“Lemme see yours,” Orlando said, leaning into Auggie, the line of his body hot against Auggie’s shoulder.
Auggie flipped through the pages.
“I bet you like Taylor Swift,” Orlando said; he’d brought up one hand, and now he squeezed the back of Auggie’s neck. “I bet you love Katy Perry.”
And then Auggie saw it: Robert Poulson’s pledge interview.
Footsteps moved in the hall outside the office.
“Why the fuck was the door unlocked?” Orlando whispered.
Auggie ripped out the sheet, shoved it into his waistband, and replaced the binder.
The latch turned.
Grabbing Orlando, Auggie dragged him down. They wedged themselves into the desk’s knee hole as the door opened, and drunken voices—one of them Josh’s—filled the room.
“Why the fuck is the light on?”
The answer came from the hall and was muffled.
“Christ,” Josh said, “I can’t leave things for five fucking minutes.”
His steps moved around the room; Auggie tried to judge his location from the soft brush of his soles against the carpeting. In the cramped space, Auggie was suddenly painfully aware of how much bigger Orlando was: a semester of hard workouts on a college wrestling team had added density to the layers of muscles Orlando already carried. He was staring at Auggie, Auggie realized. That dark hair, those heavy eyebrows, those shoulders trying to split his jacket. He had one hand on the inside of Auggie’s thigh, and maybe you could explain that with how quickly they had rushed to hide. His breathing was slow and steady; the smell of rum and something else, something distinctly Orlando, made Auggie swallow.
“Here it is,” Josh said, and then he stumbled out of the room. The light went off, and the door shut behind him.
In the darkness, Auggie couldn’t see Orlando anymore. All he could feel was where they touched: knees and elbows, and that blaze of a handprint on Auggie’s thigh. The hand slid down. Auggie’s breathing, in the darkness, sounded like panic.
Their noses bumped, and Orlando kissed him. His hand slid lower, and Auggie couldn’t help himself: he was hard, and he made a noise when Orlando touched him.
“Is this ok?” Orlando whispered. “I’ve wanted to do this since the bid party.”
Auggie’s breaths were short, sharp whistles.
“I can be discreet, dude,” Orlando said. “Lots of guys don’t want it getting around. I know you’ve got your reasons.”
“I can’t.”
“You know you make me crazy,” Orlando added in a whisper. “Crazy about you. Crazy about touching you. Crazy when I see you messing around with other guys. I’ve been crazy fucking jealous since the first time I touched you. All those people you joke around with. Every time you’re laughing and bullshitting with your friends. Crazy, crazy, crazy jealous. I want you all to myself for one night. I want to take care of you. I want to protect you. I want this.”
His hand moved again, and Auggie gasped. He wanted this too. He hated how much he wanted it, hated feeling like he was standing on a cliff and he was dumping everything he’d worked for over the edge. He wanted, just once, to feel like himself and not like the fucking cardboard boy he’d been all night. He remembered the redhead groping him. He remembered all the nights with Chan, high school dating and high school making out and high school mistakes.
Orlando kissed him again and said, “I want to take you home tonight.”
“Yeah,” Auggie whispered, his throat tight. “Yes, please.”
26
By the time Theo reached Moriah Court, the wine was hitting so hard that he had to lie down on a bench. It was a cold night, but several glasses of red offered a very pleasant layer of insulation; he even unbuttoned his coat. When the breeze picked up, dead leaves skittered across cement, the sound like running steps, and several times Theo had to open his eyes to make sure he was still alone.
The English department’s holiday party had been a shitshow this year. In all fairness, it was the same every year: Dr. Wagner had gotten drunk and stood a little too close to the female grad students; Dr. Shuffield had worn a slinky top that she was thirty years too old to wear, and she’d followed poor Alan around the room, leaning in to ask him about his thesis; Grace had brought her non-binary partner, Eckhart; Devon had shown up because there was free wine, and he’d brought his latest girlfriend, whose name had disappeared into the sea of red in Theo’s brain. Dr. Delaney had sung a song that was marginally racist against the Irish. The same things every year.
Only this year, Theo had been alone. And the questions, once they started, didn’t stop. Would he be spending the holidays with his family? Would he visit friends? Did he have anyone nearby? Did he know that the holidays were especially difficult for someone who had recently lost a loved one? No, Theo wanted to say. No, he’d had absolutely no fucking idea. So many questions. Did he know how sorry they all were? Did he know that he could just tell them if he needed anything, anything at all? Did he have somewhere to go on Christmas? He wouldn’t spend Christmas alone, would he? Then Theo made a game of it. He filled up his glass with every fucking question. And he kept filling it up and filling it up.
On the bench, Theo let his head roll to the side and wondered how long it took to die from the cold.
After a while, he got up and staggered to the door of Moriah Court. It was past two. A very small voice warned him he was doing something stupid—stupid and, quite possibly, dangerous. He buzzed at the door; the security guard on the other side was a young guy with zits all over his face, and Theo had barely started his explanation of why he needed to see Auggie before the guy turned off the intercom. Theo buzzed again. Tried to explain again. It was a
