“You have to go first,” she says.

“Well. You met my dad.” I don’t even know where to begin with this question. Of course I love him, but you can love someone and still have a not-so-great relationship with them. I wonder how much of our non-relationship is because of typical father versus teenage boy stuff (a ten o’clock curfew, really?) and how much of it is cultural (Korean Korean versus Korean American). I don’t know if it’s even possible to separate the two. Sometimes I feel like we’re on opposite sides of a soundproofed glass wall. We can see each other but we can’t hear each other.

“So you feel bad, then?” she teases.

I laugh because it’s such a simple and concise way to describe something so complicated. The train brakes suddenly and jostles us even closer together. She doesn’t move away.

“And your mom?” she asks.

“Pretty good,” I say, and realize that I mean it. “She’s kind of like me. She paints. She’s artistic.” Funny, I’ve never thought of us being the same in this way before. “Now your turn.”

She looks at me. “Remind me again why I agreed to this?”

“Want to stop?” I ask, even though I know she’ll say no. She’s the kind of person who finishes what she starts. “I’ll make it easy on you. You can just give me a thumbs-up or thumbs-down, okay?”

She nods.

“Mom?” I ask

Thumbs-up.

“Way up?”

“Let’s not go overboard. I’m seventeen and she’s my mom,” she says.

“Dad?”

Thumbs-down.

“Way down?” I ask.

“Way, way, way down.”

“IT’S HARD TO LOVE SOMEONE who doesn’t love you back,” I tell him. He opens his mouth and then closes it again. He wants to tell me that of course my father loves me. All parents love their children, he wants to say. But that’s not true. Nothing is ever universal. Most parents love their children. It’s true that my mother loves me. Here’s another thing that’s also true: I am my father’s greatest regret.

How do I know?

He said so himself.

SAMUEL KINGSLEY WAS CERTAIN BEING famous was his destiny. Surely God wouldn’t have gifted him with all this talent with no place to display it.

And then Patricia came along. Surely God wouldn’t have given him a beautiful wife and children if he didn’t mean to provide for them.

Samuel remembers the moment he met her. They were still in Jamaica, in Montego Bay. It’d been raining outside, one of those tropical storms that start as suddenly as they stop. He’d ducked into a clothing store for shelter so he wouldn’t be soaked for his audition.

She was the store manager, so the first time he saw her she was wearing a name tag and looking very official. Her hair was short and curly and she had the biggest, prettiest, shyest eyes he’d ever seen. He never could resist a shy girl—all that caution and mystery.

He’d quoted Bob Marley and Robert Frost. He’d sung. Patricia never stood a chance against the force of his charm. His audition time came and went, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t get enough of those eyes that widened so dramatically at the slightest flirtation.

Still, a part of him had said to stay away. Some prescient part of him saw the two paths diverging in the yellow wood. Maybe if he’d chosen the other path, if he’d left the store instead of stayed, it would’ve made all the difference.

“KOREAN FOOD? BEST FOOD. Healthy. Good for you,” I say to Natasha, imitating my mom. It’s something she says every time we go out to dinner. Charlie always suggests we go to an American place, but Mom and Dad always take us to Korean, even though we eat Korean food at home every day. I don’t mind because it turns out I agree with my mom. Korean food? Best food.

Natasha and I don’t have much time left before her appointment, and I’m beginning to doubt that I can make her fall in love with me in the next couple of hours. But I can at least make her want to see me again tomorrow.

We walk into my favorite soon dubu joint to greetings of “Annyeonghaseyo” from the staff. I love this place, and their seafood stew is almost as good as my mom’s. It’s not fancy at all, just small wooden tables in the center surrounded by booths on the perimeter. It’s not crowded right now, so we manage to snag a booth.

Natasha asks me to order for her. “I’ll eat whatever you tell me to,” she says.

I ring the little bell attached to the table and a waitress appears almost instantly. I order two seafood soon dubu, kalbi, and pa jun.

“There’s a bell?” she asks after the waitress leaves.

“Awesome, right? We’re a practical people,” I say, only half kidding. “Takes all the mystery out of food service. When will my waiter appear? When will I get the check?”

“Do American restaurants know about this? Because we should tell them. Bells should be mandatory.”

I laugh and agree, but then she takes it back.

“No, I changed my mind. Can you imagine some jerk just leaning on the bell demanding ketchup?”

The panchan, complimentary side dishes, arrive almost immediately. A part of me braces to have to explain to her what she’s eating. Once, a friend of a friend made a What’s in this food? Is it dog? joke. I felt like shit but still I laughed. It’s one of those moments that makes me want that Do-Over Card.

Natasha, though, doesn’t ask any questions about the food.

The waitress comes over and hands us both chopsticks.

“Oh, can I have a fork, please?” Natasha asks.