“Well. I guess I should get going.” I hoped she would ask me to stay, but she didn’t. “It was really nice to see you. To talk to you.”
All of a sudden she looked profoundly sad. “You too, Joe.”
“Well,” I said again. “I guess I’ll see you around.”
She nodded. “See you around.”
I had parked under a big, shady oak tree, and when I got back to my truck, it felt like dusk inside the cab. I sat there without turning on the engine, without moving, crippled by a desperate longing. Saudade. Desiderium. There was a lump of regret in my throat, thick and hot like a ball of wax, and a familiar hunger in my belly so gnawing, so dire, it felt as though it were eating me from the inside out.
No, I thought, my breath short and quick. Not again.
I dropped my head back and let out a deep, rage-filled roar.
Fourteen thousand six hundred days.
I wouldn’t make it. Not like this.
I thought about a question I’d asked October back when things were good between us, when I believed we had a future. “If we’d never gotten together, if I hadn’t been willing, I mean, do you think it would have haunted you?”
I remember her looking at me like I was crazy. “Why would it haunt me?” she’d asked. “I said yes to us. What more could I have done than that?”
I got out of the truck and sprinted back to the cafe, stopping outside the entrance to catch my breath before I went in.
She was still there. Not drawing, just sitting with her elbow on the table, her chin in her palm, watching the barista pour hot water in slow, concentric circles over coffee grounds in a filter above a Chemex.
“Hey.”
She turned toward me, her eyes dancing all around my face.
I slid onto the bench beside her and leaned in. Heliotropism. Bending, turning, reaching toward the light.
Fourteen thousand six hundred days, I thought.
“I was just wondering . . .” I said. “Do you want to come with me? To see Colonel Armstrong, I mean. I think you’d like him.”
There was an aura of calm around her now. It radiated like heat on a sidewalk, blurring everything in the background.
She reached over and rested her hand on top of mine, and I could feel the electricity in her fingertips, prickling through my skin, digging down for my truth.
Her eyes were wide and sharp, her breath long and steady, and she titled her head slightly to the right, examining me as if she were in her studio, in front of a canvas, contemplating the next brushstroke.
We were inside of this. Both of us. A work in progress. A living exhibit. The ultimate art project, for which there was no ending. And I wasn’t certain if it was my vision or hers.
“Yes,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, I want to thank my agent, Albert Zuckerman. The wisdom and love with which he guided and championed this book is one of the greatest gifts anyone has ever given me, and I am forever in his debt.
Everyone at Woodhall Press, especially Colin Hosten, for believing in this story, and for being willing to take a chance on it; Matthew Winkler, for his thoughtful editorial notes; and Paulette Baker for her precise attention to detail.
I am full of gratitude to Genevieve Gagne-Hawes for her insightful notes on early drafts of this manuscript.
Much thanks and love to my incomparable guitar consultants, Kyle Nicolaides and Don Miggs, and to my trusted construction authority, Jeff Jungsten. And a special shout-out to Tad Buchanan, for introducing me to a beautiful book about redwoods that inadvertently unlocked secrets to this story and its characters.
Big love and thanks to Tim Sandlin, for being a cherished reader, writer, and friend.
Lots of love and thanks to my extraordinary assistant Cielle Taaffe-Spurgeon, for her boundless creativity and support.
This book would quite literally not exist without the friendship and encouragement of Tarryn Fisher and Colleen Hoover. I love you both to bits.
I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the work of artist Marina Abramovic as an inspiration to Sorrow: This is Art.
Extra special indebted gratitude goes to The National, a band whose music planted seeds in my head and heart that grew like a redwood into this novel.
And while we’re on the subject of music, a heartfelt thank you, as always, to U2. Decades ago, their music opened a door for me, leading me into a world where love never ends, and where sonic landscapes are the portals to that love. Forty years later those landscapes still live inside of me and continue to inspire so much of my work.
Unconditional and eternal love to my family: Candy, Eddie, Lisa, Nikki, Asher, Milo, Jasper, Don and Chad. I’d do anything for you people.
To JP. With love and gratitude x infinity. Because what is true is never lost.
And to Scott. For all the hours you listened to me talk about this story. For all the drafts you were kind enough to read. For all the notes you were smart enough to give. But most of all, for being the spiritual warrior that you are, walking so bravely beside me on this magnificent journey. I love you truly, madly, deeply, and eternally.
About the Author
Tiffanie DeBartolo is the author of the novels God-Shaped Hole and How To Kill a Rockstar, as well as the graphic novel Grace: Based on the Jeff Buckley Story. She is the co-founder and Chief Executive Super Goddess of Bright Antenna Records, the co-founder of the ShineMaker foundation, and also wrote and directed the film Dream For An Insomniac. She lives in Mill Valley, California.
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