At the steakhouse, with the four of them staring at me and a server backing quietly out of the private room, I realized I had two options. I could tell them a comfortable lie — that my wife had been sick, that my job had been crushing, that I had been "in my head" — and let the evening end with us all going home confused but friendly. Or I could tell them the truth. I am, and have always been, a direct person. I am also, when I drink, an even more direct person. I had, before walking into the steakhouse, had two gin and tonics at a bar down the street because I had been, in my own way, preparing for what I somehow knew was coming.

So when Jake said "We are not letting you leave this room," I took a long breath, and I looked around the table, and I said, "Okay. You want the truth? You're going to get it. But I need you to sit there and let me finish each one before you react." I pulled a piece of paper out of my jacket pocket. They stared at it. I said, "I've had this folded up in my wallet for six months. I never thought I was going to read it to you. But here we are."