Her eyes drifted up to the TV screen. For a moment, she felt curiosity about the result of the game, mild disappointment spreading over her when she saw that her school—Commonwealth University—was losing by five points with three minutes to play. She knew it was time to go when basketball started to get her emotionally engaged.

A stool scraped next to her.

She knew who it was before she turned. Connor Nye.

“You like basketball?” he asked.

“Not really. I don’t know what’s going on. Just a lot of running.”

“My son loved it,” he said. “Actually, my wife loved to watch it too. When we met in college, our first date was at a basketball game. Michigan against Purdue.”

Something tugged in Madeline’s chest. Loved. Past tense. A flush spread over her face, and it wasn’t from alcohol.

“But my son had just grown taller than me,” Nye said, “and I was having trouble beating him one-on-one.” He held a full pint of beer, and just as she looked over, the bartender placed a shot of whiskey in front of him. Connor nodded toward his glass. “Want one?”

“Sure. Why not?”

Connor pointed, and the bartender filled a shot glass for Madeline. She picked it up and said, “What are we drinking to?”

“How about to you turning in a draft of your thesis yesterday?”

“Here’s to it,” she said, and threw the shot back. A pleasant burn in her throat. Her eyes watered. She swallowed beer to chase the shot. She’d just crossed the Rubicon and tipped over from slightly buzzed to starting to get drunk. “Although, I wanted to talk to you about that. I’m a little nervous about it.”

“That’s not unusual.”

“It’s not?” she asked. “There are some things in there . . . things that are personal. And pretty real.”

“Sounds intriguing. I’ve read enough sexy robot stories for one lifetime.”

“I think I should take the thesis back. I think . . . it’s just too personal. In fact, I’m going to have to insist on getting it back.”

“Sounds like you have cold feet.”

“I have cold everything. I don’t want . . . It’s one thing for you to read it. But eventually there will be a whole committee. And these undergraduate-thesis defenses are open to the public. Sometimes a lot of people show up. Students and . . . other professors. So people, certain people, might think the worst of me when they hear about it. Am I making any sense?”

Madeline hated the pleading, defensive tone in her voice. After all—what did she have to apologize for? Once, in class, Dr. Nye had quoted Anne Lamott and told them the people in our lives shouldn’t be offended by what you write. “If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”