It could have gone so much worse. If Auggie hadn’t been just sober enough to lie. If the asshole in the middle of the road hadn’t, for some reason, backed up Auggie’s story that Robert, who had run off, had been driving. If Auggie hadn’t been quick enough to explain that Robert had said the car belonged to him.
The drunken haze of the night made it hard for Auggie fully to trace his thinking. He remembered the surge of pleasure at Orlando complimenting him, the prickling heat in his gut that told him something was happening between them, and then the disappointment when Orlando vanished. He remembered wanting to fuck things up after a week of pretending to be someone else—after a week of rush, trying to be the human equivalent of a cardboard cutout. And of course, for Auggie, fucking things up always involved a car.
He remembered Robert suggesting stealing a car, and Robert coming back from the Sigma Sigma house with a pair of keys. Auggie had been driving like a total dick, determined to mess things up somehow. He’d spotted the asshole on the road at the last minute, swerved, and crashed in the drainage ditch. The asshole had hit him a few times and left him on the ground. And then—this was the part where things got messy—Auggie had realized he didn’t want to keep fucking up his life.
Maybe those punches had knocked something straight in his head. Maybe it was the very real possibility of having to face his mom so soon again. Maybe—this felt the strongest, plucking a chord deep in Auggie’s gut—maybe it had been the genuine terror in the asshole’s voice, the realization that Auggie had scared him past reason, maybe even past sanity. Whatever the reason, Auggie, drunk and hurting, had wanted not to be himself anymore. He had wanted something new. So when the cops asked him about the car, he had lied, instead of embracing the shit show he had gone looking for. And for some reason, the asshole had backed him.
Sober, on a Monday, he could explain to himself that he was starting fresh, that he was done with that kind of stuff, that he was finished with what his mother called making a scene. He just needed to watch the tequila. Even the stuff with Orlando had been a one-off mistake; Orlando had been out of the dorm most of Sunday, and the few times they had crossed paths, he was polite and distant, so Auggie must have imagined whatever had happened at the Sigma Sigma house.
Today, moving forward, no more mess ups. Auggie was on track again. He had a chance to fix everything. A year here, and he could go wherever he wanted. He’d have the money he needed. He’d have the life he wanted. No stupid stuff with cars. No stupid stuff with . . . well, with anyone.
Students were making their way into the class, navigating the competing demands for personal space while still fitting everyone into the room. Auggie got one more picture, this time of his hand holding a pen above a page where he’d written Notes on Being A Genius, tagged himself, and posted it.
Another phone dinged in the room. Auggie looked up; a girl with pigtails was checking her phone, and then she glanced around, locked eyes with Auggie, and stared. He smiled and gave a small wave. Her face turned bright pink, and she jumped back on the phone and started typing like mad.
A comment showed up on his Notes on Being A Genius post: oh my god it’s u.
Auggie sent a thumbs up, and then he sent the emoji with nerdy glasses.
The girl giggled, looked at him, and went back to the phone.
oh my god, the next comment said. i'm in the same class as @aplolz.
Comments poured in—expressions of envy from other followers, a show of excitement, and demands for details. By the time Auggie noticed that the class had gotten quiet, the professor was already at the board, writing his name and email.
The guy looked distractingly cute from behind. Great ass filling out chinos, nice shoulders, the sleeves of his gingham shirt rolled up to hint at some quality biceps. He had a bro flow of strawberry blond hair, the strands tucked behind his ears, and Auggie could see in profile the thick beard.
An alarm bell started inside him.
“I’m Mr. Stratford,” the man was saying as he wrote. “You can call me Theo; that’s what I prefer. Here’s my email, and if you need—”
As the professor turned around, Auggie said, “Oh, shit.”
The other students had already been silent. Now, Auggie didn’t think anyone was even breathing.
It was the asshole. The asshole who Auggie had almost hit with the car.
Mr. Stratford—Theo—was staring back at Auggie. Then he crooked a finger and stepped out into the hall. Auggie wormed out of his seat, stumbled over his backpack, and made his way to the door. He heard the shutter sound of a camera app, and when he glanced back, Pigtails was blushing even harder and trying not to look at him.
When he got into the hall, Theo shut the door. The professor crossed his arms. Auggie’s first impression had been right: really nice arms. His eyes moved up: the thick beard, the prominent cheekbones, the bro flow of strawberry blond with just the tiniest wave to it.
“Get your stuff,” Theo said. “You’re dropping this class.”
It wasn’t just the words. It wasn’t just the tone, clipped and assured. It wasn’t just the fact that this guy belonged in the same age bracket that Gabby Lopez drew all her new boyfriends and husbands from.
“Nah,” Auggie said, reaching for the door. “I don’t think so.”
“There’s nothing to think about.” Theo planted a hand on the door. “There’s a conflict here; we have a previous relationship. You need to
