dabble in guitar. I’m not a player like you. But when I play Micawber it’s like I’m a fucking prodigy.”
I still couldn’t believe I was holding it. “How much did this cost?”
He chuckled. “Well, that was the thing. I asked my buddy the price as I’m cradling it in my arms, and after he told me I remember thinking, This fucking thing costs more than my mom made in a decade, and I decide right then on principle that I can’t buy it. I just wanted to hold it a little while longer.” Cal leaned in, animated. “October walks in a minute later. She’d been in a clothing store across the street, and she comes over and puts her arm on my back for a while—you know, does her thing—and she says, ‘Wow. I guess you have to buy that guitar.’ I asked her why and she said, ‘I can feel how much it means to you.’ She asked me what was so special about it, and you know what I told her? I swear to God, Harp, I told her it reminded me of you.”
I looked down and focused on the neck of the guitar, trying to keep his words from getting too far down inside me. This is one of my biggest character flaws. I often feel things much deeper than I let on.
“You know what?” Cal said. “October asked me that day, as she and I were leaving the store, why I didn’t look you up. She said I talked about you so much I should just find you and reach out, but I never did. I don’t know why. You’d stopped returning my calls so long ago, I guess I didn’t think you wanted to be found. But she ended up bringing us back together anyhow. Crazy, huh?”
I couldn’t even begin to chronicle the absurdity.
Cal nudged me to play the guitar. He was insistent, like the moment was getting too heavy and we needed to shake it off with some sound.
“Go on. Show me what you’ve got.”
I confessed that I had only recently started playing again after a long hiatus. I pulled off my shoes and socks, and Cal laughed at that in a sentimental way that made me feel happy and sad at the same time. Then I plugged in the guitar and dove into “Tumbling Dice,” and it didn’t matter that my fingers were sore and my timing was off. Cal was right. The guitar was magic. It practically played itself. And with the exception of the night I’d just spent with October, sitting across from Cal and playing that guitar was the single most satisfying experience of my adult life.
Cal and I spent the rest of the day in the studio. He showed me how the Pro Tools rig worked; we played with all the different guitars and jammed to all the old songs we used to play back in high school. In between songs we were memory banks of stories, the two most common phrases we repeated that afternoon being: “Remember that one time . . .” and “How about when . . .”
When it started to get dark, we realized we hadn’t eaten all day and decided to go down to town and grab some food. Cal ran back to the house, hoping to talk October into joining us, but he returned alone a few minutes later and said she didn’t want to come.
Cal didn’t know how to drive. He’d never gotten his license when we were kids for two reasons: One, he couldn’t afford a car and figured there was no point in having a license if you couldn’t have a car. Two, he said New Yorkers didn’t need to drive, and in his heart he was already a New Yorker.
We hopped in my truck, and as I shifted into reverse, Cal said, “You obviously spend a lot of time with October. Has she seemed off lately?”
I shrugged, instantly uncomfortable. “Off, how?”
“I don’t know. Quieter than usual, I guess.”
“I’m not sure I know her well enough to answer that,” I said, hoping it sounded believable.
He nodded. “Yeah. Don’t take it personally. She can be a hard nut to crack, which is pretty ironic when you think about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, you know; she’s so good at honing in on other people’s feelings, but not as great at talking about her own.”
I remember thinking that Cal’s description of October didn’t correspond with my perception of her at all. She didn’t