The Shameless Hour Read Online Free PDF Page A

Girls who played the field got called names. I knew the drill.
    Also, while we’re being honest, I had beenscoping out the rookies earlier, pondering the fresh offerings. Last year I went home with a freshman from this very event. Proximity to the hottest athletes at Harkness was an important perk of my job.
    “What do you think of the football team this year?” Trevi asked Graham, changing the subject. Because a good captain knows when to defuse.
    Graham began to talk about quarterbacks. I wasn’t much of a football fan myself. So I tuned him out, tipping my chin toward the sky to look for stars. Harkness was located in a rather industrial part of Connecticut, and usually there’s too much light pollution to see them.
    Not for the first time tonight, I felt my attitude sag. The temperature was dropping fast, hinting at winter’s approach. The chill seeped into my core. I stepped closer to Graham, who draped an arm around my shoulder. I appreciated the gesture, but it didn’t really solve the problem. The empty feeling I was working tonight was bigger than a friendly hug or the beers I’d drunk.
    The caterers began to take down the beer table, signifying the end of the season-opening barbecue.
    My last season-opening barbecue.
    The year stretched before me felt like that giant hourglass in the Wizard of Oz, ticking down while Dorothy panics.
    Behind me, a group of hockey players began to laugh hard over some joke I’d missed. Their jolly voices echoed into the night, making me feel more alone.

Three
    Rafe
    A fter my quick departure from Alison’s room, I did not go home.
    For a couple of hours, I walked aimlessly around campus. In an angry haze, I passed the rare books library, its peculiar stone walls rising like monoliths over my head. I passed the monument to students who had died in every war since the Revolution. I kept going, passing the graveyard and the hockey stadium.
    My mind was a continuous loop of anger and confusion. Where had I gone wrong?
    My phone rang in my jacket pocket. I almost didn’t look. There was no way I could talk to Alison right now. But when I drew out the phone and answered, it was only the restaurant, wondering if I still needed my reservation. “I’m sorry,” I told the maître d’. “Our plans have changed.”
    Had they ever.
    The temperature dropped even further, and it became surprisingly bitter for a September evening. My hands were cold, I hadn’t eaten supper and it was probably time to go home. Walking the streets wasn’t answering any of my questions, anyway. I’d been a good guy, and a good boyfriend. My only sin was stupidity.
    I stomped back to the Beaumont House gate, where I had to wind through a clot of students who were on their way out to some party or another. I would be alone tonight, having blown off all my soccer buddies to spend my birthday with Alison.
    And for what?
    Numb, I climbed another stone staircase toward my second-floor room. I unlocked our door, bracing myself to make some sort of explanation for tonight’s disaster. “We broke up,” was all I was willing to say about it.
    Although the lights were burning, our common room was empty. My eyes swept around the room, taking in the signs. Both of Bickley’s crystal goblets sat on our coffee table, dregs of dark red wine in their bottoms. I turned to eye our bedroom door. It was shut.
    There was no flag on the doorknob, but Bickley was expecting me to be gone tonight. So I would have to proceed with caution.
    I stood very still, listening. The faint strains of slow music could be heard, probably from the bedroom I shared with Bickley. Yet the other bedroom door — leading to Mat’s tiny single — was also shut.
    I shrugged off my jacket and dropped it on our posh leather sofa. While most common rooms were decorated in the style of Early American Squatter, ours was exquisite. It was all Bickley’s doing. He was the son of an honest-to-God British peer, and the family had some serious coin.