“Do you know that redwoods don’t go from youth to adolescence until they’re about eight hundred years old?”
Claire stared up at me, nonplussed. She was a beautiful girl. Big eyes and blond hair that, in the glow of her flashlight, shone like a halo around her face.
“This tree is still a baby,” I told her. “It seems so big, right? It’s a toddler.”
Claire let me ramble on about trees for a while, and I explained all the different parts to her, from the cambium layer to the sapwood and the heartwood, all the way down to the pith. And to her credit, she listened, even though I could tell she was bored.
At some point during my homily, I had an epiphany about why I was so drawn to redwoods. Because, metaphorically speaking, I decided, I was one. Breathless with weed-induced insight, I said, more to myself than to Claire, “Redwoods can live at the bottom of the forest, often times in the shade of their older and stronger brothers. In the kind of darkness where most species would die. But they don’t die. They grow slowly. And they endure.” I paused, and then added, “Let that be a lesson to me.”
Claire said, “You’re an odd duck.” She ran her hands through her hair, pulling and smoothing it down around her face with her fingers. “Super cute, but odd. Do you want to make out?”
I clammed up and made some grumbling noise meant to indicate that making out wasn’t likely.
“A girl?” Claire asked with borderline indifference. “Is that your problem?”
“One of them.”
She stood up and wiped dirt from her jeans. She’d had enough of me. She put on some lip gloss and said, “I’m cold. Can we go back?”
By the time we returned, all the other guests had gone. I told Claire I would drive her home, even though I didn’t want to, and as we walked in front of the main house, I could see October and Cal through the front window. They were cleaning up and talking. I didn’t think they spotted me or Claire passing by, but they couldn’t have missed my truck pulling out.
Claire lived in San Francisco, near the marina. At that hour the round-trip from Mill Valley to her apartment and back took forty-five minutes.
When I pulled back up the driveway, all the lights in the kitchen were off, but I noticed a glow from October’s studio. I parked and walked over, thinking she’d left a light on by accident, but when I went in to shut it off I heard music playing quietly in the back.
I followed the sound and found October sitting in front of an easel, tiny paintbrush in hand, working on a small canvas. Her face was maybe an inch away from the painting, like she was perfecting some minute detail. She was still wearing her dress, though she had a smock over it. Watercolor paints and a small Mason jar of water sat on another stool beside her.
She turned her head when she heard my footsteps, sighed, and said, “Go away.”
I kept heading toward her. And I think I expected to see an image more representative of her apparent mood on the canvas in front of her, but it was Diego. She was painting her dog.
I asked her what she was doing, and without taking her eyes off the canvas, she said, “I’m pretty sure the answer to that question is obvious.”
“I mean, why are you up at this hour?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
I grabbed a stool, pulled it up beside the easel, and sat down and watched her paint for a while. Eventually she huffed and said, “Do you mind? I really want to be alone.”
I shifted uncomfortably. I wanted to tell her things, but I didn’t know how. Story of my life, I know. My words were locked somewhere inside of me, and I had long ago lost the key.
Finally I said, “Nothing happened with that girl. I went for a walk and she followed me. I was—I don’t know—I just needed to get some air, and I lost track of time. But I didn’t—”
“Stop!” She slammed her paintbrush down on the stool beside her and the jar of water fell and spilled all over the floor. “Jesus Christ, Joe. Just leave me alone. Please.”
“I’m trying to explain something to you.”
“Well, you don’t have to. It makes no difference to me if you fucked that girl or not.” She put her elbows on her knees, her