“I am. Just . . . catching up on some things.”

He stepped inside, closer to my desk. “I thought we could do something. Dinner. Drinks. Rebuild a car engine. You know, man stuff.”

“Oh. I just . . .”

“Connor, I know what day it is. You shouldn’t be alone. And Kelly gave me permission for a boys’ night out.”

It took me a moment to answer. I hated everyone knowing. I hated having everything on display, especially the most terrible, brutal thing that ever happened to me. But I recognized I was no longer in a position not to ask for help. The previous anniversary proved that to me—and I didn’t want a replay.

So I agreed to go.

Preston drove, and we went to several bars. At every stop, I drank and drank, while Preston bought the shots and the beers. He egged me on, never allowed me to have a moment when my mind drifted to the kinds of thoughts I’d been trying to avoid the entire day. Eventually, the rooms we were in started tilting. I remembered being on a Tilt-A-Whirl once when I was five, and the way the world spun for hours once I stepped off the ride. So much so, I ended up vomiting on my father’s shoes.

That’s what the night with Preston turned into.

Near one o’clock we pulled up behind my house, and Preston led me inside, one of my arms draped over his shoulders, most of my weight resting on him. He guided me to the bedroom and let me flop onto the bed, one hundred and seventy pounds of dead, drunk weight.

He tugged my shoes off, stood by while I fumbled with my belt. Then he came back with a glass of water and Tylenol.

“Take this,” he said. “Then go to sleep. For a long time. You don’t have any classes tomorrow.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“What does? Not going to campus with a hangover?”

“Not teaching,” I said. “That’s terrible.” I rolled over, fumbled on the nightstand for the Tylenol. I managed to pick one up but knocked the other onto the floor. Preston bent and picked it up for me.

“I’m not following you,” Preston said. “Maybe you’re just drunk.”

“No,” I said. “No. I mean, I am. But I’m trying to say something.” I tossed the Tylenol back and held on to the glass of water long enough to chase them down. When I’d swallowed, I thumped back against my pillow. “You know what I’m saying. My students . . . you all, my colleagues . . . I need to see you. You all distract me. I socialize with you. At school. Outside of school . . . like tonight.”

“You’re saying . . . I see.” Preston nods. “You need the social interaction that comes on campus. It helps you cope.”