He strokes my sex with his fingertips. Exactly the way I need. Exactly. Because I showed him how. And I cry out as I arch into his touch. I’m right on the edge, but there’s something I need, something he taught me to crave. I pull him closer, I try to force words past my lips, that word.

But he understands. He positions himself between my legs, and we both watch as the head of his sex penetrates me, pushing in slowly while his fingers continue to touch me. The feel of my body stretching to accept him, this extraordinary fullness, leaves me breathless. I want to savor this moment, to memorize every minute detail. When he retreats and thrusts back into me, finding the perfect rhythm, stroking me in all the right places in all the right ways, I clench on him helplessly. I’m captivated by the intensity on his face and the fluid flex and play of his body as he takes me, as he fucks me.

The darkness took this from me. My fear took this from me.

The pleasure heightens, and every part of me winds tight. I kiss him frantically, needing that extra connection to him as I climb and climb, as I hang at the precipice for a moment out of time. When the convulsions rip through me, I kiss him still, crying out with every breath I take.

The look he gives me as I shudder beneath him is dark with satisfaction and lust, yet full of tenderness, full of love, and I know that I’m completely safe with him, here in the light of day.

His motions hasten, his expression borders on pain, and with a sound of surrender, he drives deep, joining us tight as our hearts pound in tandem. I hold him, and I kiss him softly, and I smile, whispering “I love you” in his ear.

WE SPEND HOURS L A ZING IN HIS BED, SHARING PILLOW TALK and smiling at each other as sunshine blankets our naked skin. He tells me the stories behind his water tattoos as I trace them with my fingertips. I tell him about my favorite pieces of classical music inspired by the sea, Wagner’s overture to The Flying Dutchman and Debussy’s La Mer, how they encapsulate moments of blissful calm and explosive violence. As usual, talking about music brings me back to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, and I have to mention the incomparable intensity of his Summer and Winter pieces, how they evoke the most magnificent and beautiful storms. He laughs when I describe storms that way, but he does it fondly. He says storms are great unless you happen to be stuck in one. He also says my passion for music is one of his favorite things about me and he’s certain I’ll play again when I’m ready. I hope he’s right.

When hunger drives us out of bed and into the city in search of dinner, we hold hands and press close to each other, maximizing the points of contact between our bodies, like we need that extra reassurance after all that’s happened. I’m craving noodles—those are my favorite thing in the world to eat—so he takes me across town to Chinatown, where they have the best noodles anywhere. We both get steaming bowls of spicy Taiwanese beef noodle soup, and when we’re finished, our bellies are full, our sinuses are clear, our tongues are numb, and we’re high on pain endorphins released in response to the chilis.

I’m drowsy, so he takes me to my place. We might watch documentaries, I don’t remember. But there’s a lot of cuddling because I can’t stand to be separated from him, and I think he feels the same. We kiss, but not in a sexual way. We kiss to express our affection. I fall asleep against his chest, lulled by the steadiness of his heartbeat.

It is, by all measures that matter, a perfectly flawless evening.

So I experience a sense of inevitableness when I wake up the next morning to a phone call from my mom. Before answering, I know it’s bad news.

She confirms it when she says, “Your father just passed away.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

Anna

AFTER HANGING UP THE PHONE, I FEEL … NOTHING. AT LEAST, it seems that way at first. I’m calm. I don’t cry. I recognize I’m thirsty, and I’m able to get myself a glass of water and drink it without inhaling liquid into my lungs. But there’s an unreal quality to everything around me. The water I drink tastes a little funny, metallic perhaps. The cup feels oddly heavy in my fingers. Was it always this solid? As I look at the glass, I notice the surface of the water is trembling very finely.

Quan hugs me, and I sag against him as I try to make sense of everything.

It’s over. My dad isn’t suffering anymore.

I believe this is what he wanted.

But he’s really gone now.

No more secret candies in the car. No more listening to old-school music stuck in the tape deck together. No more attending my concerts. No more anything.

Loss grips me, but it’s muted, perhaps because I’ve already mourned him so many times by now. How many times in the hospital? How many times since we brought him home? My heart has traveled this path until it’s well-worn, and it’s hard to see new tracks, especially when an immense sense of failure overshadows everything.

I didn’t make it until the end. If I’d known it was only two more weeks, maybe I wouldn’t have felt such an oppressive sense of futility. Maybe I could have held it together better and been less absentminded and more functional. Maybe I could have found a way to play for him at the party, since it really was my last chance. Maybe my family would still think I’m the person I’d been pretending to be for so long—not perfect in their eyes, but still good enough.

I’m not sure if I’m welcome, but I go home to help with whatever I can. Quan offers to drop me off and come back later to get me, but I ask him to come in with me.

We walk hand in hand to the front door of my parents’ house, and after letting myself in, I continue to hold his hand as we walk down the marble hallway. The house is colder than ever today, and the light pouring in through the windows is gray, drab.

We find Priscilla in my dad’s room, where my dad’s hospital bed is starkly vacant. This room is the master bedroom of the house, and without my dad’s presence to fill it, it now feels ten times as large. Priscilla is organizing our dad’s medications into ziplock bags and boxes, and she gives no indication that she notices our presence. She looks awful. Her eyes are puffy, her skin sallow, and I think she’s lost weight since two weeks ago. She’s skeletal. I can even see wrinkles on her face. This is the first time that she’s looked the full fifteen years older than me, and I hate that.

So I swallow my pride and my own hurt, and I approach her. “Hi, Je je.”

“There’s a box of stuff you forgot here in your room,” she says in her harsh way.

“I’ll get it, thanks.”

Instead of responding, she continues organizing the medications, content to ignore me.

“Do you … need help with that?” I ask.

She gives me a stony look and says, “No,” before returning to her work. Only now, her hands are unsteady, and she drops a pill bottle to the ground.

I pick it up and put it on the table for her. “Can you look at me? So we can talk? Please?”

She lifts her chin and gives me her attention, but she doesn’t speak. She waits.

“I’m sorry.” It’s hard for me to logically conceptualize what I did that’s so wrong. I spoke the truth. I stood up for myself. Why is that bad? But if I hurt her, I regret that and I genuinely want to do better in the future. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just—”