“I haven’t been able to search his name on the internet in ten years.”

I saw recognition on her face then. And pity. Cal had told her too much. All the things I’d tried to hide, she already knew. I could see them coming to her in flashes like a slide show blinking inside her mind.

She tilted her head to the side, and in the warmest voice she whispered, “Wait . . . you play guitar. . . .” There was a pause. Then, “And your brother. Something happened to your brother. . . .”

She stood up and started to come toward me, but I backed away and walked out the door without saying goodbye.

Back in my apartment, I opened my laptop and, against my better judgment, typed “Chris Callahan” into my web browser and pressed “Return.”

October was right. One of the first images that came up was a picture of the two of them walking hand and hand down some charming street in Brooklyn. It must have been winter, because they had on scarves and hats and heavy coats. The caption read: Musician Chris Callahan and his girlfriend-of-the-moment, performance artist October Danko, out and about in Williamsburg.

In another shot they were walking through SFO. October was holding a book and looking up at Cal—he towered over her—and she was smiley and bright. She loved him; I could see it. Or at least she had loved him. Of course she had. Surely she still did. Why wouldn’t she?

I spent hours scrolling through photos, watching videos, and reading interviews and articles that had been written about Cal. I found pictures of him rubbing elbows with just about every musical hero he and I ever had, and he didn’t look out of place in any of them.

I also discovered that not long after they started dating, he and October had collaborated on an exhibit for a gallery in Brooklyn. Something about painting to music. All the songs were original; Cal was writing them on the spot, stream of consciousness, while October interpreted them on canvas. The paintings were then auctioned off, along with a vinyl pressing of the music Cal had created, and some of them sold for more than I’d made in the last three years combined.

I read about Cal’s ex-wife too, a fashion designer, Anna Holland. According to a few gossip blogs, Cal and Anna had married impulsively in Las Vegas after knowing each other for only a few weeks. The marriage ended on account of Cal having an affair with the daughter of an old British rock star. From my research, it was clear that Cal had a weakness for beautiful women, and I had to admit it made me feel a little better knowing that even Cal could fall prey to human foible.

But getting lost in the internet life of Chris Callahan only sunk me deeper. Drunk, exhausted, and woozy, I got in the shower and turned it on as hot as I could stand it, hoping it would sober me up and burn away the weight of the day.