Tiffany

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Tiffany’s father had a history of flaking. Taking days of old into account, with their missed parent-teacher conferences and chores left primarily for a teenage daughter, healthy family life prior to that tended to recede into mythology. Often, Tiffany reminded herself he hadn’t always been a painful, intolerant presence.

Grudge-holding wasn’t a quality Tiffany appreciated. Not saying she didn’t avoid routinely mouthy I-demand-to-see-your-manager types at THY. But, ‘family’ evolved into a more flexible meaning for her. Anyone, be they her friends and coworkers—even Sinbi—provided a sense of community she lacked as a young teen.

She pushed through the tangled hill of mispriced belt bags on her desk, reaching her lit up cell phone. Massaging a faint ache at her temple, she read the new text:

Dad: Morning, Buttercup.

Oh, speak of the devil. Not the usual texting suspect—her infatuated straight girl.

A week had passed since her blow up at Yuri. While justified, it also seemed unfair. At this difficult stage (questioning attraction, commitment, and everything in between) babygays made mistakes. Be they ual or otherwise. Yuri—far from losing Tiffany’s number—relentlessly messaged her the night of and three days afterward, congesting her inbox with apologies both long and light. And all unanswered by Tiffany. They’d dwindled to twice a day.

“Hey, Dad.” Tiffany propped the phone on her shoulder. For afternoons like these, when she’d cloistered herself off in her office, speakerphone would work easier. But, she wouldn’t risk this dialogue bleeding through her closed door, as paranoid as that sounded.

“Aren’t you busy?” he asked in his uniquely high, scratchy voice. No pleasantries. Typical.

“I can multitask. What’s wrong? What do you need?”

“Why assume that I need something?”

“Do you?”

For the most part, she grew up in a financially stable environment. Her father didn’t bring up her mother’s passing often, but she knew it influenced why he moved them to Korea. Searching or running away from something he never described, despite how much he adored their old home in Florida. Shortly after, he turned into an antisocial hermit, more glaringly so as the years drew by. This solidified him and Tiffany as a team in their one-parent household.

Though, as early as twelve-years-old, Tiffany Hwang believed in inescapable, passionate love (as evidenced by the romance collection on her laptop) and swore everyone deserves multiple chances to attain it.

So, she told him that exactly. To not let the guilt or worries about Tiffany’s comfort impede a future with another woman. Initially, he blew her off.

Until, months later, he left home with his salt-and-pepper hair cropped neatly and a tie—he never wore ties outside a funeral or a CEO visit at work. Her father had hopped back onto the dating saddle and it elated Tiffany. Like daytime televised success story, she witnessed this meek, affectionately mousy man’s personality bloom into one of confidence, of seeing the world in rich colors. He hit the gym more, styled himself better (with Tiffany’s help until eventually hiring a professional), swapped late nights playing Scrabble on his iPad with overnight stays with women she hadn’t met. And, eventually, negative repercussions of his new lifestyle eclipsed his parental duties.

Tiffany required guidance. In her first teenage year, female celebrities and her piano teacher grew from innocent crushes to stars in drawn-out, dreams. Entertaining/tormenting her through many missed alarms. She trusted herself and that meant embracing the gay part, all in time for her fourteenth birthday. A pretty big deal, actually—her father greenlit a weekend beach party with a late curfew.

And in young teenager fashion, she fancied herself an adult already, capable of approaching her dad that morning (he’d just come in, dress shirt wrinkled and hair askew) with her chin held high. She sat him down and in admittedly indelicate terms, informed him she’d been fantasizing about women and wanted to know his preferred dating age for her.

That’s right. Tiffany skipped coming out and went straight for the prize: a girlfriend.

Returned to the present, Tiffany’s eyes watered when his silence went on for too long. “Do you, Dad? Need something.”

“Money. I uh, hit an awkward time between payday and some deadlines.”

Needless to say, by this strained exchange, her father didn’t take raising a lesbian daughter well. He veered onto the denial route and remained there, blindsided by a daughter who didn’t hide her true self at home. Accepting her own uality gave Tiffany a ridiculous sense of relief and, frankly, entitlement. Finally, she’d gained license to stare longingly at the girl groups in her album booklets, a pleasure in sitting front row for the prettier teachers, an identity to nurture, call her very own, and an openness that drew in like-minded friends like Im Yoona and whatever girls were down to make out. Her dad never answered the “when can I date” inquiry, so she obliged herself to start immediately.

Despite the high of self-acceptance, she was still a teenager who somewhat idolized her father. And after that very awkward conversation, his dates became more frequent and lasted longer. The worst case was him disappearing for an entire weekend.

He managed to blow their funds on the most materialistic girlfriends in monthly intervals. And to save money, sometimes women spent nights at the Hwang residence. Which hit cosmic levels of inappropriate for Tiffany’s tastes and wellbeing.

At sixteen, she’d begun cashiering at Yoona’s parents’ bookstore. She and Yoona built a deep, platonic symbiosis. A miraculous feat, seeing as they were two hormonal gay friends who often shared a bed. When the sleepovers turned as numerous as four times a week, the Im family cleared out their office room and offered it as solace for Tiffany.

Tiffany’s father fought this development. Not strongly enough, though, because it allowed him the space to go on a full-blown vacation to Tahiti with a lady Tiffany never learned the name of. Not that is mattered.

“Tell me about your flavor of the month this time, Dad.”

He grumbled over the receiver. “I’m still your father. Have some respect.”

“Of course,” Tiffany scoffed, leaning back into her chair so hard it rolled into the wall. “A father who’s begging his daughter for cash.”

She’d called him out properly. They both knew. “She’s an administration assistant.”

“A secretary? Is she your new secretary, Dad? The one you mentioned last month when you needed money for your date with the…” She paused for dramatic effect, as if filing through an endless list. It kind of was. “Nurse? Was that it?”

“You’re in a mood.”

“Wouldn’t you be, too?”

“I’m familiar with this tone, Buttercup. It’s the bitterness of a broken relationship.” He chuckled. “Tell me the man’s address and I’ll straighten him out.”

“How much do you need?” She couldn’t waste her life dealing with his refusal of her uality. It hurt doubly because she hadn’t ever dated a guy. Ever. “What’s it for?”

“A few bills. An appointment.”

“Are…are you okay?”

He blew out a dismissive raspberry. “Nothing like that, honey. My yearly checkup and some standard x-rays at the dentist. I’ll pay you back.”

He wouldn’t.

Tiffany lived with the Ims until she graduated. She’d worked hard, honoring her addiction for cool restaurants and clothes once a month. With a piece of her check, she’d also order cheap material and knit them into little creations—Yoona’s scrawny frame perfect for a test dummy. And, after keeping her grades up and building a portfolio, her efforts earned her a scholarship at one of her top three schools. Yoona attended it, too, more monetarily