I left Whitefish as soon as I could. But I hadn’t wanted to abandon my commitments the way I had before, and it took me a few weeks to wrap up my life there. I finished out the month with my guitar students and attended the last two writing workshops of the session. In the meantime, I painted the walls and refinished the floors in the cabin—my parting gift to Sid, to thank him for his profuse hospitality.

By the time I hit the road, October was already well into her monthlong stint at SFMoMA. And because I’d decided—or rather, Cal had convinced me—that visiting the exhibit was the safest way for me to reunite with her—“In a setting that forces you to talk and her to listen. Where she has no choice but to hold your hands and absorb your Eeyore-ness.”—I didn’t have time to lag on my drive.

I made it to Bend the first day and spent the night at the Rainbow Motel, a whitewashed, flowery little motor court that three years earlier I’d deemed too bright and cheerful for my state of mind. I considered it an indication of personal and spiritual growth that I chose to stay there on my return.

I left Bend before sunrise the next morning because I’d set up appointments to see three apartments later that afternoon, all within walking distance of downtown Mill Valley. For the first time in my adult life, I could afford a decent place to live in my hometown, and I ended up taking the second apartment I saw: a furnished, one-bedroom in-law unit in a well-built, contemporary craftsman-style house. The apartment had its own entrance, off-street parking, and offered a month-to-month lease, which appealed to me, because eventually I wanted to buy a place of my own.

Cal told me October was staying at the St. Regis—a hotel across the street from the museum—for the duration of the exhibit. The good news was I could get settled in Mill Valley without worrying about accidentally running into her at Whole Foods. The bad news was I couldn’t accidentally run into her at Whole Foods.

It should be said that I harbored no false hopes of reconciliation. I didn’t expect October to be pleased that I’d returned, and I didn’t expect she’d want to see me. But I knew that in order for my hoped-for growth to be real, for it to count, I needed to face her, I needed to tell her the truth, and I needed to apologize.

One noteworthy piece of information regarding the apartment I rented: It was, coincidentally, up on Blithedale Ridge, high enough that I had a clear and direct view of Casa Diez on the opposite knoll. And while I did find it comforting to be able to see the lights of October’s kitchen from my bedroom, it pained me to stand on the deck at night, look out, and think, If I hadn’t been such a pussy, I’d live over there right now.