Page 46 of The Tartan Thesis

“Torin, you don’t have to do any reps at all,” he says, watching me closely, “but you show up and do them and it’s paying off.”

I want to feel that compliment, but everything feels off-kilter. I try to look up at him, but the sweat in my eyes stings, blurring him.

“Oh, damn, you’re pale as a sheet,” he says. His hand closes gently around my arm as he guides me back to the bench. “Come sit down before you keel over.”

I sink down onto it while Beau digs around in his gym bag and pulls out a bottle of electrolytes and a bag of Sour Patch Kids. He twists open the bottle and hands it to me. My fingers are trembling badly enough that I nearly drop it. While I chug the salty grape-flavored beverage, he sits down, tears open the neon packet, and dumps some sweets into his hand, launching a few into his mouth. He grabs my wrist and holds it tenderly as he pours a few of the sugary confections into my open palm.

“Eat up, big boy.”

I pass the bottle back to him and chew; the sharp sweetness hits my tongue, and within seconds the nausea begins to loosen its grip. He takes a swig and looks back over at me before nodding.

“You’re looking better now,” he says, “but let’s not go anywhere just yet. You definitely pushed a little too hard on that one.” He passes me the electrolytes again.

“You’re the knowledgeable one here,” I say with the little indignation I can muster. I’m worn out, and it’s hard to get upset with him anymore. “You could’ve stopped me.”

“I could’ve, but you seemed confident, and I don’t know where the line is for you,” he says. “That’s something you have to learn for yourself.”

I nod noncommittally as he dumps more sweets into my hand. “And,” he continues, “it’s nice to hear you tell me I’m smart. Add that to the one other time you’ve complimented me, other than when you accidentally said you liked my eyes, and my head may never deflate.”

I sputter on the drink and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “I said ‘knowledgeable,’ which is not technically the same thing, and when have I ever complimented you before? Other than the eye thing, all I’ve mentioned is your golden retriever energy, which was more of an astute observation on my part than anything.”

He looks at me like he can’t tell if I’m serious or not. I stare back.

“The first time we ever met?” he hints with a nudge.

I continue to stare.

“You told me I was pretty, remember?” he asks, batting his eyelashes at me.

“I meant it as an insult,” I say, rolling my eyes.

My mind flashes back to the day we met. He was dressed pretty similarly then as he is now, athletic clothes that seem designed specifically to emphasize the sculpted lines of his arms and chest. At the time, I’d thought he was just a smug American with glistening muscles and beautiful eyes. Now I know he’s witty, excitable, caring, and smart. And that despite how vain and confident he might appear, he’s sometimes unsure. At some point, he stopped being a sculpted statue and became a real person to me. I like him better this way.

And he has the most kissable lips I’ve ever seen. It’s hard not to glance at them constantly. I wanted to kiss him on St. Andrew’s Day, but it didn’t happen, which is probably for the best. I really don’t want a repeat of what happened with James.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll settle for ‘knowledgeable’ for now, but if you don’t think I’m pretty, then who do you think is?”

I startle at this. Of course I think he’s pretty, more than pretty, but he’s my colleague, and we’ve become friends. This hardly feels like the moment to admit how often I imagine what he’d look like naked. And on top of me. Unsure how to proceed, I gather more information. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Like, what’s your type? Do you like twinks, bears, otters? Maybe you like daddies?” He’s really warming up now. “Oh, how about a sturdy middle-aged gentleman like Professor Drummond?” He looks at me with those bright eyes, brows wagging, and it’s hard not to laugh.

“No,” I say. “Definitely not into any of the faculty.”

This doesn’t seem to satisfy Beau’s curiosity, and though I’m screaming YOU YOU YOU I’M ATTRACTED TO YOU in my head, I give a non-answer aloud.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I just like who I like.”

But he’s not letting this slide. “Well,” he says and looks around the gym, “what about Joseph at the front desk? He’s pretty hot, and he’s working here while he gets his master’s in anthropology. Fit and plenty to talk about.”

I look over to see a guy a couple years younger than us. Brown hair, decent build, lightly tanned skin. He’s cute, but I shrug.

Determined, he continues, “What about Craig?”

“Who?”

Beau nods toward the guy on the treadmill closest to us. He’s handsome and looks strong. He’s got a little extra weight and wears it well on his tall frame. “Dad bod over there. Early thirties, I think. Works at the main library on campus. Married and has a kid on the way. He’s a very good-looking guy.”

Rather than commenting on Beau’s increasingly detailed catalogue of attractive men, I deflect. “Do you know everyone here?”