That crushed me. I’d take anger over sadness any day. Moreover, it’s always been hard for me to accept the idea that someone could love me. But for someone to understand me and still love me? Well, that took a level of character and compassion I couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

Cal was still shaking his head. “No, she didn’t hate you, Harp. She was just super fucking bummed. You broke her heart. And you left her without an assistant.”

I rubbed my eyes again. The pain was deeper and duller now. “How is she? Honestly. Is she happy?”

“I think so. She’s mad excited about this MoMA thing.”

Against my better judgment, I said, “Is she seeing anybody?”

Cal shrugged. “Some twenty-four-year-old muralist from L.A. He wears ironic sweaters and makes craft beer in his spare time. It’s nothing. Casual summer fling was the phrase she used.”

He nodded toward the guitars in the corner, and in what I took to be a deliberate, subject-changing non sequitur, he said, “Remember that time we had the concert in Old Mill Park? Charged a buck for admission and played Who songs until the cops shut us down. And you smashed my Silvertone at the end of the show.”

I chuckled. “I was very in the moment that day. Didn’t think that move through.”

“Stalled the electric side of the band for a bit, as I recall.” Cal snapped his finger. “But Bob came through for us that time! He got us a new one, remember?”

“Wrong.” I shook my head. “You told him the guitar had been stolen.”

Cal laughed hard at the memory. “Right! Someone broke into his car at the dock, and I lied and told him the guitar had been in the back seat.”

“He didn’t get us a new one. His insurance did.”

We both laughed, but then Cal stopped, remembered. “Shit, Harp. I’m sorry about Bob. I thought about calling you after I got your text. I wanted to. I wasn’t ready.”

“I hadn’t spoken to him in years. Missed his service too. You think I’m a bad friend? I’m an even worse son.”

Cal shook his head. “Part of that onus was on him.” He exhaled wistfully. “Weird to think we’ll never see that fucker again, huh?”

He looked up and stared at the ceiling for a while, the way he does when he’s contemplating. Then he said, “Tell me something: If you’d known Bob was going to die, would you have reached out to him?”

I’d considered that question more than once since Bob’s death. “Yeah,” I said sadly. “I can’t tell you how many letters I wrote to him over the years. I just never sent any of them.”

“What if it was me?” Cal asked.

I rolled my eyes.