When there was nothing else for me to do, I worked out at the gym, channeling all my frustration and anger and depression into free weights and running and rowing machines, or hung out at Todd’s place with whoever else happened to be there. Todd was a confirmed bachelor whose loft was always Party Central. He could drink for an entire evening and still perform on the set the next day. “Practice, my friend,” he once told me when I’d asked how he did it. “It took a lot of practice to get to the point where I could work through my hangover. But its worth it!” Odd logic, but I wasn’t about to argue since it gave me an escape when nothing else would. I started down the accursed road for the second time, but this time I didn’t bother talking myself out of it or pulling myself back. I’d gone through hell, and I felt I deserved a bit of a distraction.

It worked for a while. We were halfway through the next season of DC, and things were going well: ratings were up, Emmys and Golden Globes were won by various cast and crew, including myself, and the tabloids and magazines were finally leaving me alone. But then my well-oiled machine began to break down. It started with what would have been Dianne’s and my anniversary. I woke up that morning, and it slapped me in the face, but I managed to push it to the edge of my subconscious until the end of the day. I went to the gym and worked out for a while, nearly busting the rowing machine with my ferocity, and then headed straight for Todd’s. That was one of the great things about Todd: he was always home. He didn’t have to go anywhere; all the fun came right to his door and asked to come in.

“Jack, my man!” Hearty handshake, slap on the back, big grin. Todd was in a perpetually good mood, fueled by alcohol and the occasional hit of pot and, of course, the absence of any serious relationships to bring him down. “No woman, no cry,” was his anthem. “Whatcha up to today?” I followed him to the bar, where he hopped the counter and fixed my usual.

I donned my acting hat and mirrored his joviality. “Not much, that’s why I’m here, looking for something to do. You?”

He shrugged and poured himself a drink. “Reading scripts and watching the game.” He nodded to the pool table. “Play a game?”

“You mean whip your sorry butt? Sure thing, bring it on.” We laughed as he racked up the balls, talking trash and chalking up the cues. I felt the strain of my buried emotions threatening to push themselves past the facade I had constructed, so before they had the chance, I downed my drink and slipped behind the bar to get another.