“Harp and I were too busy practicing our crafts to care about sports.”

That made me think about the way Bob used to bark, “What are you, his lawyer?” whenever Cal stuck up for me or made my case. I reminded Cal of that, and he told a story about the time Bob took us to a 49ers game during a short-lived phase when he was trying to spend more quality time with me. Why he had chosen football as the venue to express that, I’ll never know. But it was a Sunday, and Cal and I had plans to go to Tower Records that day, so naturally we’d protested wholeheartedly—and by “we” I mean Cal—but Bob told us we didn’t have a choice.

“We brought Spin, Guitar World, and the NME,” Cal said. “And we read magazines the whole time.”

“Man, was Bob pissed,” I laughed. “He didn’t let you come over for a while after that, remember?”

October had barely said a word throughout dinner, but she smiled as we told the story, and I didn’t know if it was a happy smile or a sad smile, or if it was directed at me or at Cal.

After we finished eating, October gathered a handful of dishes and took them into the kitchen; Cal followed her with the rest. I watched them through the window. Cal stood close to October as he separated the dishes from the silverware and stacked the plates in the sink. Then he said something to her that made her swat him in the arm and laugh, and they kissed.

When they came back outside, October was carrying a white cake that she’d decorated with rosemary and manzanita berries. Cal had a bunch of small plates in one hand and the bottle of tequila I’d brought over in the other.

“How about a song before dessert?” Guy shouted.

The basketball player chimed in, the models started droning on about it too, and soon everyone was pestering Cal to play something.

“Fine, fine,” Cal said. “Hold your horses.”

He ran off to the studio and came back with a Gibson SJ-200E and an old, beautifully weathered Takamine with a worn-down pickguard and scratches all over the finish. He presented the Takamine to me and said, “I’m not playing unless you play with me.”

I didn’t protest. As insecure as I was about most of my abilities, making music with Cal was not one of them. I pulled off my shoes and socks, took the guitar in one hand, poured myself a shot of tequila with the other, and tossed it back quickly.