Page 121 of The Tartan Thesis

“Sorry,” I say, stepping the other way at the same time as him.

We mirror each other again, a half-step forward, a half-step back. A quiet laugh escapes him. I hear myself echo it.

At a gridlock, his eyes flick to the booklets in my hand. “Congrats,” he says in that low drawl. “Knew you’d do well. You always do.”

My fingers tighten on the pages, edges digging into my palm.

How is it possible for him to be nice to me? After everything.

“Thanks,” I say, almost a whisper, my voice failing me.

“Anytime,” he says, and there’s nothing flippant about it. It’s soft, earnest. The way he used to speak to me when it was just us. My eyes lock with his, the intensity there and the brilliant blue mesmerizing me again. “Anytime.”

I can’t speak. There’s too much caught in my throat, too many things fighting to get out at once. That I’m sorry about what I said, that I still can’t wrap my mind around what happened, that I’d been scared before. That I still am. The words crowd forward but they don’t make it past my lips. All I can do is look at him and hope he can see it anyway.

His eyes go soft, and his big hands come up and grip my shoulders gently, keeping me in place. My whole body reacts before my mind catches up, leaning into his touch without meaning to, chasing the memory of when everything between us was uncomplicated and good. But he’s already moving, stepping past. My hands come up and brush his just before he lets go. It’s nothing. It’s everything. The brief contact sends a pang of longing through my belly.

I turn and watch him head into the office. He pauses a few steps away, glancing back over his shoulder, and the look he gives me—

“A bunch of us are going to The Horn & Thistle to celebrate the end of term and all the graduates, if you want to go.” Does he sound hopeful? Or do I just want him to be?

I want to go. I want to see him. I probably shouldn’t. “Maybe,” I say.

“Alright,” he says, tapping his thighs. “Okay.”

He nods and turns away again, stepping up to the desk, asking for his exam papers like this is ordinary, like we’re just classmates passing in a hallway and not two people who nearly tore each other apart.

I stand there longer than I should, watching the line of his back, the familiar shape of him, trying to force my feet to move, trying to swallow everything sitting heavy in my chest. I could call his name. I could talk to him. Maybe it would change something.

But what if it doesn’t?

One more glance at his beautiful frame, just long enough to feel the loss of him all over again, then I hurry away before he can turn around. Because I don’t know what to say, or how to say it.

Even if I did, why would he forgive me?

38

Beau

In A Swither

Translation: To be in a state of hesitation or doubt

Usage: To describe how you feel when you wonder about something and can’t make a decision

I watch the pub’s front door as my classmates celebrate around me, passing plates of food back and forth, hugging and congratulating the soon-to-be graduates, calling them “doctor.” I glance down at the beer Maeve thrust into my hand earlier, but I haven’t taken a sip.

I should be in a great mood. I did really well this term, especially considering all that happened—I got good grades, my thesis topic was approved, and at some point, I got back to the gym—but those victories feel hollow because, despite everything, I still miss him. Our brief conversation today was enough to make that clear.

I shift my weight, fingers tightening around the glass as the door opens again. Not him. Just another group of grad students pushing in from the street, loud and looking for a drink.

I need to stop moping. I deserve to have a good time tonight. I’ve worked hard, and I won’t see these folks outside of the classroom till the fall term. I should socialize. But my gaze is still trained on the entrance, just in case, hoping Torin had felt it, too, whatever it was that flowed between us earlier today.

I watch a few minutes longer, standing by the bar, the beer growing warm in my hand, then set it down with a sigh.

He’s not coming. Maybe it’s for the best.

Even if he did show up, it would probably make things harder in the long run.