and make art, and put this thing to bed.” She pointed back and forth between the two of us. “Whatever this is. We’ll get over it. We have to.”
I thought about the song she’d played for me the night we first talked in my apartment. The title of that song, I’d since learned, was “Sorrow,” and I’d listened to it a couple dozen times by then.
I don’t wanna get over you . . .
I went back to my apartment, but I didn’t go to sleep. I watched and waited for October to leave the studio. After she did, I went over to get some varnish and applied three coats of it to the spot on my jeans where we’d left our thumbprints. I’d only ever used that varnish to protect acrylic paint on canvas and wasn’t sure it was going to work on watercolor and denim, but I applied it anyway.
I still have those jeans.
I’m wearing them right now, as a matter of fact.
The little oval of our thumbprints is still there.
It’s faint, the palest shade of gray now, but it’s still there.
THIRTEEN.
There was a note on top of a stack of papers waiting for me in the studio when I got to work the next morning. I saw my name, written in the same architectural script as the note October had left on my door, and for one reckless instant I both hoped and feared it was going to say Run away with me, or I still can’t stop thinking about you, or I don’t wanna get over you, or something that would erase the boundaries I had sworn to uphold the night before.
In fact, the note contained information and instructions for an upcoming exhibition October had committed to participating in with a handful of other artists. The show would be for charity, held in a few weeks at the Thomas Frasier Gallery in San Francisco. According to the printout, the gallery welcomed painting, sculpture, photography, or installation. The theme was FREEDOM, and all the profits would go to an organization that supported women’s reproductive rights.
October wanted me to build her a birdcage large enough to fit into. She’d drawn a rough sketch of what she was picturing and left me a dozen other images for reference and inspiration. But, she wrote, just suggestions. Be your amazing and creative self. I trust you.
The note ended with her explaining that she was going to work on the next selfie on her own and would send it to me to catalog once she’d finished. Then she wrote:
Chris thought he and I should spend some time together before he goes back on the road. We’ll be away for a few days. Rae will be staying at the house with Diego. Text if you have any questions. Thank you.
Oct.
I sent her a text right away: Got your note. Birdcage will be cool. I would’ve watched Diego.
I was hoping to get a response, to be able to keep a dialogue going with her while she was gone, but all she sent back was the smiley-face-with-heart-eyes emoji, and I didn’t know what to make of that.
I spent all day researching birdcages, trying to design something as visually interesting as what October had drawn, yet functional and easy to build in the limited time I had. I also came up with an idea I thought would elevate the installation to the next level, but I needed to explore its feasibility before I talked to October about it.
I could have done most of my research on my computer at the studio, but to avoid any confrontations with Rae, I went to the Mill Valley Library to work. I was glad to be busy. The idea of October and I being friends sounded hypothetically conceivable, but I realized it was agreed to under the guise of getting to spend my days near her, being productive and creative with her. The work connected us, and in theory that enabled me to accept all the other things we couldn’t do together. But thinking about her and Cal off on a trip, wondering where they were and what they were doing, tangled me up in knots.
After much debate and a call to Shane, an old site supervisor from my Harper & Sons days, I decided to build the cage out of bamboo, first and foremost because it’s a renewable resource, but also because it’s strong, light, and flexible enough to bend without snapping, which would be necessary if I ended