But she showed up at that party sophomore year because a professor threw it. Dr. Hoffman. And while she’d never taken his class, she was a creative writing major and knew someday she might end up with him as a professor. And Monique—who was also a creative writing major and a sophomore—said Hoffman occasionally threw these parties for students and it was a good way to meet people.

“Besides,” Monique said, “your boy, Kent, left a few months ago, and you need someone to take his place.”

And Rebecca remembered her mother telling her once that when she was in college—a thousand years ago and in another state, but Rebecca liked hearing the stories about her mom anyway—her professors used to have students over for dinner or parties, and it was one of the best memories she had of her time in school.

So Rebecca went with Monique. Hoffman lived in a small house about ten minutes from campus, and Rebecca didn’t know the area well but remembered looking out the window as Monique drove them in her SUV and noticed a dog park on the way. Rebecca wished she’d been able to bring her pug with her to school, but she couldn’t do that in the dorm, and her mom would never let her anyway, since she’d basically become obsessed with taking care of Toby. Rebecca couldn’t ever take him away from her.

Rebecca expected a professor’s house to be kind of fancy, with a lot of dark wood paneling and antique furniture and bookshelves, and Hoffman’s place had the bookshelves but not much else. His furniture was kind of ragged, and some of the walls needed to be repainted. At first, Rebecca saw Hoffman only from a distance. But the bathtub was filled with cans of beer on ice, so she and Monique each took one and wandered around together—a pack of two—looking for people to talk to. Monique made friends in three seconds flat, but Rebecca mostly looked at the bookshelves, curious to know what an English professor would have in his house. She recognized some of the authors but not others. A lot were just names she’d heard but hadn’t read—Baldwin, Carver, Morrison, Lahiri. Would she ever read everything she wanted and needed to read?

She was thinking that when she bumped into another student, one who seemed to be doing the same thing.

“This must be where the writers gather,” the woman said. “Or the socially awkward.”

Relief flowed through Rebecca. She wasn’t going to just stand around alone. She had found one person to talk to. And apparently someone who had something in common with her.

The woman said her name was Madeline. And she was also a creative writing major.

“Do you know Dr. Hoffman?” Rebecca asked.