Page 45 of The Tartan Thesis

I don’t head home for another couple of days. Do you have time for a workout tomorrow?

I press my lips together, tamping down the giddy feeling in my stomach.

Beau

Sounds good. 9 AM?

His reply comes quickly this time.

Torin

See you there.

I grin even wider than before. I’ve taught him enough that he could go without me, he doesn’t need me there. Maybe it’s an excuse to spend more time with me.

The thought sparks a warm flicker of hope before I shake my head, keeping my expectations in check. He just needs a gym buddy to keep him accountable. Plenty of people prefer working out that way. I can do that for him. Even if the mere thought of his muscles flexing as he lifts increasingly heavy weights sends heat rushing southward in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with exercise.

By the time I reach my house, the snowfall has thickened slightly, dusting the steps and railing with a thin layer of white. I unlock the door and step inside, kick off my shoes, and pause to admire the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. The lights glow softly, reflecting off the ornaments I’d hung on the branches earlier in the week. For a moment I just stand there. Then my body reminds me that rum punch is not a substitute for hydration.

I wander into the kitchen and pour myself a tall glass of water, drinking half of it in one go before refilling the glass and carrying it with me upstairs.

I change into pajamas, order delivery from my favorite Chinese restaurant, and pour myself some scotch before getting horizontal on the couch. I queue up a list of Christmas rom-coms on the TV and take a sip of the whisky.

This is my favorite time of year.

I relax, eat Peking duck, and watch as two enemies turn into lovers, one of the leads making a grand gesture before love conquers all. I’ve seen hundreds of movies just like it, and I never tire of it. In a world filled with so much chaos, there’s something comforting about these shows, where the ending is never really in doubt. No matter how tangled things become along the way, you always know that by the final scene the two people who belong together will find their way there.

I put on another movie, fire crackling, tree shining, and try not to let my mind wander to Torin as I dream about my own happily ever after.

15

Torin

Blether

Translation: Talk

Usage: To describe the act of talking or to refer to a conversation

I hate Bulgarian split squats. I’m sure the Bulgarian people are lovely, but this exercise is pure torture. One foot on the bench behind me, a dumbbell in each hand, struggling to balance as the sweat drips down my temple and into my eye while my quads scream for me to stop. I suddenly wish I hadn’t asked Beau for another trip to the gym. I could have been halfway to Inverness by now. The train would be warm, my sister would already be texting to ask when I’d arrive, and there would be tea waiting at the kitchen table when I got home. Instead I’m here, trembling like a newborn foal while Beau watches my form with the calm patience of a man who seems entirely unbothered by the concept of muscle fatigue.

All because I extended my stay in Edinburgh when I found out he wasn’t going home for Christmas.

Which is ridiculous. He’s not dependent on me to keep him company. Until a few weeks ago, we barely even talked. But now that we’re friends, staying here to spend time with him seems like the nice thing to do. I’m also still trying to make up for how rude I was the first half of term.

I lower into the squat again, my quad screaming at me once it’s parallel to the floor, and push upward with ever-flagging energy. My leg wobbles dangerously as I reach the top of the movement.

I’m knackered when Beau says, “Three more on that side and you’re done. Don’t stop now or one leg will be bigger than the other and you’ll spend your life walking in circles.”

Under normal circumstances I might find that amusing. Unfortunately the leg currently supporting my entire body is trembling so violently that the idea of walking anywhere ever again seems wildly optimistic.

I take a breath and do another rep.

Beau encourages me as I grunt my way through the last two, then drop the weights without ceremony. I pull my foot off the bench and lean over, hands on my knees, while my lungs try to remember how breathing works. He slaps me on the back like he always does when I finish a set, and the sudden jolt pitches me sideways; for one dizzy second I’m certain I’m about to collapse face-first onto the gym floor. But Beau catches me, his grip warm and strong around my arm.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to knock you over. That was just epic. I only had three sets on the plan, but you picked up weights for a fourth, so I didn’t stop you.”

“Seriously?” I ask through gasps. “I didn’t have to do those last twenty-four reps?” I don’t know if my heart will ever slow down again, and an unpleasant wave of nausea begins creeping up from somewhere deep in my stomach.