People swarmed her, and she gripped my arm, whispering, “Please don’t leave my side.” Then she started introducing me to everyone as the artist who built the cage. Strangers lauded my work and treated me like I was important, and while I tried with all my might to appreciate that, I remained too caught up in my own confusion to relax.

Phil pushed his way through the crowd, holding two glasses of champagne above his head. When he reached October and me, he handed each of us one. I didn’t want it, but I took 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.