Page 123 of Men in Shorts

“Right. ’Mon then!” Colin shouted, taking a selfie of his futile act of heroism.

Andrew turned away. He still wasn’t hungry.

His body jerked as he woke. Without moving his head, he glanced at his classmates to see if anyone had noticed his involuntary nap. He’d purposely sat in the back row knowing he might nod off despite the gallon of French Roast he’d guzzled an hour before.

Ignoring the lecturer at the front of the room, Andrew paged listlessly through the textbook for his British Class System 1815 – Present course. It was Monday now, six days since Jeremy’s sentencing. Andrew had hoped to begin this week with renewed life. He’d not had a drink in days and had once again doubled his yoga and meditation practice. He’d even created a new herbal tea blend—“Fresh Start,” he’d called it—to commemorate this revival. Soon he would view each day the way his old self had done: as an adventure to enjoy rather than an ordeal to endure.

Alas, today’s sunrise had found his pillow damp with tears and the stone in his chest heavier than ever. He would’ve given anything to stay in bed with Colin, to blot out the world with long kisses and longer embraces.

But even Colin couldn’t erase the memory of Elizabeth’s voice when Andrew had phoned her after the sentencing.

“I don’t wish to talk about it,”she’d told him in a hollow tone.“Just know that that man won’t be part of this family much longer.”

Elizabeth was losing a husband. Tyler and Gwyneth were losing a father. All because of Andrew.

“I’d like you to break into discussion groups now,” the lecturer said, motioning where the class was to divide. “We’ve got twenty students today, so let’s have four groups of five.”

A cluster of students in Andrew’s corner of the room gathered near him. Though he knew a few of them from his first three terms of basic Economic and Social History, he wasn’t close to any. He’d tried to convince John to sign up for this Level 4 course, but his mate had laughed at the idea of studying something so “obscure” as the aristocracy.

One of his classmates, a spiky-haired lad he vaguely remembered from a first-year lecture, began the discussion. Andrew was relieved not to have been asked to lead the conversation, as he wasn’t sure which topic they were meant to address.

Focusing on the subject shouldn’t have been an effort. He’d eagerly anticipated this in-depth study of the British aristocracy ever since he’d started at University of Glasgow. Originally he’d looked forward to answering his fellow students’ challenges to the class system, to defending his place in society. After meeting Colin, he’d looked forward to challenginghimselfabout the system, to questioning his own place within it.

Now Andrew couldn’t give a toss about any of it. Last week he’d told the world he’d rebuffed the Scottish National Party’s wooing because he was tired of politics. But the whole truth was this: He was tired of everything. He couldn’t believe in the nationalists’ hopes for a brighter future, because he couldn’t believe inanyfuture.

With a heavy sigh, he reached down into his bag to retrieve his phone, wondering how many more minutes he had to sit here. As he straightened up, he realized everyone in his group was looking at him.

“What?” he asked. “Did I miss something?”

“I asked you about reparations,” said the lad leading the discussion. “Whether you thought the upper classes would one day pay back the poor for the land they’d stolen.”

Andrew lacked the energy for a diplomatic response. He glanced at his phone screen—ugh, still half an hour to go—then said, “I doubt it.”

“Do you think they should?” asked the girl next to him. “Or at least apologize? Acknowledge what their ancestors did?”

“Any official acknowledgment could be construed as an admission of guilt. It would open up the, erm, the aristocracy to lawsuits.” He’d nearly saidthe great families, a term often used amongst his people but which tended to hit a sour note with the rest of the world.

“What about anunofficial acknowledgment?” The group leader pointed the chewed-up end of his pen at Andrew. “Can you say you’re personally sorry?”

Andrew took a moment to collect his thoughts. His mind was mush, so he decided to wing it.

“No one should apologize for who they are or how they were born.”Least of all a lord.“And I happen to think my family are fantastic—with notable exceptions, of course.” Andrew paused for laughter that didn’t come. “But they weren’t always so benign. In past centuries the House of Kirkross used an unjust system to shore up power—often to protect itself from even more rapacious families. The poor were collateral damage, like ants trampled on a battlefield. And for that I am truly sorry.” He tugged on his pinky, his throat thickening as he thought of people like Colin struggling for survival. “I’m sorry for everything.”

Andrew did his best to meet his classmates’ eyes, all wide with wonder at his unilateral declaration of remorse. His heart pounded so hard he felt certain they could see his shirt ripple.

“I’m sorry for everything,” he repeated. “But I won’t let anyone paint my family as monsters. You don’t know them, and you don’t know me. I realize that won’t stop you hating us. But I don’t care. I don’t?—”

Andrew stopped, catching his breath.I don’t care about anything.

“Sorry, I-I need to go,” he mumbled as he gathered his things from the table and began to stuff them into his bag.

“Wait,” said a girl to his left with green-streaked blond hair. “Lord Andrew?—”

“Call me Drew.” He stood, wavering, then headed for the door, needing all of his focus not to stumble on the stairs. To his relief, no one tried to stop him—not even the lecturer, who must have been too occupied with another discussion group to notice she’d lost a student.

In the silent, empty corridor, Andrew slumped against the wall and jammed his fist against his lips. It seemed nothing less than a scream would pull him back from the brink. But he’d already exceeded his drama-queen allowance for the day.

“You never know when to shut it, do you?”Elizabeth had asked him long ago.“It’s like your mouth fuels itself with its own words.”

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