mystified sigh. Diego dropped to the floor beside her, clattering like a bag of bones.
“So, you’re the illustrious Harp,” October said.
I didn’t know why I was still standing there. I didn’t want to be in that kitchen with her, but I didn’t want to be alone either. I felt a quiet rage building up inside of my chest, and the longer I stood there, the angrier I got, though I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what I was angry about. Too many possibilities.
“Joe . . .” Her eyes welled up with tears. “I didn’t know. Obviously.” She paused. “He cares about you so much. We can’t—”
I pounded on the counter to stop her from talking. She and Diego both jumped.
“I know we can’t, OK?” The volume and tone of my voice surprised me. “You don’t need to say it, because I know.”
We looked at each other, and my regret was as dense and as dark as the forest behind the house. Then something dawned on me, something that flipped my anger over to the other side. The other side of anger, I have discovered over the course of my life, is a deep, dark sadness.
“That was his sweatshirt, wasn’t it?”
October looked at me, puzzled.
“The day we met, you were wearing this old, ratty sweatshirt, and I remember thinking, That looks like the sweatshirt Cal used to wear. It was his, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t even know who you’re talking about when you call him Cal.”
“Well, that’s what I call him, so get used to it.”
“Hey.” She raised her eyes but lowered her voice. “Don’t speak to me like that. This is hard for me too.”
I shook my head and turned to leave, but when I got to the door I stopped, spun back around. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me who your boyfriend was?”
Her brow rose sharply. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you grew up in Mill Valley?” I had no good answer to that question, but it didn’t matter, because she didn’t wait for one. “Besides,” she went on, “I figured you knew. Everybody knows. All you have to do is search Chris’s name on the internet and you’d find out in two seconds.”
“I haven’t been able to search his name on the internet in ten years.”
I saw recognition on her face then. And pity. Cal had told her too much. All the things I’d tried to hide, she already knew. I could see them coming to her in flashes like a slide show blinking inside her mind.
She tilted her head to the side, and in the warmest voice she whispered, “Wait . . . you play guitar. . . .” There was a pause. Then, “And your brother. Something happened to your brother. . . .”
She stood up and started to come toward me, but I backed away and walked out the door without saying goodbye.
Back in my apartment, I opened my laptop and, against my better judgment, typed “Chris Callahan” into my web browser and pressed “Return.”
October was right. One of the first images that came up was a picture of the two of them walking hand and hand down some charming street in Brooklyn. It must have been winter, because they had on scarves and hats and heavy coats. The caption read: Musician Chris Callahan and his girlfriend-of-the-moment, performance artist October Danko, out and about in Williamsburg.
In another shot they were walking through SFO. October was holding a book and looking up at Cal—he towered over her—and she was smiley and bright. She loved him; I could see it. Or at least she had loved him. Of course she had. Surely she still did. Why wouldn’t she?
I spent hours scrolling through photos, watching videos, and reading interviews and articles that had been written about Cal. I found pictures of him rubbing elbows with just about every musical hero he and I ever had, and he didn’t look out of place in any of them.
I also discovered that not long after they started dating, he and October had collaborated on an exhibit for a gallery in Brooklyn. Something about painting to music. All the songs were original; Cal was writing them on the spot, stream of consciousness, while October interpreted them on canvas. The paintings were then auctioned off, along with a vinyl pressing of the music Cal had created, and some of them sold for more than I’d made in the last three years combined.
I read about Cal’s ex-wife too, a fashion designer, Anna Holland. According