From outside came the soft hoot of an owl. Theo leaned against the railing, working a splinter with his thumb.
Slowly, uncertainly, Cart’s shit-kicking grin spread across his face.
“Christ, you’re a hillbilly,” Theo said.
“What kind of beer you got up there?”
“Christmas ale.”
“More of that girly stuff.”
“Do you want one or not?”
“Course I do.”
17
By Wednesday, Auggie’s followers had dropped to thirty thousand. He hadn’t posted anything since the video. He couldn’t bring himself to read the comments. But every day, he pulled up the numbers and saw how bad the damage had gotten. Logan and Devin didn’t respond to his messages. His circle of friends from Sigma Sigma had evaporated. Chan was probably gloating across all her different accounts, but Auggie didn’t want to see what she was posting. And the genuinely most awful part was that Theo hadn’t reached out, hadn’t asked what had happened, hadn’t even tried to contact Auggie.
The weather had warmed a few degrees, and Auggie slushed across the quad, his high-tops soaked through again, his feet frozen. He’d never had to deal with snow outside of skiing, and although the first few days had been pretty, he was quickly realizing that he hated it. Hated pretty much everything, in fact. And the thought of spending the rest of the semester here, months and months of trying to dodge Orlando, wanting to see Theo, sounded unbearable. He’d just move back home. The whole point of being here had been to save his platform and get those endorsements and marketing deals. Now he wasn’t going to get jack shit. Not with thirty thousand followers.
“Auggie, wait up.”
Orlando was sprinting across the quad toward him, heedless of the snowmelt and the skin of ice coating the cement in places.
“Jesus,” Auggie said, lowering his head and hurrying toward Moriah Court. He could go to the library instead. Or find a table in the student union. But the thought of running away again made him exhausted.
“Wait,” Orlando called. “Please wait.”
Auggie got through the security door and took the stairs two at a time. His high-tops squeaked on the steps. The second floor smelled like burnt popcorn. The third floor smelled like gym socks. The fourth floor smelled like Glade and vanilla incense. Jimmy Parvis was standing halfway down the hall, and when he saw Auggie he turned bright red and tried to run away so fast that he crashed into a fire extinguisher mounted on the wall. Jesus Christ, what did he think Auggie was going to do? Run after him and kiss him before he could get away?
Auggie let himself into the room and locked the door behind him. Leaning against it for a moment, he tried to figure out how to handle what was coming: how to act, how to play it all off, how to be cool. And then he thought fuck it and grabbed a duffel bag from under his bed. He opened the top drawer of his dresser, grabbed an armful of clothes, and shoved them in the bag.
Orlando’s key rattled in the lock.
Grabbing another armful of clothes, Auggie tried to focus on packing.
“Hey,” Orlando said, shutting the door behind him.
Auggie gave a jerk of his head.
“I tried to catch up with you,” Orlando said. He stood between Auggie and the door; under the thick scruff, his cheeks were red. “I wanted to talk to you. I thought maybe, um. Maybe you’d be more comfortable if we talked somewhere public.”
Laughing, Auggie grabbed more clothes.
“Would you like that? Somewhere more public? We could walk over to Hobbs and get a coffee or—”
“Doesn’t really matter what I like, does it? Say whatever you want to say.”
“I hope you don’t mean that.”
When the first drawer was empty, Auggie shoved it shut and opened the middle drawer. Part of his brain knew he had to be more selective now—he’d packed exclusively underwear and socks so far, and the duffel was filling up—but he couldn’t seem to keep his attention on anything. He just kept grabbing and shoving.
“I care about you a lot, actually,” Orlando said. “I know I have a lot to apologize for, and I want to start by making sure we do this the way you want to do it, you know, so you’re comfortable.”
“Comfortable?”
“Yeah, maybe the union—”
“Fuck off, Orlando. I don’t want apologies. I don’t want to talk. I will never feel comfortable around you, you blackmailing treacherous stalker psycho piece of shit.”
“You don’t understand. I was really worried.”
Auggie laughed again. It came from this weird place inside him that didn’t feel like laughter at all, and he was slightly worried that he didn’t know how to turn it off.
“Don’t laugh at me,” Orlando said.
Grabbing more clothes, Auggie turned toward the duffel.
“Will you stop for one fucking second?” Orlando said, seizing his arm, spinning him.
“Fuck off,” Auggie said. He tried to wrench himself from Orlando, but Orlando was bigger and much, much stronger. When Auggie couldn’t get free, he stumbled back. Orlando came with him, still grappling. “Get the fuck off me or I will scream,” Auggie said.
Orlando released him so abruptly that Auggie stumbled two more steps, and his hip connected with the bed. The clothes spilled from his arms; he vaguely saw two packs of Parliaments and a pack of Kools tumble under the bed, and Auggie realized he hadn’t thought about rolling a pack in his sleeve for months, had forgotten completely why he’d ever thought that was a good look. Then the thought passed, and he grabbed the clothes.
“I made a big mistake,” Orlando said, his chest heaving. He was starting to cry, and his thick brows were drawn together as he tried to control himself. “I made a huge fucking mistake, and I am so sorry. I never thought that video would get out. I just wanted him to leave
