Page 122 of The Tartan Thesis

It’s better this way. Definitely. I’ll go home for the summer and clear my head. Then—hopefully—I’ll be able to face him without the pit of longing and misery in my belly.

“That beer isn’t going to drink itself.” Maeve is looking up at me, mouth drawn as if to say not this again, then raises her glass toward me. I grab my Guinness and clink it with hers before splitting the G. I show her, which earns me a grin.

I glance at the door one more time, then turn to face her, finally giving up on Torin making an appearance.

“So you’re headed back to Texas tomorrow?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “I fly out tomorrow afternoon.”

Maeve nods. “It’ll be nice to be home for a while, yeah?”

“Uh huh.” I nod, aiming for enthusiasm and missing. “It’ll be great.”

She doesn’t call me on it, just puts a hand on my forearm, squeezing gently. “I know things have been difficult for you, but as the old Irish proverb goes, What butter and whiskey won’t cure, there is no cure for.” She flags down the bartender and orders two half shots of Teeling, a Dublin-made whiskey, along with a plate of Scotch eggs.

“I’m stealing that phrase,” I say as we settle onto barstools.

We chat about our summer plans, Blair recites a Robert Burns poem, the food arrives, and we eat our fried snack. With all the hubbub and chow, I almost forget that Torin isn’t here. And how much I want him to be.

I reach for a napkin and wipe the grease off my hands, then Maeve gasps. I look at her, but her eyes are on the door. I turn, already knowing. Torin is standing just inside the entrance, hands in his pockets, head down as he looks around, like he’s not sure he should be here.

“Torin!” Isla calls, waving at him. “Over here!”

He waves back, then his eyes flick to me, and my heart ceases to function. He makes his way across the pub, stopping here and there, saying hello to some of our colleagues, awkwardly accepting hugs, keeping his gaze in my general direction. Maeve pats my hand, then takes a shot of whiskey to him, steering him to the bar.

“Slàinte,” he says, looking somewhere above my shoulder, seeming intent on not making eye contact. I tap my half-empty beer to his glass, heart thumping. He tips the liquor down his throat, then grimaces. “Should’ve known she’d give me the Irish stuff.”

I smile and try not to hope he’s actually here for me. “Yeah, she loves her country. Almost as much as you love yours.”

His cheeks turn red as a bashful smile spreads across his lips. His gaze catches mine, then drops down again, the toe of his right foot drawing and re-drawing an invisible line on the old wood floors. I drum my fingers on my glass, searching for something, anything, to say.

Torin beats me to it. “Beau, listen, I—”

Maeve claps. “Right! Attention, everyone! It’s time for awards!”

Everybody cheers, except Torin, who groans beside me and orders a beer. Then we turn our attention to our self-elected social chair.

“First up—Isla! You incredible woman. I dub you Most Sarcastic. You earned this honor through years of dedicated service.” Isla takes a theatrical bow, accepts her certificate, and immediately critiques the font choice.

“For our favorite religious scholar, Blair—Most Likely to Swear in Class.”

“Too fucking right,” Blair says, to roaring approval.

The rhythm builds—laughter, clapping, groaning, photos, people jostling each other out of the way.

I glance sideways. Torin’s watching, but not really. His attention keeps slipping—back to me, then away again, like he’s trying not to get caught doing it.

“And now,” Maeve says, flipping her hair back and looking meaningfully around at everyone, “it will be a shock to absolutely no one that I selected Torin as Most Likely to Get Tenure!”

The room erupts.

He freezes mid-sip. Slowly lowers his glass. Drags a hand over his face. With a quiet exhale, he pushes himself off the bar and trudges over like he’s being led to the gallows. A camera flashes as he poses half-heartedly for a picture with his certificate. He nods at something Maeve says, then comes back over, face and ears red, and takes a deep pull of his ale.

“Congrats,” I tell him.

“God,” he mumbles, “that was so embarrassing.”

When Maeve calls my name, I accept my fate as Most Likely to Have Crumbs Under His Desk and return to Torin. He eyes the piece of paper in my hand, brow furrowed.