Page 61 of The Tartan Thesis

“Then the ban was repealed in the 1950s?” I ask, enjoying her enthusiasm for the topic. Torin mentioned before that his mother encouraged him in his passion for Scottish history, being a teacher herself, but her voice tells me she has her own interest in the subject.

“It was.” She nods. “Though it still wasn’t a big holiday for a long time. When I was a child, it was very much in the shadow of Hogmanay, which had become the dominant winter holiday. But Christmas is a much bigger affair than before, so there’s ongoing revelry as the new year approaches.”

“Well, thank you for telling me about it. And for having me here to celebrate.” I smile and raise my mug toward her in a toast.

She smiles back. “Of course, dear. Now eat up before it gets cold.”

Freya, undeterred by my attempt at distraction, is looking back and forth between me and Torin. When he makes the mistake of meeting her eyes, hers get a gleam in them before turning and oh-so-innocently asking, “So, Beau. What’s your sign?”

Torin’s groan is immediate. “Oh God, Freya, we talked about this.”

“What?” she asks. “I’m just trying to make conversation with your classmate.”

Torin’s face goes red, so I deflect from him by answering, “I’m a Sagittarius.”

“A fire sign, eh? Interesting. You know Torin is, too. He’s an Aries. Things could get pretty hot with the two of you in the same room.”

Torin’s fork clatters to his plate as a surprised laugh bursts out of me. “Can you please make her stop talking?” he begs his mother, but Margaret is giggling into her napkin.

Freya feigns innocence. “What did I say? We’re just talking about astrology! It’s all good fun.”

“And it’s all bollocks,” Torin retorts, returning to his plate.

Freya tilts her head and pastes on an angelic smile. “Oh, I don’t think we should be talking about your bollocks in front of our guest, do you?” The whole table erupts in laughter this time.

Torin’s head is in his hands, so his voice is muffled when he says, “My Christmas wish is to be an only child.”

Callum pulls himself together enough to say, “Alright, Freya, you’ve had your fun. Leave the poor lad alone,” but his face is red with mirth.

Everyone settles into the living room after breakfast, and I hand out flashing reindeer antlers and shortbread while Margaret serves everyone mimosas, which she calls Buck’s Fizz.

I have a seat on a small, worn, and incredibly comfortable sofa by Torin and angle myself so I can watch the Ramsays as they chatter away with each other. A pang of longing nestles deep hearing their Highland accents become more pronounced when they aren’t speaking directly to me, reminding me of the way my Southern accent gets thicker when I visit my own family.

Freya tells a story about a date she went on recently, gesturing wildly with a biscuit in one hand while the other sloshes her cocktail dangerously close to the rim of the glass. Torin pokes fun at her about the kinds of guys she likes, and she banters right back about the guys of his past. Margaret and Callum join in with questions about their lives, and they laugh constantly.

I love seeing Torin like this. He’s still fussy, but it’s easy to see that this really is home for him. He belongs here.

I swallow down the feelings of jealousy and disappointment that I don’t have a similar relationship with my own family, taking a big swig of my Buck’s Fizz.

“Alright, Bodach na Nollaig,” Callum says, grabbing what has to be his fifth shortbread, “it’s time for some presents.”

My Gaelic isn’t great, so I’m confused until Torin looks sideways at me, then gets up and dons a red Santa hat.

“Bodach na Nollaig?” I ask. “Is that his Gaelic nickname or something?”

Freya jumps in before anyone else can. “Aye, it means ‘I like to be spanked.’”

Torin’s spine stiffens, but he doesn’t turn around.

Callum seems to be choking on his biscuit, so Margaret pats him on the back and tells me, “Don’t you mind her. Bodach na Nollaig is Gaelic for ‘Father Christmas.’ When Torin was wee, he’d crawl under the tree and divvy up the presents to everyone on Christmas morning, so we started calling him that, and the name stuck. Now it’s tradition for him to bring them to everyone.”

“That’s so sweet,” I say, causing Torin’s ears to turn the same shade of red as his hat.

He bends to the pile of gifts and starts distributing them, carrying each over one by one and dropping them into people’s laps. I’m surprised at how many he sets in front of me. The gifts from my parents are back in Edinburgh, so these must be from the Ramsays.

I read the labels before opening anything. There’s one from Freya, one from Torin, three from Santa, and one from Margaret and Callum.

“Santa?” I ask.