apartment a floor above the gallery that they’d set up for October to relax in and prepare. Rae was waiting there, as was October’s hair and makeup artist, Shelly. A platter of fancy cheese and crackers had been laid out, along with what I called vegetables but what Rae kept calling “crudités” like she was the Queen of England.
Rae was carrying a clipboard and, on top of that, her usual squirrel food. As I watched her shuffling around, I could see she was in her glory—giving orders, eating dried fruit and nuts, and acting like hers was the world’s most stressful job.
More reassuring to me was the bar cart near the couch. No tequila that I could see, but I spotted some top-shelf whiskey and planned on dipping into it prior to the reception.
I had originally planned on avoiding the reception altogether. In my mind the night was going to go like this: I would hang out upstairs until it was time to put October in the cage. Then I would go down and man the cage and not have to talk to anyone. And then I would go home. But Rae informed me that October was going to need some alone time before the performance, and that meant I would have to make myself scarce right around the time the reception was set to begin.
I let out a discernable grumble and October said, “You need to mingle anyway.”
“Me? Why do I have to mingle?”
“Joe . . .” She was sitting in a tall chair with her eyes closed and her head tilted up at Shelly, who was applying dark, sparkly shadow on her lids. I wasn’t used to seeing her with makeup on and thought she looked like she was wearing a theatrical mask of her own face.
“You built this thing,” she said. “You need to talk about it. Toot your horn.”
I mumbled something about not having a horn to toot, and she said, “Well, then toot your kazoo. You have to. It’s for charity.”
I sat on the couch with my arms crossed in front of my chest, and Rae said, “I think he’s pouting now.”
Moments later, Helen Driver summoned Rae downstairs to finalize the guest list, and she walked out just as Mr. P and his husband, Thomas, walked in. They were well-dressed men, late fifties, and though I’d seen them coming and going around Casa Diez, I’d never officially met them.
They greeted October with air kisses and loud affection. Mr. P was the more handsome of the two. Tan and fit, he looked like an aging surfer, not a Silicon Valley mogul. Thomas was tall and elegant, with smooth, shiny, almost pink skin unnatural to someone his age. He wore round, gold-rimmed glasses, and his teeth were glow-in-the-dark white like the walls of the gallery.
Thomas was carrying a small black vase filled with yellow lupine wildflowers. He held it up in front of October and said, “From Christopher.”
He set the vase on the table and handed October the card that went along with it, but she didn’t read it because Shelly told her to close her eyes.
Seeing the flowers from Cal reinforced my belief that I wasn’t good enough for October. If I were half the man she seemed to think I was, I would have been considerate enough to send her a vase of native wildflowers and a card too.
Neither Mr. P nor Thomas noticed me slumped over on the couch until October pointed her thumb in my direction and said, “Guys, this is Joe.” She paused, and then added, “My assistant.” I stood up just as she said, “Joe, meet Phil Pearlman and Thomas Frasier.” Only then did I realize that Mr. P’s husband was Thomas Frasier, the gallery owner.
When October said my name, their eyes widened, and when they shook my hand, it was with a suspicious amount of interest.
“Well, hello . . .” Mr. P said.
“We’ve heard so much about you,” Thomas added.
These were two of October’s closest friends. I knew by the tones of their voices that she’d told them what had happened between us, and I didn’t know whether to be flattered or humiliated.
“Joe doesn’t want to go to the cocktail party,” October said. “Will you guys take him downstairs and keep him company?”
“Of course,” Thomas promised, slipping his arm through mine. “You’re a cutie, aren’t you?”
I blushed, and Thomas said, “Look, he’s blushing.”
“Mr. Pearlman,” I said, trying to deflect the attention. “Have you seen the birdcage?”