More candles lined the path to the front door, and I worried about Diego knocking them over and catching the place on fire, but I looked closer and saw they were the same candles the brewpub had on the table the night before. Of course, battery-powered candles made perfect sense in the middle of a forest, but they made my heart clench up like a fist. I felt as if they somehow represented me. The safe kind of fire. Or, rather, no real fire at all. October was all sparkles and warmth. Cal was combustion. I was that fake flame. And trust me when I say it hurts to be a spirit inside a body that yearns to burn far hotter and brighter than it actually does.

I went back to my apartment, took a shower, shaved, and then headed across the yard. I could see October through the kitchen window. She was ripping up lettuce with her hands, tossing it into a big wooden salad bowl.

I hesitated to approach, nervous to talk to her after how I’d left the previous night. But she looked up and, with a weary expression, gestured for me to come in.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey yourself.”

I set the tequila on the counter and she thanked me, but she didn’t say anything else. She was slicing a tomato with a knife that had a white blade.

“I was a shithead last night, wasn’t I?”

She put the knife down and sighed. “Can we not talk about last night? I just want to get through this dinner in one piece.”

She was obviously still sad or mad, and completely on edge. But despite all of that she looked so stunning it was hard for me to be in the same room with her. She was wearing a long, pale-colored dress that had wooden beads embroidered around the neckline. Her feet were bare, and the dress dragged on the floor behind her, making it seem as though she were floating around the kitchen when she walked. She had on shimmery earrings that hung down to her shoulders, and stacks of bracelets on her wrists jingled like tambourines as she sliced.

“You look pretty,” I mumbled, hoping to allay her a bit.

She turned toward me, her eyes fierce, and said, “Pretty is the lazy way to describe a woman.”

I laughed hard. I couldn’t help it. Every woman I’ve ever dated has all but begged me to tell her how pretty she was, and here was this one chastising me for it.

October laughed then too, and the mood softened.

“I’m glad you came, Joe.”

She chopped up a handful of mint, turned to the stove, lifted a hefty, cone-shaped lid off of a big clay pot, and stirred whatever was inside. It smelled like garlic, cinnamon, and rich, stewed meat.