Page 47 of The Tartan Thesis

“Not everyone,” he says with a laugh, “but I’ve made a point of creating my own little community here. I like to know the people I see all the time.” He looks back at Craig just as he looks over at us. He gives Beau a little wave before nodding at me. Beau raises a hand back with a smile.

Beau points out a few more men, and I continue to provide noncommittal responses. He has something nice to say about literally everyone here, whether he knows their names and professions or not. He told me before that he respects anyone who does something hard in order to better themselves, and it seems he was telling the truth.

Feeling less nauseated, I turn to him and ask, “What about you?”

He seems confused, tensing up a bit. “What about me?” he asks, tone cautious.

“What’s your type? Do they need to be all muscly like you?”

“Oh,” he says, shifting uncomfortably on the bench. “I like all kinds of guys.”

The answer sounds sincere, but the way he avoids eye contact makes me wonder if I’ve stumbled into uncomfortable territory. I didn’t mean to make him nervous, but it seems fair to ask about his type since he’s interrogated me about mine. I’m sure he wants someone that looks more like him, and being the kind person that he is, he’s sparing my feelings by not responding. I let it go.

“I think I can finally hobble my way out of here,” I say. “It’s time for some brotein.”

Beau laughs. “You did not just call it that.”

I try an American accent. “What? Don’t you want some gains, bruh? Do you even lift?”

“Oh, no, please don’t be that guy,” he says, shaking his head. “Also, I think your American accent might be even worse than my Scottish one, which is saying something.”

“Go on, then! Let’s hear it!” I can’t wait to take the piss out of him for whatever is about to come out of his mouth.

He lets out a resigned sigh. “I suppose I should’ve expected that.”

“Stop stalling. Give it a go.”

He takes a deep breath and then says, “No, we can’t be givin’ whisky to the bairns. They’re too wee for it. They’ll end up in the loch with the monster.”

A sound bursts out of me somewhere between a laugh and a choke, and I nearly tip sideways off the bench as the laughter takes over entirely. Beau’s cheeks flush a deep red, a helpless grin stretching wide across his face. I work to catch my breath, but I keep falling into fits of mirth. Tears blur my vision by the time I get enough air to say, “I don’t know if I’m more offended by the stereotypes”—I wheeze—“or the fact that your accent sounded more like a cross between Irish and Cockney.” That sets me off again.

“Oh shut up,” he says, pushing me playfully. “Your American wasn’t any better.” Then he stands up and retrieves his bag while I struggle to compose myself.

When he smiles and reaches out his hand, I take it, and he hoists me to my still-slightly-wobbling legs. “Come on, Broseidon, King of the Brocean. You’ve earned your brotein. Smoothies at my place.”

16

Beau

Ceilidh (kay-lee)

Translation: A party

Usage: A social event, often with traditional music, dancing, and singing

“Bloody hell,” Torin says when he steps inside the house. “You must really like Christmas.”

Lights are twinkling from the garland draped over the mantel, greenery threaded with dried orange slices and cinnamon sticks that release a spicy scent into the air, my stocking hanging in the middle. The tree glows in the corner of the room, wrapped in burlap and wood beads, and trimmed with oranges, pine cones, and varying shades of green, brass, and pewter ornaments. Christmas candles and nicknacks abound. A Santa here, a Ho Ho Ho sign there. I love it, but now I’m looking at it from someone else’s perspective.

“Is it too much?” I ask.

He closes his mouth and pivots to me. “No, it’s amazing,” he says, his green eyes on mine. “I love it.”

“Good,” I say, realizing how much I crave his approval. “I’m glad you like it. I love Christmas. Best time of the year.”

We shed our coats and head to the kitchen, Torin eyeing the Christmas village spread across the sideboard—rows of tiny houses and trees dusted with fake snow, yellow windows glowing softly from the lights inside. He leans closer for a second, studying the miniature ice skaters circling a frozen pond, before finally pulling out a stool at the breakfast bar. I start gathering smoothie ingredients and am only a little embarrassed about the gingerbread house in front of him, its roof dusted with powdered sugar and lined with gumdrops. I painted it last night with my granny via video call while she worked on her own.

Torin is still staring around the kitchen like he’s stepped into a festive museum. “When did you have time to go buy all this and put it up?”