best counter
Search
Report & Feedback

Chapter no 1

Hello Stranger

THE FIRST PERSON I called after I found out Iโ€™d placed in the North American Portrait Societyโ€™s 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 Fatherโ€™s Day or New Yearโ€™sโ€”hoping to get lucky and miss him so I could leave a singsongy message like โ€œSo 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 neverโ€”god forbidโ€”to share things.

My goal was always not to share things with my father. How broke I was. How I was stillโ€”endlesslyโ€”failing in my chosen career. How Iโ€™d given up on yet another relationship and moved into my not-fit-for-human- habitation art studio because I couldnโ€™t afford a place of my own.

That was all need-to-know information. And he definitely didnโ€™t need to know.

It gave me some structure, in a wayโ€”crafting ongoing fake success stories about myself for him and my evil stepmother, Lucinda. I was always โ€œdoing great.โ€ Or โ€œcrazy busy.โ€ Or โ€œthriving so much.โ€

I didnโ€™t actively make things up. I just worked devotedly to obscure the truth.

The truth was, Iโ€™d defied all my dadโ€™s instructions eight years before, dropping out of premed and switching my college major to Fine Arts.

โ€œFine Arts?โ€ my father had said, like heโ€™d never heard the term before. โ€œHow exactly are you supposed to make a living with that?โ€

I gave him a little shrug. โ€œIโ€™m just going to โ€ฆ be an artist.โ€ Wow, those words did not land well.

โ€œSo youโ€™re telling me,โ€ he demanded, that little vein in his forehead starting to darken, โ€œthat you want to be buried in a pauperโ€™s grave?โ€

I frowned. โ€œI wouldnโ€™t say I want that.โ€

Itโ€™s possible my dad wanted me to be a doctor because he was a doctor. And itโ€™s possible my dad didnโ€™t want me to be an artist because my mom had been an artist. But we didnโ€™t talk about that.

He went on, โ€œYouโ€™re throwing away a good careerโ€”a good livingโ€”so that you can waste your life doing something that doesnโ€™t matter for no money?โ€

โ€œWhen you put it that way, it sounds like a bad idea.โ€

โ€œItโ€™s a terrible idea!โ€ he said, like that was all there was to it. โ€œBut youโ€™re forgetting two things,โ€ I said.

My dad waited to be enlightened.

โ€œI donโ€™t like medicine,โ€ I said, counting off on my fingers. โ€œAnd I do like art.โ€

Suffice it to say, he didnโ€™t 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 knewโ€”on that last one, at leastโ€”he was lying. Anyway, it didnโ€™t matter. He didnโ€™t 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. โ€œDonโ€™t ask me for help when youโ€™re

broke,โ€ he said. โ€œYouโ€™re on your own. If you choose this path for yourself, then you have to walk it.โ€

I shrugged. โ€œI havenโ€™t 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 conversationโ€”and possibly done with fatherhood, as well.

I still remember the determination I felt as I watched him leave. It seems almost quaint now. Iโ€™ll show you, I remember thinking, with a self- righteous fire in my eyes. Iโ€™ll make you wish youโ€™d believed in me all along.

Spoiler alert: I did not show him. At least not so far. That was eight years ago.

Iโ€™d gotten that BFA in Fine Arts. Iโ€™d graduated all alone, and then Iโ€™d marched past all the families taking proud pictures, and then Iโ€™d 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?

Iโ€™d embarked on many endless years of โ€ฆ not showing him.

I applied to contests and didnโ€™t win. I submitted my work for shows and didnโ€™t 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 wasnโ€™t enough to make rent.

And whenever I talked to my dad, I pretended I was โ€œthriving.โ€

Because he might have been right that day. I might be headed for a pauperโ€™s grave. But I would be under the dirt in that grave before Iโ€™d ever admit it.

That must have been why I called him about placing in the contest.

The contest itself was a big dealโ€”and 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, donโ€™t we all, deep down, carry an inextinguishable longing for our parents to be proud of us? Even long after weโ€™ve given up?

In the thrill of the moment, I forgot that he didnโ€™t care.

It was a good thingโ€”and no surpriseโ€”that my call went straight to his voicemail. It meant I could make my next call. To somebody who did care.

โ€œWhat!โ€ my friend Sue shouted as soon as the words were out. โ€œThatโ€™s huge!โ€ She stretched out the U for what felt like a full minute. Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuge.

And I just let myself enjoy it.

โ€œThe grand prize is ten thousand dollars,โ€ I added when she was done. โ€œOh my god,โ€ she said. โ€œEven huger.โ€

โ€œAnd guess what else?โ€ โ€œWhat?โ€

โ€œThe big showโ€”the juried show where they pick the winnerโ€”is here.

In Houston.โ€

โ€œI thought it was Miami this year.โ€ โ€œThat was last year.โ€

โ€œSo you donโ€™t even have to travel!โ€ Sue said.

โ€œWhich is perfect! Because I canโ€™t afford to!โ€ โ€œItโ€™s meant to be!โ€

โ€œBut is it too meant to be? Is it so in my favor, itโ€™ll jinx me?โ€

โ€œThereโ€™s no such thing as too meant to be,โ€ Sue said. Then, as if thereโ€™d been a question, she said, โ€œAnyway, itโ€™s settled.โ€

โ€œWhatโ€™s settled?โ€

โ€œWe have to throw a party!โ€ she said. Ever the extreme extrovert. โ€œA party?โ€ I said, in a meek attempt at resistance.

โ€œA party! A party!โ€ Sue practically sang into the phone. โ€œYouโ€™ve 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 wasnโ€™t wrong.

โ€œWhen?โ€ I said, already dreading all the cleaning Iโ€™d have to do. โ€œTonight!โ€

It was already close to sunset. โ€œI canโ€™t throw aโ€”โ€ I started, but before I even got to โ€œparty tonight,โ€ it was decided.

โ€œWeโ€™ll do it on your rooftop. You needed a housewarming party, anyway.โ€

โ€œItโ€™s not a house,โ€ I corrected. โ€œItโ€™s a hovel.โ€

โ€œA hovelwarming, then,โ€ Sue went on, taking it in stride.

โ€œWonโ€™t your parents get mad?โ€ I asked. Mr. and Mrs. Kim owned the buildingโ€”and technically I wasnโ€™t even supposed to be living there.

โ€œNot if itโ€™s 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 collegeโ€”which was how weโ€™d bondedโ€” although her parents were too softhearted to stay mad for long. Eventually theyโ€™d kind of adopted me, and they liked to tease Sue by calling me their favorite child.

All to sayโ€”this 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.

โ€œYou canโ€™t organize a party in two hours,โ€ I protested.

โ€œChallenge accepted,โ€ Sue said. Then she added, โ€œIโ€™ve already sent the group text.โ€

But I still kept protesting, even after Iโ€™d lost. โ€œMy place isnโ€™t fit for a party. Itโ€™s not even fit for me.โ€

Sue wasnโ€™t going to fight me on that. I was sleeping on a Murphy bed Iโ€™d found in the large trash. But she was also not brooking protests. โ€œWeโ€™ll all stay outside. Itโ€™s fine. You can finally hang those bulb lights. Weโ€™ll invite everybody awesome. All you have to do is get some wine.โ€

โ€œI canโ€™t afford wine.โ€

But Sue wasnโ€™t liking my attitude. โ€œHow many people entered the first round?โ€ she demanded.

โ€œTwo thousand,โ€ I said, already giving in. โ€œHow many finalists are there?โ€

โ€œTen,โ€ I answered.

โ€œExactly,โ€ Sue said. โ€œYouโ€™ve already annihilated one thousand nine hundred and ninety competitors.โ€ She paused for impact, then snapped her fingers as she said, โ€œWhatโ€™s another nine?โ€

โ€œHow is that relevant?โ€ I asked.

โ€œYouโ€™re 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 friendsโ€”with the exception of my ex- boyfriend, Ezraโ€”and some of her art-teacher buddies, and her longtime boyfriend, Wittโ€”not an artist: a business guy whoโ€™d been the captain of his track team in college. Sueโ€™s parents approved of him, even though he wasnโ€™t Korean, because he was sweet to herโ€”and also because he made a good living and so, as her dad put it, she could be โ€œa starving artist without having to starve.โ€

Sue saidโ€”lovinglyโ€”that 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 motherโ€™s and that I wore only on very, very special occasions โ€ฆ 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 1970sโ€”a 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.

โ€œSadie, what is it?โ€ my dad said, all business. โ€œIโ€™m boarding a flight to Singapore.โ€

โ€œI was calling you with some good news,โ€ I said, ducking into the cereal aisle and hushing my voice.

โ€œI canโ€™t hear you,โ€ my dad said.

โ€œI just have some good news,โ€ I said a little louder. โ€œThat I wantedโ€โ€” was I really doing this?โ€”โ€œto share.โ€

But my dad just sounded irritated. โ€œTheyโ€™ve got dueling announcements going over the loudspeakers and Iโ€™ve got one percent battery. Can it wait? Iโ€™ll be back in ten days.โ€

โ€œOf course it can wait,โ€ I said, already deciding that heโ€™d forfeited his chance. Maybe Iโ€™d 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 hadnโ€™t hung up on me, exactly. Heโ€™d 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 momโ€™s favoritesโ€”โ€œI 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 dadโ€™s 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 alongโ€”quietly at first, and then a little louder when Marie didnโ€™t notice me at all. Shifting back and forth to the beat, there in my ballet flats and my momโ€™s pink party dress, I just gave in and let myself feel betterโ€”doing 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 motherโ€™s dress: My motherโ€”also a portrait artistโ€”had placed in this contest, too.

This exact same contest. The year I turned fourteen.

Iโ€™d known it when I applied. But to be honest, I applied to so many contests so often, and I got rejected so relentlessly, I hadnโ€™t thought too much about it.

But this was the one. The one sheโ€™d been painting a portrait forโ€”of me, by the wayโ€”when 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.

Iโ€™m not a big weeper, in general. And Iโ€™m sure it was partly all the excitement of placing in the contest, and partly the unexpected harshness of my dadโ€™s voice just then, and partly the fact that I was wearing my long-lost motherโ€™s clothes, and partly the realization that this contest was her contest โ€ฆ 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 wouldnโ€™t think you could do all those things at once, would you? Dancing, singing, and getting misty-eyed? But Iโ€™m here as proof: Itโ€™s 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! Iโ€™d have to put my dog Peanutโ€”who was even more introverted than I wasโ€”in the closet with his dog bed for a few hours, but heโ€™d forgive me. Probably.

I picked up some little taco-shaped dog treats as a preemptive apology.

Theyโ€™d 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 earโ€”something 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 โ€ฆ

Only to realize I didnโ€™t 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 Iโ€™d dropped it. Then I left my wine and dog treats on the counter, holding my finger up like โ€œone secondโ€ as I dashed to check the empty aisles.

Nothing. Huh. Iโ€™d 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, Donโ€™t you want this?

I shrugged back in a way that tried to convey, Iโ€™m so sorry! I forgot my purse.

She dropped her shoulders in a sigh, but before she could start to cancel everything, a manโ€™s voice from behind me said, โ€œIโ€™ll 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. โ€œI can cover that.โ€

This isnโ€™t relevant โ€ฆ but he was cute.

He was a generic white guyโ€”you know, the kind thatโ€™s 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 featuresโ€”and 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 didnโ€™t have an outsize chin, for example, or cavernous nostrils or Dumbo ears. He didnโ€™t 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 thatโ€™s a good thing. But itโ€™s 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 Iโ€™d 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 couldnโ€™t 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: Iโ€™ve 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 youโ€™re 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. Itโ€™s been studied. The theory is that certain features and proportions elicit feelings of โ€œaww, thatโ€™s 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 weโ€™d 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 whoโ€™s attempting to pay for our wine and dog treats.

Because in addition to his generic handsomeness, this guy also had elements in his featuresโ€”invisible to the untrained eyeโ€”that 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 eyesโ€”slightly 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.

โ€œItโ€™s fine,โ€ I said, waving my hands at him and rejecting his offer to pay for my stuff.

โ€œI donโ€™t mind,โ€ he said, pulling his wallet out of his jeans.

โ€œI donโ€™t need your help,โ€ I said, and it came out a little harsher- sounding than I meant.

He looked from meโ€”purselessโ€”to the counter of stuff I had yet to pay for. โ€œI think maybe you do.โ€

But I wasnโ€™t having it. โ€œI can just run home for my purse,โ€ I said. โ€œItโ€™s no problem.โ€

โ€œBut you donโ€™t have to.โ€ โ€œBut I want to.โ€

What part of I donโ€™t need your help did this guy not understand? โ€œI appreciate the gesture, sir,โ€ I said then. โ€œBut Iโ€™m fine.โ€

โ€œWhy are you calling me sir? Weโ€™re, like, the same age.โ€ โ€œSir is not an age thing.โ€

โ€œIt absolutely is. Sir is for old men. And butlers.โ€ โ€œSir is also for strangers.โ€

โ€œBut weโ€™re not strangers.โ€

โ€œGotta disagree with you there, sir.โ€

โ€œBut Iโ€™m rescuing you,โ€ he said, like that made us friends. I wrinkled my nose. โ€œI 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 wouldโ€™ve 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 arenโ€™t so terrible after all!

But I wasnโ€™t like most of humanity. I didnโ€™t like being helped. Is that a crime?

Surely Iโ€™m not the only person on this planet who prefers to handle things on her own.

It wasnโ€™t him I was opposed to. He was appealing. Strongly, viscerally appealing.

But the helpingโ€”including his pushiness about itโ€”was not.

We stared at each other for a secondโ€”at an impasse. And then, for no reason, he said, โ€œThatโ€™s a great dress, by the way.โ€

โ€œThank you,โ€ I said suspiciously, like he might be using a compliment to lower my defenses. Then without really meaning to, I said, โ€œIt was my motherโ€™s.โ€

โ€œAnd you do a great Smokey Robinson, by the way.โ€

Oh god. Heโ€™d heard me. I lowered my eyes to half-mast, displeased. โ€œThanks.โ€

โ€œI mean it,โ€ he said. โ€œThat sounded sarcastic.โ€

โ€œNo, it was great. It was โ€ฆ mesmerizing.โ€ โ€œYou were watching me?โ€

But he shook his head. โ€œI was just shopping for cereal. You were the one doing a cabaret show in a grocery aisle.โ€

โ€œI thought the store was empty.โ€ He shrugged. โ€œIt wasnโ€™t.โ€

โ€œYou should have stopped me.โ€

โ€œWhy 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. โ€œYou 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: โ€œFine. Just โ€ฆ donโ€™t help me.โ€

His expression shifted to wry. โ€œIโ€™m getting the sense that you donโ€™t want me to help you.โ€

But I played it straight. โ€œThatโ€™s correct.โ€

Then before I could lose any more ground, I turned to the owner at the counterโ€”still chatting away with her friendโ€”and stage-whispered, โ€œIโ€™ll 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, โ€œIs that bag full of what I think itโ€™s full of?โ€

He didnโ€™t turn my way, either. โ€œDo you think itโ€™s full of human kindness?โ€

โ€œI think itโ€™s full of unwanted help.โ€

He looked down to examine the inside of the bag. โ€œOr maybe I just really, really love โ€ฆ six-dollar wine.โ€

โ€œAnd dog treats,โ€ I said, glancing his way.

I could see the sides of his eyes crinkle up at that.

โ€œFine,โ€ I said, accepting my defeat and holding out my arms for the bag.

But he shook his head. โ€œI got it.โ€

โ€œAre you going to be stubborn about this, too?โ€

โ€œI think the word youโ€™re looking for is chivalrous.โ€ โ€œIs it?โ€ I said, tilting my head.

Then, as if the question had answered itself, I held my arms out for the bag again.

โ€œWhy should I give this to you?โ€ he asked.

โ€œBecause you got what you wanted last time,โ€ I said, tilting my head back toward the store, โ€œand now itโ€™s my turn.โ€

He considered that.

So I added, โ€œItโ€™s only fair.โ€

He nodded at that, and then, like heโ€™d been totally reasonable all along, he turned, stepped closer, and released the bag into my arms.

โ€œThank 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 bagโ€™s contents, and I saw a bouquet of white gerbera daisies. I started to turn to

him next to me, but he wasnโ€™t thereโ€”and when I spun back, he was still at the curb looking down at his phone like maybe heโ€™d stopped for a text.

โ€œHey!โ€ I called from the middle of the street. โ€œYou forgot your flowers!โ€

But he looked up and shook his head. โ€œThose are for you.โ€ I didnโ€™t fight him. It was his turn, after all.

If Iโ€™d 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 Iโ€™d have some way of remembering himโ€”so that he wouldnโ€™t just remain, in my memory after that, the Grocery Store Guy who got away.

Of course, if Iโ€™d known what would happen next, I would never have stepped into the street in the first place.

But I didnโ€™t 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 Iโ€™d 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 thatโ€™s not what happened next.

Next, I froze right there in the crosswalk, my arms still hugging my bag of wine.

And I donโ€™t remember anything after that.

You'll Also Like