“Go on. Show me what you’ve got.”

I confessed that I had only recently started playing again after a long hiatus. I pulled off my shoes and socks, and Cal laughed at that in a sentimental way that made me feel happy and sad at the same time. Then I plugged in the guitar and dove into “Tumbling Dice,” and it didn’t matter that my fingers were sore and my timing was off. Cal was right. The guitar was magic. It practically played itself. And with the exception of the night I’d just spent with October, sitting across from Cal and playing that guitar was the single most satisfying experience of my adult life.

Cal and I spent the rest of the day in the studio. He showed me how the Pro Tools rig worked; we played with all the different guitars and jammed to all the old songs we used to play back in high school. In between songs we were memory banks of stories, the two most common phrases we repeated that afternoon being: “Remember that one time . . .” and “How about when . . .”

When it started to get dark, we realized we hadn’t eaten all day and decided to go down to town and grab some food. Cal ran back to the house, hoping to talk October into joining us, but he returned alone a few minutes later and said she didn’t want to come.

Cal didn’t know how to drive. He’d never gotten his license when we were kids for two reasons: One, he couldn’t afford a car and figured there was no point in having a license if you couldn’t have a car. Two, he said New Yorkers didn’t need to drive, and in his heart he was already a New Yorker.

We hopped in my truck, and as I shifted into reverse, Cal said, “You obviously spend a lot of time with October. Has she seemed off lately?”

I shrugged, instantly uncomfortable. “Off, how?”

“I don’t know. Quieter than usual, I guess.”

“I’m not sure I know her well enough to answer that,” I said, hoping it sounded believable.

He nodded. “Yeah. Don’t take it personally. She can be a hard nut to crack, which is pretty ironic when you think about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know; she’s so good at honing in on other people’s feelings, but not as great at talking about her own.”

I remember thinking that Cal’s description of October didn’t correspond with my perception of her at all. She didn’t seem like a hard nut to crack to me. On the contrary, she seemed split wide open.

“Between you and me,” Cal went on, “Rae called me yesterday and told me she was worried about October. She was the one who suggested I come back. I canceled a bunch of radio promos to get home for a few days, which did not make my label happy. I expected October would be glad to see me, glad I’d made the effort, but when I walked in this morning she seemed more spooked than excited.”