Page 27 of The Tartan Thesis

“It wasn’t until I got to college that I really discovered history.” He braces his hands on the counter. “I have ADHD, so I have to work hard to focus on subjects that don’t interest me. If I’m not fascinated by a topic, my brain treats it like something in grayscale, something dull. But I had an incredible US history professor for a required course my first semester. His excitement about the past and how it led us to where we are today was palpable in all his lectures. His classes were like a burst of bright color, drawing me in. I was hooked.”

My heart softens thinking of a younger Beau, finding something bright and colorful in a sea of gray, something to be excited for.

“I was in school to study business,” he goes on, “and knew my parents wouldn’t let me switch majors outright, so I minored in history. I signed up for more classes with that professor and picked other courses that seemed interesting, like Medieval European history. Before I knew it, my academic advisor was asking if I wanted to double major given how many credits I already had, and I ended up with two undergraduate degrees.”

“And then you got two master’s?” I ask.

“Yes.” He smiles, and it’s surprisingly not smug. He grabs an orange out of a bowl and begins tossing it between his deft hands. “I was able to get my master’s in history because I got a master’s in business at the same time. Otherwise my parents wouldn’t have paid for it.” He shrugs and places the fruit back in its place. “I could’ve taken out loans to cover my living expenses, but there’s a clause that denies me access to my trust fund if I have a negative net worth. I got my MBA alongside my history master’s so they would pay for it and I could still access the trust when I reached the assigned age.”

“Wait. You have a trust fund?” I ask. That would explain the house, the car, the clothes…

“Yes,” he says flatly, “and I have control over it now. That’s how I’m able to be here for my PhD. I chose Edinburgh because Scottish history is the brightest spot of all, nothing gray about it.” He sets his jaw and continues, “And because I wanted to go and do something on my own. Even if it is with money I inherited.”

I nod and can’t help but wonder how much money Beau has exactly. My family does well enough now, but our modest wealth is a recent development. I certainly don’t have an investment portfolio I can draw from whenever I want.

He must see me calculating because when my eyes meet his again, he says, “I don’t usually talk about money, but I brought up the trust for two reasons. One,” he says, holding up his thumb, “you were very transparent with me, so I’m trying to be forthcoming as well.”

A second finger comes up on that beautiful hand.

“And two, I want to make it clear that I have adequate funding and will not be taking on an assistantship while I’m here. I don’t need the money and don’t want to be a professor.”

I stare at him, and he goes on to make his point clear.

“I am not your competition in any way,” he says, crossing arms over his chest again, looking far less surly now.

I go to lean back, remember I’m on a backless stool, and sit forward again, absorbing this revelation. I’ve been a raging ass for weeks now, trying to compete with someone who had zero intention of ever competing with me. I really am my own worst enemy.

“Fuck,” I say. “I really am sorry.”

“You’re sorry that I don’t have to worry about money?”

“No, I’ll cry you a river over that later,” I quip a little too quickly.

“There’s the Torin I know,” Beau drawls, a grin pulling at his ample lips.

I roll my eyes but smile, glad we’re on firmer ground.

“And…” he says, then hesitates, like he doesn’t want to complete whatever sentence he started.

“And what?” I ask.

“I shouldn’t say anything. It’ll only make you feel worse.”

“Please just tell me,” I say with a sigh. “I’d rather get it all over with, and I doubt you can make me feel any worse at this point.”

Beau cocks an eyebrow and gives me a moment to make sure I really want to know. I cross my arms, mirroring him, and hold his gaze.

“You asked for it,” he says. “You should also know that the systematic oppression of Highland culture is one of twelve topics I’m considering for my thesis. It’s actually really low on my list, and if it’s that important to you, then I solemnly swear not to overlap with your…” He pauses, one corner of his mouth turning up. “Tartan thesis.”

I put my face in my hands. Beau was right. I do feel worse.

“Christ, I’m an eejit,” I mutter into my palms.

When I look back up, Beau seems amused. “Told you it was going to make you feel worse.”

“And you were right.” I nod. “I was a right bawbag to you because I thought I was competing with you for a prize that it turns out you didn’t even want.” I shake my head. “I really am sorry.”

“Torin,” he says, and his eyes draw me in again. “You’re forgiven.” He glances at my bowl. “Now eat your yogurt while I grab my laptop.”