After much internal debate, I sent her a text that said: Thanks for the cookies. She sent me back a smiley face. I hated when she responded with emojis because I didn’t know how to interpret them. In a moment of weakness, I typed Feel like hanging out? But I knew that was a bad idea and deleted it before I pressed “Send.”
There seemed to be a gaping hole in the night, down which I was in danger of falling. And here’s how absurd I got: I tried to send October a message telepathically. Much like my psychic relationship with Sam, I didn’t necessarily believe October could receive my communiqué, but I felt powerless in life almost all of the time, and attempting extrasensory contact was my way of pretending I was capable of controlling my destiny.
The bottom line was: I wanted to see her. So I closed my eyes and imagined that she was sitting on her couch and that my spirit was beside her, whispering in her ear, telling her that she wanted to see me.
I felt stupid after that. And because I didn’t want to be tempted to communicate with her like a normal person, I left my phone in the kitchen, took off my shoes and socks, and went downstairs to play.
I was in the mood for an acoustic and selected Cal’s Gibson SJ-200E, the guitar he’d used the night we played together at the dinner party. The Gibson had volume knobs and a pickup like an electric, so it was really more like an acoustic on steroids. According to Cal, the knobs and pickup were put there by the original owner, and Cal was told upon purchase that only two people ever did that to their acoustic guitars back when these knobs and pickups would have been installed: John Lennon and Elvis Presley.
“It’s probably a bullshit story,” Cal said, “but I choose to believe one of them owned this guitar.”
My choice was more specific. I chose to believe it had belonged to John Lennon, and I played “Across the Universe” in his honor as my warm-up.
And then something extraordinary happened. I’d barely played the last note of that song when I heard a quiet tap on the door; a second later, October walked in with Diego at her side. She had two beer bottles in her hand and a woolly lavender blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
My heart stopped and then raced.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.” She handed me a beer. “I saw the light on. Thought I’d come over and listen to you play for a while.”
She curled up on the couch, across from the chair where I was, and drew her knees into her chest. Diego settled on the cool concrete floor by the door and could have been mistaken for a shag rug.
I opened the beer and took a couple of long drinks. October sipped at hers. I was staring at her, and she was looking around the room at everything 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
