When I was eight years old, my father took me and Andrew to visit his little sister, our Tia Bella, in Arizona.

We were eating breakfast on the second or third day when Bella asked Daddy out of the blue what sort of man he would like me to marry someday and I remember him laughing as I squinted skeptically from beneath my scratchy, copper-colored curls.

“Well of course I would want him to be gentle, kind-hearted, hard working, handsome...”

“Handsome?” Bella had laughed.

“If I just wanted her to be well taken care of she could stay with her daddy forever,” my father grinned. “I want her to be happy. So, I hope he’ll look like one of those Disney princes she loves so much. It wouldn’t hurt if he had at least a little bit in the way of brains too…”

Oh, but you forgot to add ‘brave.’

We needed him to be brave too, Daddy.

If you knew who I picked, would you be at peace with it?

***

I’m about ready to throw myself onto the bed without showering, without even taking my hair out of the ponytail but for some reason-

I think…

I deserve better than that.

Even if everyone treats me like something they could take or leave at any whim, my whims, at least, are within my control.

Turning the shower up to a delicately warm, but not hot, steady stream, I resist the urge to scrub my skin like something inanimate and treat it gently. I wash my hair and dry it so I won’t get sick tonight.

Out of spite?

Somehow the bitterness gives me the energy to fight through this routine I usually give up on before I even begin.

I even lotion. Even brush my teeth. Even floss.

Am I pathetic for making a big deal out of this?

I’m fragile, but so are so many of my favorite things.

And Kat’s…

He should know by now that peonies bruise easily.

I even change my sheets, and as I do, I find a little pink thumb drive on a matching pink lanyard that sets me crying again. Gently this time.

With frustration. With this ridiculously steadfast love.

If today was a few months ago, I think I would have been bitter enough to throw it away and simply regret that decision later.

But tonight, I change my mind.

Tonight I chose to try to be sane.

I am furious…

But how…

…How I deal with this anger is my choice. Right?

For too long, I’ve forgotten I have the freedom to make my own decisions and just let the emotions tell me what to do…

Like…

What not to do…

Not eating, not drinking…water anyway…not caring for this body…which is precious…right? No matter how hard it is to live in…

Instead of vice versa.

Daddy would call it precious, and important.

For some reason, tonight I just sit staring at the little piece of metal and plastic in my hand for good 5 minutes before wrapping my shivering skin in this clean linen - clean quilt with a pattern of flowers, suspiciously like red roses -

Like a clean slate.

- I flip open my laptop and plug in the little thumb drive, taking a long, slow breath.

Alright, Kitty Kat, if this is - almost - the key to your heart, let’s see what it opens.

It takes a moment for my computer to register the thumbdrive, but in a few seconds, I see the little symbol appear asking me if I want to open the USB drive and I click on it.

Immediately, I’m taken to a page of folders, but there are only two listed there, one which says “KatLicia” and another that says “Even More KatLicia.”

Something about that ‘ship name’ feels so ridiculous and kid-ish and innocent and sweet all at the same time that I’m not sure whether I want to laugh, cry, or call Kattar and make us talk about EVERYTHING -

But he’s still at that stupid party.

And I’m home alone.

I click on the first folder.

Instantly, I’m transported to a page full of photos and video files, and I feel like I’ve had all the air sucked out of my lungs.

Close the laptop. Close the laptop.

This is almost too…

Honest…and personal.

I can’t even begin to process what I’m seeing and it takes me a minute to register the wash of faces. Our faces. Me and Kat from all the way back when…all with cute file names he must have written throughout the last decade and a half.

Honestly this looks like every picture we’ve ever taken together since we met and it’s almost unfathomably surreal to see the way his writing changes from impersonal titles like “Me and the cute little redheaded girl from Spanish class” to “Our Princess’s 21st b-day trip.”

The first picture in the folder I still remember, though I can’t recall the name of the ice cream parlor we were at. My messy hair, oversized tee shirt and faded shorts are all burned into my memory as clear as day.

Why would he keep this?

He looks just as pretty as usual in a little black designer jacket, though it was like 90 degrees out that day. I was aggressively self-conscious, desperately wanting to cover my face with my hands as he, aggravatingly, made that impossible. In the picture, he’s holding both my hands above my head like I’m on a roller coaster or something. He’s laughing. I’m fighting a dueling desire to giggle and run away at the same time.

The next picture on the file is some months later at some park where we had a water balloon fight with some of his friends. I’m wearing Kattar’s tee-shirt, which was dark blue, because my white tee-shirt turned see-through when it got wet. Kattar is wearing my tatty old hand-me-downs just as naturally as he wore linen and leather. 

I look almost happy.

There must be a hundred files in this thing.

To think he took the time to organize them all by date.

I scroll straight to the bottom of the folder and click on the second to last video.

I remember this one too, but it feels infinitely far away.

I must have been about 17, and we were standing outside a sushi restaurant we used to go to often.

“Tell the camera why you’re being a piece of work,” Kattar is laughing, hugging me around the shoulder as I pout like a chastised child.

“Because I’m hungry…,” I mumble, crossing my arms over the bodice of ‘my’ ill-fitting pink dress which used to belong to Natividad.

“And why didn’t you eat before we left?” He prods, raising one dark eyebrow.

“Because I wasn’t hungry then,” I mumble again.

“So what is Kitty Kat going to do?” He asks, raising both eyebrows now, like a patronizing school teacher.

“He’s going to take me out for dinner, because he’s the best friend ever,” I’m covering my mouth now, trying to hide my smile, as he takes my fingers and removes them from my face laughing with mock pride.

“That’s right, so let’s go.”

Why am I crying?

The last file in the folder is he and I on his bedroom floor, taking a selfie for the screensaver of “our” new phone. His arm is around my shoulder, but instead of looking at the camera, he has his face buried in my hair, and I’m rolling my eyes at his shenanigans.

The look of pure love and affection on his face is almost heartbreaking.

He wasn’t trying to hide it from me back then. It was so obvious you could almost taste it in the playfully, rapturous joy radiating from his rosy cheeks.

And I looked almost happy.