Page 18 of The Tartan Thesis

I shut my eyes and count to three, trying not to let my frustration get the better of me.

“Great!” Maeve chimes in. “I’m pleased with my scores and feedback. What about you?”

Bless her for redirecting the question.

“I’m well chuffed,” he says. “A-plus in all three courses.”

“Well done, Torin!” Maeve says. “I’ll be getting your first round when we go out to celebrate.”

“Thanks!” Torin smiles, and while I usually find it attractive, given how rare it is, today I don’t have the patience for his smug behavior.

My shoulders are just beginning to relax, hoping the conversation has passed, but no such luck. Torin clears his throat again, and I brace myself.

“What about you, Beau? How’d you do?” My spine stiffens. He seems less nonchalant now. He’s clearly angling and not trying to hide it at all anymore. Given his tone and the fact that he never talks to me outside of the classroom unless absolutely necessary, I realize with a wave of dread that he must’ve heard my conversation with Maeve. He knows I barely passed.

I inhale another calming breath, holding it for a few seconds before slowly exhaling. Refusing to let him see my distress, I keep my eyes on the screen when I respond. “Oh, I did well enough, and I’m sure I’ll do even better in the second half of term.” Even to my own ears my attempt at sounding bright falls flat.

He doesn’t respond, so I glance over. He’s staring at me, brows furrowed, mouth quirked to the side, like he knows something and can’t decide what to do with the information.

I turn back to my computer, willing my expression to stay neutral, my shaking hands betraying how I really feel. If I’d done better on my exams, I probably wouldn’t be so affected by his antics today, but right now every look from him feels like a judgment. He’s going to be more intolerable than ever.

I hold in a sigh and look at my neat little plan, the checkboxes and action items that seemed so promising ten minutes ago. It’s hard to feel optimistic about it now. Because despite Maeve’s faith in humanity, I’m fairly certain it’ll be a cold day in hell before Torin Ramsay does anything nice for me.

7

Torin

Dobber

Translation: Penis

Usage: To refer to an annoying person, generally insulting

Christ on a bike. Beau got a C+ on his midterm.

I knew he hadn’t been keeping up with me, but I hadn’t realized he was doing so poorly. I should be celebrating because there’s no way he’ll be Professor Drummond’s research assistant now. Instead, I find myself watching him.

He turns back to his work, shoulders rounded in a way I’ve never seen before. The look of defeat on his face sucks any joy out of the situation.

I tear my eyes away and try not to look at him as I prepare for class, but he’s even more distracting than usual, slumped over this desk, cheek braced in one perfect hand, looking like he’s lost all hope. He glances over at me, making brief eye contact before snapping his gaze back to his screen and putting his earphones in.

The room fills as the day goes on, people discuss their grades, but Beau keeps his head down. It’s quieter without his contributions. I already miss his smile.

I force my eyes down to my meticulous notes. Perfect grades. Research assistantship. Tenure. That’s why I’m here. Beau’s personal crisis changes nothing. I won’t back down from my goals now just because he’s beautiful when he’s sad.

I turn the page and begin creating talking points for today’s class discussion, refusing to look up again for the rest of the day.

Maeve stands and twirls a finger in the air. “Right, class time, people.”

We pack up our things and file out the door. Beau walks in front of me, Maeve’s arm around his. They aren’t chattering on like they usually do. She must be as keyed into his mood as I am, and she’s letting him be, lending him silent support with her presence.

If I hadn’t been such a dobber to him all term, maybe I could’ve been there for him, too. As a friend.

There’s a strange twist in my stomach. I’d like to be friends with Beau. Now that he’s not a threat, maybe I can be.

Beau braces the door open for Maeve, arm stretched across the frame, then glances back and, giving me a weak smile, gestures for me to go ahead of him. I duck past him, close enough to catch the faint herbal scent of his soap, avoiding his gaze but muttering my thanks as I pass.

Manners. His are so ingrained that he can’t help but be polite, even when he’s at his lowest. Damn him for continuously ticking items off The List.