but me. We didn’t speak, and it was uncomfortable, but uncomfortable in a way that borders on exciting, like when two people feel too much when they’re alone together, and for one reason or another can’t show it or tell it.
Then I realized I could tell her a lot; I just had to start strumming.
“Any requests?”
“Sad songs,” she said. “Only sad songs.”
I took another drink of my beer and then played “Slip Slidin’ Away” because that song is about missed chances, regret, and fear, and because the closer I got to October, the more I felt like I was sliding in the opposite direction. Moreover, whether I’m listening to that song or playing it, I find myself wondering how any of us make it through the peaks and valleys of our lives with any grace and hope at all.
In the middle of the song, October set her beer on the floor, stretched out on the couch, stuffed a pillow under her head, and lay down. Then she closed her eyes and hummed along to the music.
I played a couple of Leonard Cohen songs, one of which I could’ve written about October if I were as cool and poetic as Leonard. And then I noodled around, making stuff up as I went along, and she fell asleep.
She was on her side, hands together in front of her chest as if she were holding a baby bird in her palms. I watched her as I strummed soft chords and plucked at sweet lullaby notes with my fingers, and when I finally got tired and put the guitar away, I thought she’d wake up, but she didn’t. Then I remembered she’d once slept through a Bruce Springsteen concert.
She looked comfortable, and I saw no reason to rouse her. I pulled up the blanket to cover her shoulders, shut off all the lights except for the small one near the door, stepped carefully around Diego, and walked out.
When I got back upstairs, I felt electric. Knowing October and I would be sleeping under the same roof filled me with an odd combination of peace and desire that wrestled with my body and calmed me down all at once.
This is the good kind of loneliness, I thought. The kind that’s really a longing for something your imagination can hold onto until morning.
My sheets were glacial when I got in bed, and I swore I could feel October’s closeness in the shivers on my skin. Then I thought of Cal and wondered how I was going to hold this all together.
Right before I fell asleep, I realized I’d forgotten to tell October about the mushrooms.
FIFTEEN.
I was sitting at the table in October’s studio, eating a bowl of muesli and paging through a book on redwoods, one Ingrid had recently sent me, when October and Diego got there the next morning.
October seemed lighter in spirit than she had all week. Her movements were smooth and floaty, like she was on roller skates, and she glided over to where I was, sat down across from me with one of her legs tucked underneath her, leaned halfway across the table and said, “Whatcha readin’?”
I had a mouthful of cereal and showed her the cover. She spun the book around and opened it to the inside flap, where Ingrid had written:
Dear Joey—
Thought of you when I saw this in the bookstore.
Love you,
Mom
“Ha-ha,” October giggled. “Joey.”
“Just so you know, Ingrid is the only person on the planet who is allowed to call me that.”
She began paging through the book. I watched her eyes moving right to left, widening as they skimmed the words and looked at the pictures. Every so often she would shake her head and mumble, “Holy cow.”
As soon as I finished my breakfast, I said, “I forgot to tell you last night. I got your mushrooms.”
At first she didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. Then she did. She leaned in and began to ramble nervously. “You have them? Wow. OK. You can’t just give them to me, though. You know that, right? I can’t do them alone. That doesn’t seem safe. Are mushrooms safe? Maybe we should film it. No. Probably not a good idea. No filming. Private is better, right?”
“Private is definitely better.” I saw Rae pull in and said, “Can we discuss this later? I don’t need Rae accusing me of being a drug pusher.”
October laughed and made a zipping motion across her mouth, and I quickly took my bowl to