“Well, that’s what I call him, so get used to it.”
“Hey.” She raised her eyes but lowered her voice. “Don’t speak to me like that. This is hard for me too.”
I shook my head and turned to leave, but when I got to the door I stopped, spun back around. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me who your boyfriend was?”
Her brow rose sharply. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you grew up in Mill Valley?” I had no good answer to that question, but it didn’t matter, because she didn’t wait for one. “Besides,” she went on, “I figured you knew. Everybody knows. All you have to do is search Chris’s name on the internet and you’d find out in two seconds.”
“I haven’t been able to search his name on the internet in ten years.”
I saw recognition on her face then. And pity. Cal had told her too much. All the things I’d tried to hide, she already knew. I could see them coming to her in flashes like a slide show blinking inside her mind.
She tilted her head to the side, and in the warmest voice she whispered, “Wait . . . you play guitar. . . .” There was a pause. Then, “And your brother. Something happened to your brother. . . .”
She stood up and started to come toward me, but I backed away and walked out the door without saying goodbye.
Back in my apartment, I opened my laptop and, against my better judgment, typed “Chris Callahan” into my web browser and pressed “Return.”
October was right. One of the first images that came up was a picture of the two of them walking hand and hand down some charming street in Brooklyn. It must have been winter, because they had on scarves and hats and heavy coats. The caption read: Musician Chris Callahan and his girlfriend-of-the-moment, performance artist October Danko, out and about in Williamsburg.
In another shot they were walking through SFO. October was holding a book and looking up at Cal—he towered over her—and she was smiley and bright. She loved him; I could see it. Or at least she had loved him. Of course she had. Surely she still did. Why wouldn’t she?
I spent hours scrolling through photos, watching videos, and reading interviews and articles that had been written about Cal. I found pictures of him rubbing elbows with just about every musical hero he and I ever had, and he didn’t look out of place in any of them.
I also discovered that not long after they started dating, he and October had collaborated on an exhibit for a gallery in Brooklyn. Something about painting to music. All the songs were original; Cal was writing them on the spot, stream of consciousness, while October interpreted them on canvas. The paintings were then auctioned off, along with a vinyl pressing of the music Cal had created, and some of them sold for more than I’d made in the last three years combined.
I read about Cal’s ex-wife too, a fashion designer, Anna Holland. According to a few gossip blogs, Cal and Anna had married impulsively in Las Vegas after knowing each other for only a few weeks. The marriage ended on account of Cal having an affair with the daughter of an old British rock star. From my research, it was clear that Cal had a weakness for beautiful women, and I had to admit it made me feel a little better knowing that even Cal could fall prey to human foible.
But getting lost in the internet life of Chris Callahan only sunk me deeper. Drunk, exhausted, and woozy, I got in the shower and turned it on as hot as I could stand it, hoping it would sober me up and burn away the weight of the day.
As the water ran down my face, I thought about how funny Cal had been sitting on the curb talking to Ingrid, and it made me laugh all over again. But then a switch flipped and I started to cry. Hard tears. I hadn’t even cried like that when Sam died, and I guess I’d built up quite a reserve, because I couldn’t stop; after a while I couldn’t tell if it was the scalding water or the tears that were burning my skin.
When I finally got into bed, I had a dream that Cal was a centaur. His top half looked like him only younger, the age he was when I’d last seen him; the bottom half was a shiny, buckskin-colored horse. In the dream I was chasing Cal through Muir Woods. He was dodging trees, weaving in and out of the brush; as he galloped up the Dipsea Trail, I cut him off and we came face to face at the top of a hill. I had a hat on like Robin Hood and a bow and arrow in my hands; I yelled for Cal to stop, to freeze, but he kept running, and without blinking I pulled back the bow and let the arrow fly.
I shot him clean through the chest, but then, in a weird twist, I woke up clutching my own heart, trying to catch my breath.
TWELVE.
It was almost noon and I was still in bed when I heard footsteps on the stairs up to my apartment. I had a headache the size of El Capitan, my eyes burned like someone had poured gasoline in them, and the only reason I got up and went to the door was because Cal wouldn’t stop pounding on it.
“I know you’re in there, Harpo! Get your ass up!”
I opened the door and he smiled and said, “We’re neighbors! How awesome is this?”
It was the best and worst thing imaginable.
“You look as bad as I felt this morning, my friend.” He handed me a mug, and for one second I anticipated the rich, soothing salvation of coffee. But the mug was cold and
