Page 12 of The Tartan Thesis

I blink up at her. The room has already started to empty. “Yeah, sorry,” I say. “I just zoned out for a sec.”

I pack up my things, and Maeve links arms with me as we walk with Isla to our shared office. Maeve’s never met a friendly arm she didn’t grab, which usually works for me, but it sends a pang of homesickness through my heart today. Her hand in the crook of my elbow reminds me of my granny, who goes as my date to charity events back home. She’s always so proud to stand next to me. I miss her, especially on the days when I find it hard to be proud of myself. Had she leaned on me, or had I leaned on her?

“So, Beau, do you have any ideas for your thesis topic?” Isla asks.

“I, uh…” I was not expecting to have to talk about this so soon. “Yeah, I’ve got a few thoughts,” I say, aiming for confidence. “I just need to get some time with Professor Moreau to discuss.”

Then Isla turns back a bit and asks, “What about you, Torin? Know what you want to research yet?” I hadn’t realized he was walking behind us.

“Of course,” he says.

I glance back, and his eyes flash up. Had he been looking at my ass?

He clears his throat, and my spine straightens automatically as I turn my head forward again. “I’ve been working on my research for years, and I’m expanding on it for my dissertation. I started on my proposal over the summer. I’m sure it will be accepted.”

Years? Years! That’s just great. While Torin is polishing his dissertation, I’ll be staring at a blank page. I’m starting to wonder—not for the first time—whether I’m actually cut out for this.

5

Torin

Highlands

Translation: A mountainous region in northern Scotland

Usage: To describe the vast and beautiful territory north and west of the Highland Boundary Fault, where Gaelic heritage runs deep

I’ve forgotten what Edinburgh looks like. All I know is the inside of this library. The wooden desk that never seems large enough to hold all my materials, the brass lamp that’s older than my parents, and the small window with a narrow view of the stone courtyard are my constant companions.

Midterms are approaching, and no one seems particularly eager to explain how they work. I know it will be almost entirely writing—in addition to the papers we have due—but beyond that, it’s suspiciously vague. So I arrive when the library opens. I read, I outline, I chase references through footnotes and track down whatever resources I can find. Then I go to lectures, take more notes, come back and repeat. The only interruptions are quick breaks to eat something before the next wave of reading.

Socializing has fallen by the wayside—not that I ever did much anyway. Most evenings I exchange a few messages with Freya or call my family. My flatmates and I pass each other like ships in the night, floating along in the fog of graduate studies, and my classmates have formed their own social orbit in the shared office. I could join them if I wanted to; it might behoove me to be more friendly with my colleagues in the future, but until midterms are over, I am one hundred percent committed to my studies.

And the long days are already paying off. I’m basically untouchable in class discussions, consistently more prepared than my classmates, especially Beau.

He’s my only competition for the research assistantship with Professor Drummond, and I intend to get that position. If that means stepping over a handsome American on the way, so be it.

It’s not that I dislike him, it’s that everything about him seems easy. Even when he isn’t as prepared for class as the rest of us, the faculty still love him. I should be accustomed to that. James was often even less prepared than Beau, and our professors fawned over him, too, ultimately giving him an award, one that should’ve been mine.

I stare at the page in front of me, read the same sentence for the fourth time and still have no idea what it says. It would help if my mind didn’t keep wandering back to Beau. Specifically to what he might look like shirtless. Or in the shower. It’s not at all conducive to studying.

Also—are Beau and Maeve dating? They’re practically inseparable, and she always seems to be touching him. A hand on his arm. Fingers on his shoulder. Leaning close to show him something in her notes.

A warmth rolls over me as my mind shifts to my hands on him instead.

But no. Even if he were gay, he wouldn’t be into me. He’s too good-looking. Perfect hair, bronzed skin, incredible build. Those eyes. Those dimples.

I sigh and check my watch. It’s almost time to meet with my advisor about my thesis proposal. I close the book, shove my notes into my bag, and sling it over my shoulder. Beau invades my thoughts again as I walk. I hate how often it happens. But we are classmates, and he does look like a god. I’m only human.

He’s also just… nice. Even when I pick at his contributions in class, he listens, takes notes, and thanks me for the information. I thought I might be getting under his skin at one point and wondered if I should back off. I don’t want the guy to hate me. I just want to prove that I’m the better historian. He’d stopped me after class the next day.

“Hey,” he’d said, falling into step beside me. “Don’t hold back in there. The feedback’s really helping.” His beautiful blue eyes had sparkled. Which was really annoying.

I might look like the more intelligent one, but it’s making him look like the mature adult in our relationship.

Not that we have a relationship. He’s in a relationship with Maeve. We’re colleagues. Nothing more.

I arrive at Professor Moreau’s office and knock on the open door. She’s writing something but lifts a hand, calling me inside without looking up.