Our friendship blossomed on that roof, where we tried to figure out who we were and where we were going. That was complicated for Dom, whose roommates teased him regularly for the way he talked, dressed, even laughed.

"I'm not sure I fit in here,'' he said.

"Yes, you do," I assured him. "I can't imagine this place without you."

One summer he showed up at my home wearing an olive green jumpsuit and dispensing sloppy kisses, leaving my parents speechless and my older sister Karen, giddy. The two of them hit it off, howling uproariously as they imitated, in concert, the way I flipped my hair.

"He is something else," Karen marveled.

Dom regaled my parents with overseas adventures and tips for cooking meatballs. By the time he presented my mom with Godiva chocolates, he was in with the MacMullans for life.

My friends became his friends. He was enamored with my basketball teammate Kathy McSweeney '82, who became his partner in crime and soulmate for life. Kathy brought Dom to her Delta Zeta formal, where he passed out kisses and cigars to all. They tried to date, but it didn't feel right.

Nic, far right, mugs for the camera at another gathering.

Truth was, Dom was struggling with his sexuality. He thought he might be gay, but worried about what his old-fashioned Italian family would think. When his father died and Dom gently guided his mother through her grief, he realized his family loved him unconditionally, just as we did.

A few years after college, Dom changed his name to Nic, a grown man comfortable with his homosexuality. He moved to San Francisco and rented a small apartment that included fabulous views of the city—from the roof, naturally.

Nic took his time figuring out what he wanted to do. He was a waiter and an Eastern Airlines employee. He took a job with Federal Express so he could jet around the world for free in the jumpseat.

We talked all the time. After I got married and became a parent, Nic sent me articles on vaccinations and children's literature. He reminded me to make time for my husband, Michael Boyle '82, whom I had met at UNH. "It says here new moms forget about their spouses,'' he advised, reading from a newspaper.

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