Cal hopped into October’s SUV with the gusto of a windstorm, and I couldn’t help but follow. This is why Cal had always been a good ally for me. His enthusiasm is contagious. It’s hard for me to get excited about most things, but Cal has the ability to flip a switch and turn on my fun side.

October drove through downtown Mill Valley and headed up Marion Avenue toward our intended destination, but when she got to Edgewood, instead of continuing straight, Cal said, “Make a right.”

October turned, and as soon as she did I knew where Cal was taking us. October did not and said, “This isn’t the way to the Pelican Inn.”

“Detour down Memory Lane,” Cal told her. A minute later he said, “Up there, on the right. Pull over.” He pointed down a long, sloping driveway and said, “There it is. Bob Harper’s masterpiece.”

Masterpiece was a facetious term. The house was three stories of cutting corners made to look fancy. Bob’s clients typically wanted the biggest, showiest houses on the block, not the most well-built ones, and Bob had constructed our family’s house in a similar manner. The house was still standing though, and it didn’t look much different than it looked back when Cal and I were teenagers, so maybe it was a masterpiece and I was an ungrateful shit.

October parked on the side of the road just north of the property and looked over her shoulder at me. “I’m assuming this is where you grew up.”

I nodded.

“I grew up here too,” Cal said. “In high school, I spent more days and nights in this house than in my own. As a matter of fact, the first time I ever touched a boob was right there in that garage.”

“Shit,” I mumbled. “Kathleen Kelly.”

Cal threw his head back and laughed. “I can’t believe you remember her name!”

“Of course I do. She traumatized me.”

Cal’s laugh came from deep in his gut. “Tell October the story! You tell it way funnier than I do!”

Most people would describe me as dry and somber, but for some reason Cal found me uproarious. I looked at October and said, “Kathleen Kelly wasn’t some girl from our school. She was one of Ingrid’s friends.”

“Ingrid is Harp’s mom,” Cal clarified.

“Yeah. So, my mom is having this party one night. Cal and I were what—sophomores at the time?”

“Not even. It was the spring of our freshman year.”

“Right. And Kathleen comes out to the garage where we were practicing; she’s drunk out of her mind, and wearing this low-cut blouse.”

“Like, to here,” Cal said, pointing to his bellybutton.

“Pretty much,” I agree. “And she asks us straight up if we’ve ever seen a topless woman before.”