Page 115 of The Tartan Thesis

“I already know what you should do, but I don’t want to make it too easy on you,” she says, keeping things playful. “So I return the question to you. What do you think you should do?”

The problem with her query is that—unlike questions in class—I don’t know the answer to this one.

“Talk it out, Torin,” she says. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

I sigh, and close my eyes. For a moment, I’m back there: Beau’s muscular arm draped over me, the first rays of dawn dancing across his golden skin, my whole body feeling light again at the memory.

“I woke up this morning to him holding me, and I thought, ‘What kind of beautiful cliché has my life become that this seemingly perfect man is cuddling me in his sleep?’ It didn’t even feel like real life.”

Then I think about that thesis proposal and the notes—so many notes—and am disappointed in myself all over again. I can’t keep doing this.

I tip the rest of the whisky back and set the glass down harder than I mean to.

“I should’ve known that a guy like that would never be with someone like me unless there was something in it for him.”

The silence that follows is so long that I check to see if the call dropped. “Freya?”

“Torin, did you already forget the conversation we had last Sunday?”

“No, but—”

“And did it ever occur to you that Beau just likes you? Likes being with you. That you make him happy, even when you’re rash, and frankly, a little unhinged?” Then under her breath, she says, “Like right now.”

“I mean, aye, I thought he did, but then this morning—”

“Then this morning you got scared and found a way out.” Her words are eerily similar to what Beau said about me pushing him away. Part of me believes they’re right, but then I remember all the other things he said to me on my way out.

My heart sinks. My walls go up.

“Look”—I sigh and refill my glass—“I appreciate what you’re doing here, Frey, but it’s over. Even if you’re right and it’s all some big misunderstanding, he isn’t going to have me back. Not after what I said to him.” And not after what he said back. “I broke us. It’s done.”

“Torin,” she says, voice soft.

“Besides, it was a terrible idea to pursue a classmate again, and I can’t afford the distraction,” I say, building my defenses, my words the brick and mortar. “What happened with Beau… I was just relieved that midterms were over. I wasn’t thinking clearly. It’s better that we part ways now before this gets any messier.”

“You have to do what you think is best,” Freya says with a sigh, “but please think about what I said. I’ve never heard you as happy as you were this morning. Not once. That kind of connection, that kind of joy. They’re hard to find. And I don’t want you to throw away something great because you’re too hung up on the bad things in your past to try.”

When we ring off, I take the bottle of whisky to bed with me, something I’ve never done before. I stare at the open books on the desk. And despite my insistence that historical research is my top priority, I don’t touch them at all.

36

Beau

Stravaig (strah-vague)

Translation: To walk or stroll

Usage: To wander aimlessly at one’s leisure, especially at dusk

Everyone thought Tennyson was brilliant when he said it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

I think his cornbread wasn’t done in the middle.

It’s been two weeks since Torin left in a blaze of fury. Two weeks of sleeping badly, my ADHD hyperfocusing on replaying the cruel words we exchanged rather than my studies. The things he said. The things I said back. Over and over again. I keep meaning to get back to the things that used to shine bright with color—my work, the gym, camaraderie—but I only find gray, my mind sliding right past whatever is in front of me and landing on him. I can’t recall a single word of a paragraph I’ve just read. But I can replay that fight word for word on a loop that never seems to shut off. And when that’s all your brain gives you, everything else starts to dull at the edges.

I drag my eyes back to the article in front of me. Attempting to read about the messy love life of Mary, Queen of Scots isn’t helping. But when I remember that her husband had her private secretary stabbed fifty-seven times right in front of her during dinner one night, it gives me some perspective. She had it far worse than I do, so silver linings, I guess. Thanks, Mary.

I sigh and throw the paper down on my desk after my eyes move over the same paragraph for the eleventh time and retain exactly none of it.