“It does. I need you people. That’s why I go out drinking with my students. I never did that when Emily was alive. And Jake. But now . . . I mean . . . all our old friends have kids and wives. They don’t know what to say to me. You know? But the students don’t always know about my family, so it feels like a clean slate in a way.”

“I hear you,” Preston said.

I could tell he wanted to keep the pity off his face, but even in my drunken state, I saw it there. Loud and clear.

“Thanks, Preston,” I said. “You’re a good friend. And boss.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll let you sleep.”

But he didn’t go. He stood next to my bed, looking down at me as my eyelids fluttered. I managed to keep them open while he stayed there.

“What?” I asked.

“You need to be careful of that,” he said. “You don’t want to be like some people who take that kind of thing too far. You can be a mentor to your students. Maybe a kind of friend. But . . . you have to be careful.”

“Careful, boss?”

“Let’s talk another time.” He reached down and patted my leg. “Go to sleep.”

“Careful? Like . . . don’t get too involved.”

Preston nodded. “We’ve had some colleagues do that. People I respect. And like. Friends of ours. Don’t let your vulnerability lead to that. Being a professor can be a lonely life. The students are right there, young and beautiful.”

“Who?” I asked. “Who’s doing it?”

Preston shook his head. “No time for gossip. Remember, loyalty matters. A lot. That’s how I can protect you all. Go to sleep, okay?”

“Who?”

Preston turned his back to me, but at the bedroom door he looked back over his shoulder. “Our poetic friend might be doing that. And he needs to be careful.”

“Lance?”

“I know he has his low moments, but I can only do so much to protect him. Good night.”

“Is that who you mean? Come on, Preston the Politician, tell me.”

But Preston was gone.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CONNOR

PRESENT

Preston comes back into his living room, carrying two glasses and a bottle of Four Roses.

He puts the glasses on the coffee table in front of me and pours two healthy shots.

“Here you go,” he says. “This will steady you.”

“I’m trying to cut back, but I think you’re right.”

He puts the bottle down, and we both pick up our glasses. Preston remains standing as we drink. The bourbon feels good. Warmth and a sliver of calm do spread through me.

“Do you remember that time you and I went out on the second anniversary?” I ask. “The night you had to basically carry me in to my bed?”

“Sure. You were pretty blotto. With good reason, I might add.”