“Moroccan lamb curry,” she said when she saw me eyeing it. She scooped up a small bite with a wooden spoon, sprinkled a pinch of the mint on top, and held it out to me with her tiny palm cupped under the spoon. “Here. Be my taste tester.”

She didn’t hold the spoon out very far, and I had to get way too close to her to reach it—so close we were almost-but-not-quite touching—the kind of closeness where you might as well be touching because your energies or whatever you call them are overlapping like some spiritual Venn diagram. I could feel her body as if she were pressing it against mine, even though I was still a few inches away.

I tasted the curry and took two steps back.

“It’s good,” I said.

She offered me a sad smile. “I like your shirt.”

As soon as she said it, I realized it wasn’t Cal’s friends for whom I’d made an effort. It was for October. I wanted her to notice me above the others at the party. But then I felt guilty for thinking that and wanting that; to distract myself from those feelings, I asked after Cal’s whereabouts, only for the first time in my life I called him Chris so as not to annoy her.

“He took Diego for a walk. He’ll be right back. There’s beer in the fridge. Oh, and an antipasto plate up there if you’re hungry.” She pointed to the top of the refrigerator. “Do me a favor and grab it down.”

Cal must have put it up there because I could barely reach it, and if I could barely reach it, October definitely couldn’t.

“Why is it on top of the fridge?”

“Diego has a weakness for prosciutto.”

It was a long, heavy wooden board filled with vegetables, cheeses, and meats, plus olives, nuts, and crackers. I lifted it carefully and set it on the counter. Like the table outside, the board looked like a work of art. October had arranged flowers, berries, and branches with imagination and precision all around the food, and even though I was hungry, I decided it was too beautiful to mess with before the guests got a chance to see it.

I grabbed a beer while October drifted over to her laptop. She pushed a few buttons, and seconds later music started playing softly inside and outside the house. Subtle singer-songwriter stuff that amplified my melancholy. I looked out the window and nursed my beer while a mopey guy playing what sounded like a prewar Martin whisper-sang, It’s not that we’re scared, it’s just that it’s delicate, and I wanted to say: Speak for yourself, buddy; I’m fucking terrified.