I nodded. I could see that tree from my bed.

“I threw my arms around it and just inhaled.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she used her napkin to dab at the corners. “Sorry. I haven’t thought about that in a long time.”

She took a sip of wine as Brad/Al dropped a mini loaf of bread off at our table, along with a ramekin filled with olive oil.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” October finally said. “I was only trying to tell you that I understand.”

I looked at her but didn’t say anything. I felt all tied up inside, certain I was blowing it, certain this would be the first and last dinner we’d have together. But October held my look with soft eyes. Then she ripped off a piece of bread from the loaf, dipped it in the oil, and said, “It’s OK. You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

She didn’t seem at all annoyed with my emotional ineptitude, and that surprised me, mainly because it didn’t jibe with the reaction I was used to getting from women, which was typically disappointment and frustration, not understanding.

Nevertheless, from my point of view, October might have been able to perceive emotions, but she couldn’t perceive facts, and I believed it was the facts that counted. I believed that the more facts October learned, the easier it would be for her to see what a broken toy I was and discard me.

There were so many things trapped inside of me then. But they were things I didn’t know how to express—not just to her, but to anyone.

I wanted to tell her the truth. I wanted to tell her that I’d grown up two miles from where we were sitting. I wanted to tell her about Bob and Ingrid, and Cal. I wanted to tell her how when I was in high school, Phil Lesh saw me play at the Sweetwater and told me I was a better guitar player at sixteen than Jerry Garcia was at fifty. I even wanted to tell her about my brother, and I never told new people about Sam.

Something happened, I imagined I’d say. I’m not supposed to be like this.

To be clear, I don’t blame my brother’s death for who I am any more than I blame Bob or Ingrid, but it’s hard not to wonder how differently I would have turned out had Sam lived. Of course the flip side is that Sam’s death is what led me to the guitar, and to Cal, and without those two things, I’m not sure I would have survived my childhood.

Art saved me too, I wanted to confess.

I would have told October the story of how, exactly one month after Sam died, Bob came downstairs dressed for work, his eyes like two dead rats, and announced to Ingrid that he was getting rid of all of Sam’s things—clothes, books, baseball and swim trophies, even the furniture in Sam’s bedroom.