In class, Colin sat in the third row, taking notes and trying to concentrate on what the teacher was saying. The class focused on language and literacy development, and in the first few weeks of school, he’d been of two minds about it: first, thinking that most of what the professor was saying struck him as common sense, which made him wonder what he’d gain from being there; and second, that there might be some as-yet unknown advantage to quantifying common sense into some sort of cohesive classroom strategy so he’d be able to put together formal lesson plans. The only problem was that the professor – a neurotic middle-aged woman with a singsong voice – tended to wander from one subject to the next, which made paying attention somewhat difficult.
He was in his third year of college, but it was his first semester at UNC Wilmington. His first two years had been spent at Cape Fear Community College, where he’d finished with a perfect GPA. So far, he couldn’t tell whether the classes were harder here or there; in the end, that would come down to the difficulty of the exams and the quality expected of his papers. He wasn’t too concerned: He made a point to read ahead whenever possible, and he knew Lily would help him study, quizzing him when he needed it in addition to helping him edit his papers. As a rule, he liked to put in at least twenty-five hours a week of studying, in addition to time in class; whenever he had a break on campus, he wandered to the library, and so far, it seemed to be paying off. Unlike many of the students who were here for both an education and a social life, he was here only to learn as much as he could and get the best grades possible. He’d already done the sow your wild oats thing; in fact, it had been all he could do to escape it.
Still, he felt pretty good about having made it to this point. He had Evan and Lily; he had his MMA training and a place he called his own. He wasn’t too fond of his job – the restaurant where he bartended was too touristy for his own tastes – but it wasn’t the kind of place that led to him getting into any kind of trouble. Most people came there to eat, including lots of families with kids, and those who sat at the bar were usually waiting for a table or having dinner. It was certainly a far cry from the kind of bar he used to frequent. During his wild years, he’d favored pro bars – for professional alcoholics – those dark and dingy out-of-the-way dives with or without blaring music in the background. He’d expected problems almost as soon as he walked in the door, and the world had obliged him. These days, he avoided places like that at all costs. He knew his triggers and his limits, and though he’d come a long way in keeping his anger in check, there was always the possibility that he’d find himself in a situation that quickly spiraled out of control. And there was no doubt in his mind that even if he was involved in an incident in another state, Margolis would find out and he’d live in a cage for the next decade, surrounded by people who had the same kind of anger problems as he did.
Realizing that he was drifting, he forced himself to focus on the lecture again. The professor was telling them that some teachers found it beneficial to read passages from books that were age appropriate, as opposed to books that were geared toward older or younger students. He wondered whether to jot that down in his notes – did he really need to remind himself of that in the future? – before deciding, Oh, what the hell. If she thought it important enough to say, he’d make note of it.