.
I looked down and then felt my other hip, to see if I might have slung it on backward. Then I glanced around at the floor to see if Iโd dropped it. Then I left my wine and dog treats on the counter, holding my finger up like โone secondโ as I dashed to check the empty aisles.
Nothing. Huh. Iโd left it at home.
Not all that surprising, given the flurry of today.
Marie had already started ringing up the wine by the time I got back and so, not wanting to interrupt her conversation, I shook my hands at her, like, Never mind.
She looked at me like, Donโt you want this?
I shrugged back in a way that tried to convey, Iโm so sorry! I forgot my purse.
She dropped her shoulders in a sigh, but before she could start to cancel everything, a manโs voice from behind me said, โIโll get it.โ
I turned around in surprise, frowning at him, like, How did you get in here?
But he just gave me a nod and turned back to the owner. โI can cover that.โ
This isnโt relevant โฆ but he was cute.
He was a generic white guyโyou know, the kind thatโs practically a Ken doll. But a really, really appealing version.
Because of my job as a portrait artist, I can never look at a face for the first time without mentally assessing it for its shapes and structure and most compelling featuresโand I can tell you exactly why he was handsome and also why he was basic. Artistically, I mean.
Everything about him was generically, perfectly proportional. He didnโt have an outsize chin, for example, or cavernous nostrils or Dumbo ears. He didnโt have Steven Tyler lips or crazy teeth or a unibrow. Not that any of those things are bad. Distinctive features make a face unique, and thatโs a good thing. But itโs also true that the most generic faces are consistently rated as the best-looking.
Like, the more you look like a composite of everyone, the more we all like you.
This guy was as close to a composite as Iโd seen in a while. Short, neat hair. A proportional forehead, nose bridge, jaw, and chin. Perfectly placed cheekbones. A straight nose with stunningly symmetrical nostrils. And you couldnโt draw better ears. Flawless. Not too flat, but not too protruding. With perfect plump little earlobes.
I am a bit of an earlobe snob. Bad earlobes could really be a deal- breaker for me.
Not kidding: Iโve complimented people on their earlobes before. Out loud.
Which never goes well, by the way.
There are tricks to making a face look appealing when youโre drawing a portrait. Humans seem to find certain elements universally appealing, and if you emphasize those, the person looks that much better. This is a scientific thing. Itโs been studied. The theory is that certain features and proportions elicit feelings of โaww, thatโs adorableโ in us, which prompts caregiving behaviors, affection, and an urge to move closer. In theory, we evolved this reaction in response to baby faces, so weโd feel compelled to take care of our young, but when those same features and patterns crop up in other places, on other faces, we like them there, too.
We can even find sea cucumbers adorable, from the right angle. Or the man whoโs attempting to pay for our wine and dog treats.
Because in addition to his generic handsomeness, this guy also had elements in his featuresโinvisible to the untrained eyeโthat subliminally established cuteness. His lips were smooth, and full, and a warm, friendly pink that signified youth. His skin was clear in a way that evoked good health. And the real clincher was the eyesโslightly bigger than average (always a crowd-pleaser) with a slight melancholic downturn at their corners that gave him an irresistible sweet puppy-dog look.
I guarantee this guy got every woman he ever wanted. But that was his business.
I had a forgotten-wallet situation to deal with. And a last-minute party to host.
โItโs fine,โ I said, waving my hands at him and rejecting his offer to pay for my stuff.
โI donโt mind,โ he said, pulling his wallet out of his jeans.
โI donโt need your help,โ I said, and it came out a little harsher- sounding than I meant.
He looked from meโpurselessโto the counter of stuff I had yet to pay for. โI think maybe you do.โ
But I wasnโt having it. โI can just run home for my purse,โ I said. โItโs no problem.โ
โBut you donโt have to.โ โBut I want to.โ
What part of I donโt need your help did this guy not understand? โI appreciate the gesture, sir,โ I said then. โBut Iโm fine.โ
โWhy are you calling me sir? Weโre, like, the same age.โ โSir is not an age thing.โ
โIt absolutely is. Sir is for old men. And butlers.โ โSir is also for strangers.โ
โBut weโre not strangers.โ
โGotta disagree with you there, sir.โ
โBut Iโm rescuing you,โ he said, like that made us friends. I wrinkled my nose. โI prefer to rescue myself.โ
For the record, I recognized that he was trying to do something nice. I also recognized that most of humanity wouldโve let him do it, thanked him gratefully, and called it a day. This is the kind of moment that could wind up on the internet, getting passed around with captions like See? People arenโt so terrible after all!
But I wasnโt like most of humanity. I didnโt like being helped. Is that a crime?
Surely Iโm not the only person on this planet who prefers to handle things on her own.
It wasnโt him I was opposed to. He was appealing. Strongly, viscerally appealing.
But the helpingโincluding his pushiness about itโwas not.
We stared at each other for a secondโat an impasse. And then, for no reason, he said, โThatโs a great dress, by the way.โ
โThank you,โ I said suspiciously, like he might be using a compliment to lower my defenses. Then without really meaning to, I said, โIt was my motherโs.โ
โAnd you do a great Smokey Robinson, by the way.โ
Oh god. Heโd heard me. I lowered my eyes to half-mast, displeased. โThanks.โ
โI mean it,โ he said. โThat sounded sarcastic.โ
โNo, it was great. It was โฆ mesmerizing.โ โYou were watching me?โ
But he shook his head. โI was just shopping for cereal. You were the one doing a cabaret show in a grocery aisle.โ
โI thought the store was empty.โ He shrugged. โIt wasnโt.โ
โYou should have stopped me.โ
โWhy would I do that?โ he asked, seeming genuinely befuddled. Then, at the memory, something like tenderness lit his expression. He gave a little shrug. โYou were a joy.โ
I had no idea what to make of this guy.
Was he being sarcastic or serious? Was he handsome or generic? Was he kind to help or too pushy? Was he flirting with me or being a pain? Had he already won me over, or did I still have a choice?
Finally I circled back to: โFine. Just โฆ donโt help me.โ
His expression shifted to wry. โIโm getting the sense that you donโt want me to help you.โ
But I played it straight. โThatโs correct.โ
Then before I could lose any more ground, I turned to the owner at the counterโstill chatting away with her friendโand stage-whispered, โIโll be back in five with my purse.โ
Then I zipped out the door. Case closed.
I WAS WAITING at the crosswalk for the light to change when I turned back to see the grocery store guy walking out with a paper bag that looked suspiciously like it might have three very cheap wine bottles and some dog tacos in it.
I stared at him until he saw me.
Then he gave me a big unapologetic ya got me smile. Fine. I had my answers: Yes.
When he arrived next to me to wait for the same crosswalk, I kept my gaze straight ahead, but said, like we were spies or something, โIs that bag full of what I think itโs full of?โ
He didnโt turn my way, either. โDo you think itโs full of human kindness?โ
โI think itโs full of unwanted help.โ
He looked down to examine the inside of the bag. โOr maybe I just really, really love โฆ six-dollar wine.โ
โAnd dog treats,โ I said, glancing his way.
I could see the sides of his eyes crinkle up at that.
โFine,โ I said, accepting my defeat and holding out my arms for the bag.
But he shook his head. โI got it.โ
โAre you going to be stubborn about this, too?โ
โI think the word youโre looking for is chivalrous.โ โIs it?โ I said, tilting my head.
Then, as if the question had answered itself, I held my arms out for the bag again.
โWhy should I give this to you?โ he asked.
โBecause you got what you wanted last time,โ I said, tilting my head back toward the store, โand now itโs my turn.โ
He considered that.
So I added, โItโs only fair.โ
He nodded at that, and then, like heโd been totally reasonable all along, he turned, stepped closer, and released the bag into my arms.
โThank you,โ I said when I had possession.
The light had turned, and the crowd around us was moving into the street. As I started to move with it, I looked down to check the bagโs contents, and I saw a bouquet of white gerbera daisies. I started to turn to
him next to me, but he wasnโt thereโand when I spun back, he was still at the curb looking down at his phone like maybe heโd stopped for a text.
โHey!โ I called from the middle of the street. โYou forgot your flowers!โ
But he looked up and shook his head. โThose are for you.โ I didnโt fight him. It was his turn, after all.
If Iโd known what was going to happen next, I might have handled that moment differently. I might have kept arguing just so we could keep talking. Or I might have asked him his name so Iโd have some way of remembering himโso that he wouldnโt just remain, in my memory after that, the Grocery Store Guy who got away.
Of course, if Iโd known what would happen next, I would never have stepped into the street in the first place.
But I didnโt know. The same way none of us ever know. The same way we all just move through the world on guesswork and hope.
Instead, I just shrugged, like, Okay, and then turned and kept walkingโ noting that he was the first man Iโd been attracted to in all the months since my breakup, and half hoping he would jog to catch up with me in a minute or two.
But thatโs not what happened next.
Next, I froze right there in the crosswalk, my arms still hugging my bag of wine.
And I donโt remember anything after that.