Page 1 of The Tartan Thesis

1

Torin

Auld Reekie

Translation: Old Smokey

Usage: The nickname for Edinburgh (ed-in-burr-uh), the capital of Scotland

Two weeks ago, my boyfriend of one year broke up with me via text message. I’d thought the sting of such a juvenile form of separation would be gone by now, but as I stare at my phone, it hurts just as much as the first time I read it.

James

Torin, this isn’t working. I’m staying in London. Hope we can still be mates.

The message sits pinned at the top of my screen like a tiny blue obituary. I tell myself I haven’t deleted it out of principle. Or spite. Or academic curiosity. Any good historian will study a disaster from multiple angles, especially our own.

I’d called him immediately to ask what the fuck was happening. We were meant to be moving in together next week, starting our PhDs in Edinburgh together.

He’d declined my calls twice before picking up on the third attempt, voice flat, already elsewhere. He didn’t want to come back to Scotland; apparently, I’d never truly made him a priority. When pressed for details, he’d said I was addicted to my work. Obsessed with it. In other words, it was me, not him.

We haven’t talked since.

I set my phone facedown on the sink and check my appearance in the small bathroom mirror once more. I smooth down my new shirt, an unnecessary purchase—but armor comes in many forms—and attempt to tame my wavy hair into something that suggests competence.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Are you nearly done?”

“Sorry,” I call, unlocking it and slipping past my flatmate, someone whose name I barely know, into the narrow hallway of the flat I had to secure in under forty-eight hours because James decided Edinburgh wasn’t for him after all.

Having to live with two total strangers makes me resent him even more.

I grab my bag, a gift from my sister who insisted it looked scholarly, and step out to a rare warm September day. I last approximately thirty seconds in my jacket before shrugging it off. My shirt is already sticking to my back, sweat trickling down my spine—heat, nerves, or humiliation, I’m not sure.

My mind drifts back to that last conversation. Obsessed, he’d said. The word follows me down the pavement. Obsessed with my work. Obsessed with history. Obsessed with getting things right. And in a way, he was right. I’ve known what I wanted to do with my life since I was wee; my dream is to become a history professor. But “focused” or “driven” seem more accurate words. Admirable qualities. I’ll need to be both of these things. For the next three years, I’ll work to earn my PhD, performing excellent research and publishing as often as possible. Whatever it takes to become tenured faculty.

Other than my family, there’s nothing as important to me. Scotland has been through so much, constantly told what to be, consistently underestimated, and despite its momentary losses, it’s remained true to itself, a beautiful, formidable, and distinguished nation. And if James doesn’t understand my passion for Scottish history, then perhaps I’m better off without him.

As for his accusation of not making him a priority, he is dead wrong. I took ample time away from my studies during the second year of our master’s to socialize alongside him and help him with his own studies. Not that he ever acknowledged my assistance. Not even when he was named Outstanding Master’s Scholar instead of me.

Another reason to leave James in the past. Ungrateful git.

I wipe sweat off my brow, my trousers and shirt already stifling me.

Maybe I’ll splurge at a café since it’s my first day back to school. An iced Americano would cool me down before I get to graduate student orientation. And help me focus. God knows I need all the help I can get.

First impressions matter in academia. More than anyone likes to admit. Research I can handle. Writing too. People, well… they are another matter.

Interacting with strangers has always made me nervous, and every conversational misstep I’ve collected over the years has only made it worse. The thought of a room full of new classmates and faculty makes me feel sick. Those are exactly the people I need to impress.

Perhaps pouring caffeine on the situation is unwise.

As I’ve done every day for the past week, I start rehearsing conversations in my head. Hi, I’m Torin Ramsay. Smile. It’s nice to meet you. Eye contact. Yes, my shirt is stuck to my back. Thank you for noticing. Don’t panic. If I’m caught off guard, I might say something nonsensical or simply freeze up, unable to reply.

The streets are almost empty at this early hour, so I pull out my phone and review my list of conversation starters. Glencoe. Highland Clearances. Scottish languages. Safe topics. Topics I find interesting. Otherwise, I tune out quickly and then say something stupid.

A text notification pops up as I’m walking, and I’m looking down when a pair of trainers appears in front of me.