I had been ghosting three of my four closest male friends for eighteen months when they finally, on a Saturday in October, ambushed me at a steakhouse in downtown Austin. I had thought it was going to be a dinner with just Ben. Ben was the only one of the four I had kept regular contact with — he and I had stayed close even during my slow disappearance from the rest of the group, and he had texted me the week before saying he wanted to "grab a steak, just us." I walked into the private room at 7:30 PM and found Ben sitting at the table with Jake, Derek, and Sam.
All three of them. The three people I had been avoiding for a year and a half. Jake, my friend since we were nine years old and had lived on the same block in San Antonio. Derek, my roommate from college. Sam, who had been the best man at my wedding seven years ago. All of them sitting at a round table, waiting for me. Ben, sitting to my right, with the expression of a man who had organized something he was no longer sure was going to go well. Jake said, without preamble, as soon as I sat down, "Dude. We are not letting you leave this room until you tell us what the hell is going on with you."