Page 92 of The Tartan Thesis

It’s a cold, gray Saturday in Edinburgh, and Maeve and I are at our favorite date night spot, a little Indian restaurant with an incredible chef who’s always coming up with new creations. The chatter and lively music paired with the smells of curry, garlic, and buttery naan almost make me believe it isn’t freezing outside. This place is a balm for the soul.

Maeve doesn’t stop spooning butter chicken over rice when she responds. “I know. Everyone does.”

I take a bite of a samosa and groan as the spice hits, crisp pastry giving way to soft, fragrant filling. Worth every sacrificed calorie since getting back from the holidays.

Then I realize what she said and almost choke.

I cough, grab for my drink, eyes watering as I try to breathe and process at the same time. “Wait, what?”

“I said I know and that everyone else does, too. And you have to try these potatoes,” she says, pushing some onto my plate.

When I stare at her instead of taking a bite, she stabs one with her fork and shoves it into my open mouth. I sputter around it, nearly choke again, then chew.

“You’re right,” I admit, “these potatoes are delicious.”

“Right?” She nods at me, already going back for another.

“But how does everyone know?” I’m anxious about her answer until I dip a potato in the mint yogurt and take a bite, achieving something close to nirvana.

“Oh, you really are a dewy-eyed mooncalf, aren’t you?” she says, giving me a pitying look over her chai martini. “The two of you disappeared upstairs at the party and were gone longer than you probably realize.”

“Oh, God,” I say, tipping my head back. I really thought we’d gotten away with it.

“That’s what he said,” Maeve says with a cackle.

“Maeve!” I chide, wadding up a napkin and launching it at her head.

“So you definitely did something upstairs,” she says, throwing the napkin back at me. “Did you have another go after you left?”

“No,” I say, heat rising in my cheeks. “I would’ve been happy to go again, but he was the responsible student, and we parted ways.” But not before another hot make-out session on his doorstep.

“It must’ve been a really good time, then, if you want a repeat performance.”

I shake my head, but I can feel the smile pulling at my mouth. “Yeah,” I admit. “Yeah. It was.” But she’s not getting any more than that.

“So are you and Torin dating?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I answer, causing Maeve to raise an eyebrow at me. I drag my fork through the sauce on my plate, not really looking at it. “I mean, I’d like to, but things have gone back to exactly how they were before Burns Night. It’s been weeks of the same.”

Not exactly the same, I guess. Touches linger, as do his eyes on my body. But otherwise, it’s been nothing more than a sexually frustrating friendship.

“Well,” she says, tearing off a piece of naan, “when we first talked about your attraction to him, we agreed he might be weird about dating. Maybe he’s just struggling with his feelings, especially after such an indiscreet encounter.”

“Shit,” I say, dropping my fork and sagging back in my seat. At the time, I hadn’t thought about anything other than how badly I wanted him. Replaying it now, I wince. Nothing is more important to Torin than school, his reputation, and I went down on him with our colleagues in earshot. It may have been too much for him. But he hasn’t disappeared, either. He hasn’t gone running scared.

She watches me while she chews. “Do you want my advice?”

“Yes, please,” I rush to say, tilting toward her.

“Torin likes things to be clear-cut. And right now, for him, this probably isn’t. Despite your best physical efforts, things probably still seem gray to him. You need to make them black and white.”

“So, what, ask him if he wants to be my boyfriend?” A thrill of excitement runs through me at that phrase. My boyfriend. Yes, that’s what I want. But other than serious eye contact and the one time I swallowed every inch he had to offer, I’m still not sure where I stand with him.

Maeve shrugs. “I’m not saying you need to slap a label on it, but you took action like we discussed, and it went well,” she says. “I think that’s enough signal for you to be able to tell him how you feel.”

I sigh and lean back in my chair. She might be right, but all my doubts come creeping in, like the cold air through the edges of the nearby window.

“I don’t know, Maeve,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m terrible at dating. I’ve never—” I hesitate, searching for the right way to say it. “I’ve never had to express my feelings for someone before. I wouldn’t even know what to say.”