Page 43 of The Tartan Thesis

Torin glances down at the hat, clearly weighing whether refusal is still an option. The room is watching now, a few nearby classmates already chuckling as they wait to see what he’ll do. With a small, resigned sigh, he settles the hat onto his head. The effect is immediate and faintly ridiculous.

Maeve waves him over to join us.

I check him out while she hugs him and foists punch into his hands. He looks good in a dark green shirt and burgundy blazer, a subtle nod to the season. His dark jeans fit his toned legs very well.

This time, I’m the one caught looking. But I don’t blush. I want him to see.

“Hi,” he says with a slight raise of his cup.

“Howdy,” I say back, raising mine in return.

Maeve, hostess that she is, pulls us into conversation about our holiday plans. She really is a godsend. Despite all the time Torin and I have spent together lately, there are still moments when the space between us fills with a kind of awkward awareness neither of us seems quite sure how to navigate.

“I’m going home to see my family for a few weeks,” Torin reports.

“Up near Inverness, yeah? Is your sister going to be there as well?” Maeve asks. I honestly don’t know how she remembers everything about everybody. It’s her superpower.

“Yeah, Freya will be there for some of it. She can’t take off work too long since it’s a busy season for her, but we’ll get some time together.” His expression softens as he talks. “And she hosts a big Hogmanay ceilidh at the farm every year, so we’ll enjoy ourselves.” I find myself smiling without meaning to. There’s something about the way his whole face lights up when he talks about family that makes the room feel warmer. “What about you?”

Maeve says she’s going back to Ireland and rattles off some of her favorite traditions. She might like Christmas even more than I do, which is saying something. I mean, I watch Hallmark holiday movies year-round, if that’s any indication of my commitment to the Yule season.

“What about you, Beau? Going back to the States?” Maeve asks.

“No, I’ll be here,” I say. I try to keep my tone casual as I lift my cup for another sip, buying myself a second. The prospect of spending the holidays alone in a foreign country suddenly feels bleak.

“Oh, is your family coming here then?” Maeve asks.

“No, they’ll be skiing with some family friends. I never really got into it like my parents and siblings did, so I politely declined the trip.” There’s more to it, but I don’t feel like getting into it right now.

“Oh,” Maeve says, brows furrowed.

Both she and Torin look unconvinced, like a lack of interest in snow sports isn’t enough reason to stay away from family at Christmas, so I offer up something else to keep their questions at bay. “The family friends are my ex-girlfriend and her family. Our dads are best friends, which is great for them but weird for me.”

Maeve nods her understanding. She knows about my ex, but I guess it’s never come up with Torin before because his head swivels up from his drink as he looks at me with eyebrows raised.

“Well, you’re welcome to come to Ireland for a visit,” Maeve offers. “It’s a full house, but I’m sure we can squeeze you in somewhere.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Torin fidgeting nervously and file it away to think about later.

“That’s so sweet of you,” I say, “but I don’t want to intrude. I can stay here and focus on my studies. I want to get ahead on the reading for next term, and I need to keep exploring thesis topics.”

Maeve waves a hand, batting the idea away. “It’s not intruding if I invited you. Ring me tomorrow to talk details.”

It seems she won’t take no for an answer, and it would be nice not to be alone on Christmas Day. “Deal,” I say with a smile that’s almost genuine.

Despite Maeve’s warning, we’ve all finished our first glass of her punch relatively quickly. I swirl the melting ice in my cup and rattle it. “Should I set a timer before I get my next round?”

“Nah, I was mostly kidding before, but both of you have the Christmas flush already,” she says, motioning to our faces.

I look at Torin and see she’s right. His cheeks are rosy now beneath the scatter of freckles. We grin sheepishly at each other, still awkward.

“We can switch to the mulled wine, if you like,” Maeve says as she points to a simmering slow cooker and a stack of insulated paper cups.

“Oh no,” Torin says, sternly rejoining the conversation. “Rosemary Clooney said never to mix grapes and grains if you don’t want a terrible hangover. Given her performance in White Christmas alone, I feel I owe it to her to never drink wine with anything else.”

“Is it true that drinking wine and other alcohol will give you a worse hangover?” Maeve asks as she refills our cups.

“Probably not,” Torin says with a shrug, “but what’s life without whimsy?”