My dad insists on serving us grilled cheese for lunch, but I manage to convince him to go out for dinner. He agrees only if I pick a place within a three-minute walk. He drove here, of course, but he despises the Portland traffic and refuses to drive within the city more than absolutely necessary.

In preparation for this, I shower. I have a light red bruise on my cheekbone, but I leave my hair down so it's less noticeable. I cover up the problematic areas of stubborn acne with a bit of concealer and comb my curly black hair.

It saddens me that I don't look much like my father. My face is a perfect oval, my nose long and my cheekbones high. He shares none of these traits. The only resemblance between us is the brown skin, brown eyes and black hair of our Mexican heritage. Sometimes I've wondered if I truly am his biological child, or if my mother just managed to cheat on him with another Latino. I imagine he's wondered the same thing, though we've never discussed it. I don't think it would matter to either of us, anyway. He'll always be my dad, and I'll always be his daughter.

I decide on a bar and grill just a block away. We leave at four, both of us restless and bored from being cooped inside my studio all day, and chatter aimlessly. It's impossible not to be in a good mood on a walk with a loved one through the chilly but sunlit air. Both of us smile the entire time.

Both of us order the same burger at the restaurant and we also both decline the alcohol. I'm not much of a drinker by any stretch of the imagination, and my dad swore it off when I was a little kid.

My dad fills me in on how things are doing back home. He tells me that they're building a new hotel on one of the main roads, and that they're renovating part of the park he used to take me to. I smile as I imagine these changes.

"Can't wait to see it," I say, thinking of winter break in just a few weeks.

My dad grins. "I already have a whole itinerary planned. Diamond Lake, Seven Feathers, all of it."

My heart warms at the thoughts of those places. "I'm excited, dad."

Then I start to hear something over the quiet sports games on the TVs and the chatter around us. Something completely unfamiliar, but so soothingly recognizable.

I crane my neck and catch a glimpse out the window.

Evan is playing on the sidewalk.

I grin and nudge my dad's hand. "Come on."

He frowns. "I'm not done with my fries."

"It's a plastic basket, just bring it outside," I say, tugging him along. "You have to see this."

My father puts up a teasing fight as he follows me, basket in hand. We wind through the crowded bar, having already paid our bill, and outside to the sidewalk.

"01110011... crying zeros and I'm hearing 111... cut my somersault, sign my backflip... pool, summer, summer, pool, pool summer..."

I don't recognize this song, but I do recognize the talent with which Evan plays it. He's only been playing for moments, but already has a crowd drawing toward him.

"You know him?" my dad asks a bit suspiciously, though even he can't deny the charm of Evan's sheer talent.

"From school," I lie. My dad would lose his mind if he knew the truth. "He's a music major. We had some core classes together."

"A music major is busking," my dad asks flatly.

I give him a look. "Not everyone is fortunate enough to have sweet fathers who pay their rent for them."

To this, my dad shrugs. We stand close together, shoulder-to-shoulder with the other members of this crowd, all of us in awe of the dramatic music. I don't have any more cash, but I ask my dad to tip him. He throws a ten-dollar-bill into the case without hesitation.

When he does this, Evan looks over at us. He's a machine, so well-practiced and extremely professional that his music never falters, but his expression does. He looks at me in concern for a moment, then returns to the hook of the song with a renewed vigor and a smile on his face.

"Mister Caspian's killer told me so..."

"He's fantastic," my dad whispers to me.

I smile. "You should hear him play Sheeran."

This intrigues my dad, who considers Ed Sheeran to be one of the only bastions of true talent in today's music scene. His opinion, not mine.

The song ends in a shower of money and applause. Evan grins at the crowd. "Be right back," he promises into the mic. He walks up to my father and me. I keep a watchful eye on his equipment and tips, but there aren't many people wicked enough to steal from a musician.

"Hey, Audrey," he says with a smile.

"Hey, Evan. This is my dad. I was just telling him about the classes we took together," I say, staring hard into his eyes as I smile, hoping he picks up the hint.

Evan nods as he reaches for my dad's hand. "Nice to meet you, sir. You raised an angel on earth."

"Call me Will," my dad says. "And yes, I'm aware."

"How'd you get that bruise?" Evan asks. His words are deceptive, but I don't think the concern on his face is.

"Oh, it's fine. Just a scuffle at the Mission," I say, moving my hair in front of the red splotch on my cheek.

"The lunatic is in jail," my dad says. "Where he belongs." He shakes his head. "You sound great, Evan."

"Thank you," Evan replies. "Well, I'm glad you're doing well, Audrey."

"I am. Thank you," I say. I nod to his music. "Come on. Don't deprive the crowd any longer."

Evan and my dad bid each other goodbye a bit awkwardly, and the former returns to his place amid the crowd. He plays another song I've never heard but love immediately.

After some time, my dad nudges me. "Come on. We don't want to push it with your concussion."

I want to argue with him, but my head does ache. I give Evan a little wave before my dad and I walk back up toward my apartment.

"Classmate, huh?" my dad asks.

Panic grips me. Did he see through our lie?

"What do you mean?" I ask, feigning confusion.

"Not a boyfriend?"

I roll my eyes. "I'd tell you if I had a boyfriend, dad."

"No, you wouldn't. Not if you thought I wouldn't like him," my dad replies.

"Yes, I would. Your opinion matters to me. Even if you're always a pessimist," I reply teasingly. I shrug. "I don't know him that well. I've just started him seeing busking around recently."

"Well, it seems like you could certainly do worse," my father adds helpfully.

I wave my hand dismissively. "I'm taking seventeen credits' worth of courses. I don't have time for boyfriends."

"He clearly had time for you," my dad teases.

I roll my eyes. "Can you get your mind off of grandchildren for like three seconds?"

"How? I love babies. It's been twenty years since I last cuddled a baby," he replies.

"Not till I graduate. And even then, I want an established job and a house," I remind him. We've had this conversation before, but there's a charming sort of familiarity to the rhythm of his requests for a grandbaby and my polite refusals. This long-rehearsed conversation makes both of us dream of better days.

Back home, we watch Parks and Rec and manage scattered conversation in between important scenes. I retire to my bed around ten. He sleeps on the couch, just like he did last night.

As I lay in my soft, pastel sheets, I realize something.

I want to know Evan. I want to take walks with him. Eat meals together. I want to thank him for helping the situation at the Mission, and for caring about my well-being without being creepy.

I don't know him. There are a lot of gaps in the faded portrait of him I've built in my head. But the thing he keeps proving, over and over again, is that he is completely unpredictable in the best of ways. Protective but not pushy. Kind-hearted but not demeaning. Damaged and discarded in some way, left to fend for himself on the streets, but his smile tells me that he hasn't stopped dreaming.

I don't judge people because of their circumstances, but I have to say that I never would have predicted this attraction to someone I met at the Mission. I guess I always imagined that I would meet my first real, adult "crush" at school.

I sigh into my pillow and try to go to sleep.

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