“Your shot,” Todd called as he hopped onto a barstool and waited. I chugged on a bottle of beer on my way back to the table, talking myself into enjoying the evening and out of cracking at the seams.

I managed to last for about half a game before I started hitting the cue ball so hard it was bouncing off the table, and after a while Todd finally asked what was going on. I covered it up with some macho comments about trying to distract him so he’d lose his lead, but then a ball bounced straight off the felt and into his drink which sat on the table. Todd cursed. “What’s wrong with you, Jack?” He swiped a towel off the bar and carefully mopped up vodka and glass.

I leaned against the wall. My hands were trembling. “Our anniversary would have been today. Two years.” I finished off my beer, nearly spilling it with my shaking hand. I stared at the ceiling but could feel Todd’s eyes. I heard him swear softly under his breath as he stood and carried the towel back to the bar. He pulled two more bottles out of the fridge, brought them back to the pool table, and thrust one into my hand—his cure for everything—then motioned for me to follow him back to the television. He loaded a Playstation game and handed me a controller before falling into one of the two leather recliners positioned in front of the huge flat screen.

We played in silence for a while, the roar of the cars and music in the game filling the room. Loosened up by the alcohol, I started to ramble about what I’d been going through. He listened and kept the beers coming, and at some point after midnight, I passed out on his couch. He woke me in time for us to get to rehearsal, which I stumbled through under the disapproving gaze of Carl and the cast. Carl took me aside at the end of the day and asked what was going on, and I apologized, explaining what had happened and asking for his patience and forgiveness, which he gave with one condition: that I get myself pulled back together, and that I never show up to rehearsal like that again. I promised.