Fiona and Jane(68)

“De Leon’s little brother?” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you to say something about that.”

“You knew? Bobby’s got a big mouth—”

“I can’t believe you actually went to New York,” she said. “In the winter?”

“I’m working on a script,” I said. “I went for research.”

“You went for dick.” She put down her chopsticks and gave me a look, with a smirk. “That’s why you didn’t tell me—”

“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”

“Bobby didn’t have to say anything,” she said. “I knew you left together from the party. Carol’s still mad about her dress,” she added.

“Why do you hate Julian’s brother so much, anyway?” I poured out another shot of soju for each of us.

“Oh, he’s insane,” Fiona said. “He says gays are all going to hell. Poor people need to get a job and stop complaining. Don’t get him started on ‘illegals,’ he calls them.” She rolled her eyes. “Bobby wanted to ask him to be Gracie’s godfather. I said hell no.”

“Believe me, Julian’s not that person,” I said.

“How do you know?” Fiona shook her head and picked up her glass. Her lipstick left a dark red half-moon on the rim. “He got out of the military, fine. But now he’s a finance bro?”

“Julian doesn’t want Bobby to know,” I said, “but he’s pretty depressed. He used to call me when he gets panic attacks. He hides in the bathroom at work, on another floor.”

“Jane,” she said. Her voice was tender. I recognized it as the one she uses with Gracie, even when she was dead tired. “What’s this all about?” she said. “You okay?”

“I was worried about him,” I said. “I can’t explain it . . .”

“What about Naima?” She lifted the bottle and poured out the next round. “When’s the last time we drank this stuff?”

“It’s disgusting,” I agreed. We touched our glasses and threw back the shot.

“I like Naima for you,” she said. I asked her why, and Fiona smiled. She picked up her chopsticks and grabbed for a piece of radish kimchi. “I just do,” she said. “I can see her, in your life. It makes sense. Now, Julian—”

“He’s all alone. He’s got no one,” I said. “Naima has everything going for her—”

“Jane,” she said. “That’s a good thing. Hello?” She fixed me with her gaze. “Why are you being so weird about this?”

I knew where she was going, and I wanted to turn around, change course.

“This is about your dad, isn’t it?”

“What?” I said. “No.”

I broke away from Fiona’s eyes and surveyed the restaurant. About half the tables were filled up, young people in groups of three or four, the girls with ash highlights in their hair, boys who wore expensive-looking jeans with holes in the knees. The table closest to ours was a family; the father flipped over meat on the grill while the mother spooned steamed egg into rice bowls for the two little boys in matching striped collar shirts.

Fiona and I had never talked about my father. She knew what happened. A long time ago, I’d told her about Lee, the boyfriend of his I’d met in Taiwan. She knew that Baba died by suicide.

“No,” I said. “It’s not that.” I studied the round banchan dishes that surrounded the grill on the table. I felt Fiona’s gaze on me. “You sound like my mom,” I said finally.

“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.