I mention that conversation because it speaks to where my head and heart were the morning I woke up beside October on the couch.

She was still asleep. Diego was following me around the kitchen, so I fed him and took him for a short walk on the trail behind the house. After we got back I stopped at my apartment; the dog stayed on my heels, dropping with a thud to the floor outside my bathroom, where he waited while I took a shower.

By the time Diego and I returned to the house, October had moved from the couch to the bed, and I crept into her room to see if she was awake.

She heard me come in, rolled over, and, through half-closed eyes, smiled and said, “Yay. You’re back.”

My chest swelled with it then. Real happiness. And it feels important to make this distinction: I’m not talking about pleasure or desire, or romantic love disguised as happiness. Though I felt those things too. But there was something bigger, deeper, and truer swathing everything that morning, that day, and for the majority of the weeks preceding Cal’s return. A state of grace often foreign to me. Happiness as a consequence of choice.

Don’t get me wrong, I was still scared shitless. But the fear wasn’t holding me back. I wasn’t dwelling on the past, I was worried only moderately about the future, and most of all I wasn’t numbly trudging half-awake through some mediocre semblance of a life. I was present, and not just as a bystander but as a passionate participant.

“Joe,” October said groggily. “I need me some Joe.”

I straddled her on the bed but she pushed and slapped at my chest. “No. I need a cup of Joe, not a cup of Joe.” She laughed at her joke and playfully demanded I go make her a cappuccino.

I leaned down close to her face and said, “You’re not the boss of me.” Then I laughed at my joke, adding, “Oh, wait. You are.”

I drifted back into the kitchen to make the cappuccinos. This was a process, and I took my time with it. I had to fill the fancy Italian machine with water and wait for it to heat up. I had to grind the beans. And once the machine was hot enough, I had to pull the espresso shots individually, emptying and refilling the portafilter each time and waiting in between each shot for the machine to heat up again.

I pulled four shots, poured two into one mug and two into another. Next I steamed the milk, poured that into the mugs, and carefully spooned the foam on top like I used to do at Caffe Strada.

The whole time I was making the cappuccinos, I could feel myself grinning, and I remember thinking: This is art. This is love. It’s simple and I get it. I can do this. And way back in a usually quiescent part of my mind, I heard a voice say: You gave up so much for so long. You’re not going to do that anymore.