“Fuck,” I said again, coughing.

“I mean it. I don’t know what came over me.” He rubbed his knuckles, shook out his hand. “I’ve never punched anyone before. It hurts.”

Blood dripped down my face, and I wiped it off with the bottom of my T-shirt. It was warm and sticky. “I’ve never been punched before. That hurts too.”

Cal walked to my kitchen, wrapped a bunch of ice in a dishtowel, and handed it to me. He told me to press it to my cheek and I did. The right side of my face throbbed, and I felt like I was going to throw up.

Cal sat in the armchair diagonal from me, glowering in my direction with his head tilted back and to the side, arms crossed over his chest like a hip-hop star in repose.

I was still struggling to get a full breath, and the pain in my face made my eyes water. Blood continued to drip down my throat, and it tasted like I was sucking on a guitar string. I leaned my head against the couch to stop the room from spinning, and when I sat back up, Cal’s beady eyes were trained hard on me.

We looked at each other for a long time without saying anything.

The right side of my face was burning cold, and I took the ice away. I fingered my nose and Cal said, “Is it broken?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Your eye is pretty swollen. Gonna have a nice shiner there.”

My cheek started to ache again, and I put the ice back.

Cal was sitting on the edge of the chair now, legs spread, left elbow on left knee, chin in his palm. It could have been an album cover: Callahan Goes Country.

“That first punch was for fucking my girlfriend,” he said. “The second one was for generally being the biggest pussy I’ve ever met.”

I couldn’t argue with him on either count, and I didn’t.

I moved my jaw back and forth and heard more Tic-Tac noises.

“You have nothing to say to that?” Cal asked abrasively.

I sighed. “How did you find me?”

He threw his head back and laughed with disdain. “Seriously? Why are you such an asshat? Have you ever heard of the internet? Anyone can find anyone. We both know you’re here.” My face must have betrayed something when he said we, because he rolled his eyes and said, “Yes, Harp. October knows where you are. People on Yelp have reviewed your guitar lessons. It’s not rocket science.”

Part of me wished Cal would hit me again, knock me unconscious.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he said. “Did you expect her to come knocking on your door? You’re the last person she wants to see. And she’s the last person you deserve.”

Again, I couldn’t argue with him.

“Cal, why are you here?”

He stood up and strode around the room like he was looking for something. His eyes paused on the corner where I kept my Martin, and the old Silvertone I’d recently acquired from a pawnshop in Columbia Falls. It came in a case that was also an amp, and Cal looked at it mawkishly, probably because he’d had an almost identical one when we were kids.