it and then set it down on the table behind me. Across the room, Thomas raised his glass, made a toast praising October and all the other participating artists, including me, and then he thanked the guests for their generosity.
Having so many people touching and talking at October wore her down quicker than the performance had. Before long she was snapping the elastic hair band on her wrist and staring at her shoes, and Rae went to get the car.
The three of us were quiet on the drive home. October rested her head against the window; I was behind her, so I couldn’t see her face, but as we turned onto Lombard Street, I heard her sniffling in a way that made me think she might be crying. Rae glanced at me but didn’t say anything, and when we were stopped at a red light, she picked up her phone and sent me a text that said:
Gets emotional after performances.
Don’t worry she’s fine.
I wanted to reach up and rest my hand on October’s shoulder, to comfort her and let her know I was there, but I refrained because I felt Rae and I had turned a corner that night, and I didn’t want to take any steps backward with her.
Instead I wrote Cal a long text. I told him about how great the night had gone and how amazing October had been and how much one of the guests paid for the cage.
I should have left it at that, but ever since the drive into the city that afternoon, I’d been wondering where things stood between October and Cal, and I typed:
How’s it going with you two anyway? Better?
We were just getting off the bridge when his response came through.
Hard to get her to talk.
Still feels off.
Not letting her go without a fight tho.
I sent him back the thumbs-up emoji and put away my phone.
As we passed the Sausalito exit that used to take me to Bob’s houseboat, I thought about my father and wondered what he would have thought if he’d been at the gallery that night.
He wouldn’t have understood the performance, that’s for sure. But there was a part of me that wished he could have seen it anyway, wished he could have heard all the people praising my work.
It didn’t escape me that this was work I only knew how to do because of him. And I like to think he would have been proud of me. But if I knew Bob Harper like I thought I did, it’s more likely he would have deemed the whole thing a complete waste of wood, nails, and ingenuity.
NINETEEN.
I’d been keeping a file of words. I’d started the list after October asked me what my favorite word was because I hadn’t had an answer for her then. But after that, whenever I came across a great one, I typed it up in my phone with the intention of sharing it with her at some point.
When we pulled into Casa Diez, October thanked me for doing such a great job on the project, but she said it in the aloof, I’m-pretending-you’ve-never-been-inside-of-me voice she’d been using with me all week. Then she got out of the car and headed toward her house carrying the little yellow flower arrangement Cal had sent her.
Rae followed October to the door, lugging a big garment bag with October’s dress. I offered to carry that for her, but she said she was fine, and I was left staring at my hands.
I waited for one of them to invite me in, but they bade me good night, and I went back to my apartment.
Just like that, the evening was over.
I felt too wired to go to bed but too drained to play guitar. I picked up the novel I was in the middle of reading and went to the couch, hoping the book might lull me to sleep.
The red taillights of Rae’s car flickered across my wall, and I sat up and watched her drive off. A moment later I saw October open the front door and let Diego outside. She stood on the porch under a soft amber light with her big cardigan still on, watching the dog. The night had turned chilly, and she held the sweater tightly across her chest.
Diego peed for nineteen seconds—I counted—and headed inside. October followed him, ruffling the scruff on his neck.
I moved from the couch to the bed and lay down, the unopened book now resting on my stomach.