Page 56 of The Tartan Thesis

“I’m sure seeing you happy will make them come around,” I say, trying to keep my tone casual, supportive. “That’s what most parents want for their kids.”

“I hope so,” he says. “But that’s one of the reasons I’m terrible at dating. I want to find someone. I want a partner, a husband who will be by my side, who I know will support me, come what may. When I meet someone I like, I get in my head and say dumb things. First dates are rare, second are practically nonexistent.” He exhales slowly. “I’m not usually an anxious person, but I’ve put so much pressure on this idea of acceptance from my family that it’s screwing with my ability to actually find someone. Or so I’ve realized. Thanks, therapy.” He waves a finger in the air in mock celebration.

There’s a pause I’m not sure how to fill. I still can’t decide if he’s talking about me or just generally, or both, so I wait, sensing he’s not done.

“Anyway,” he says with a sigh, “I’m sure I’ll find him one day, and my parents will meet him and see how contented I am with him, and they’ll support me. I even think they’ll love him too, in time.” He’s almost wistful now.

“Well,” I say, “for what it’s worth, I hope you find what you’re looking for. You deserve someone just as incredible as you are by your side for all time.” I pause and then add, “You’re a good person, Beau.”

“Thanks, Torin. So are you.” He glances over as he nudges me with his elbow.

Given what a dobber I was to him, his words feel like a stretch, but he seems genuine, so I take the compliment and silently vow to live up to it.

“What about you?” Beau asks.

“What about me what?” I reply.

“Have you dated much?”

“No,” I say quickly. Beau glances over with a cocked eyebrow, so I expand. “I’ve had one serious boyfriend, and it didn’t end well.”

“Want to tell me about it?” he asks, eyes ahead, like he’s making sure I know there’s no pressure.

“Not right now,” I say, the humiliation from my breakup with James burning inside me, and turn to look out the window. Thankfully, Beau doesn’t press.

We’ve left the city behind and are making swift progress northward. The road unwinds ahead of us, fields and low hills sliding past beneath a gray winter sky. After a few minutes of thoughtful silence, Beau pipes up, back to his usual chipper self.

“Mind if I change the music?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say, though I’m worried because I have no clue what Texans listen to. Bluegrass, maybe?

“Great, I’ve gotten very into traditional Scottish music,” he says, to my surprise. “There’s this one song I love. Let me know if you’ve heard it before.”

He queues it up while I watch the countryside blur past the window. Then the opening bars start. The Proclaimers. “I’m Gonna Be.”

I slowly turn and look at him. He’s already grinning. Grinning like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. I blink. Twice. “Seriously?”

Then he starts singing. I groan and sink lower in my seat, staring determinedly at the countryside, refusing to acknowledge what’s happening inside the car. It doesn’t help. His volume increases with every line and his pitch deteriorates at an alarming rate. I yell over him, “Turns out looks aren’t everything because I am ninety percent sure you’re completely tone deaf!”

He responds by getting even louder on the line about haverin'. Then blasts his way through the chorus with gusto, banging one of his fists on the steering wheel, telling the windscreen that he would walk vast distances, then he would do it again, all just to keel over at its door.

I must be smiling at his rather obnoxious enthusiasm because he yells, “Come on, Torin—do the ‘da da das’ with me!” Before I can protest, he ratchets up the volume on the stereo.

He goes full-on cheesefest, pretending to hold a microphone as he screams “DA DA DA DA,” before putting his hand in front of my mouth, clearly expecting a response.

I give a halfhearted “da da da da.”

Beau squints at me. “That’s it?” he demands over the music. He belts the next line directly at me, jabbing his finger toward my chest like a conductor demanding more effort from his choir. This isn’t going to end anytime soon.

Now he looks over at me with every verse, using one hand for emphasis, serenading me—loudly—with promise after promise. That he’ll work hard for me, pass me a bunch of pennies, come home to me, and grow old with me. The scene is rather adorable, despite his off-key caterwauling, but a quieter thought pushes its way in. He won’t be doing any of that. We are classmates, friends who now get along. We’re not devoted to each other the way the Proclaimers clearly were to whoever they were singing about back in the ’80s.

Despite this somber realization, Beau’s enthusiasm is infectious, and I feel my guard slipping, no longer able to keep my smile at bay. Moments like this, when he’s just being so wildly himself, he charms me a little bit more. By the last round of “da da das,” I’m almost matching his volume. Beau leans closer, sharing his fake microphone and I attempt—and fail—to harmonize with his “diddy dums.”

The song ends, and Beau switches off the stereo. “Hell yeah! That was awesome!” His quick clap on my thigh sends the usual jolt through my body that accompanies any physical contact with him. “Thanks for being my backup singer. You’re not the vocal aficionado that I am, but you did alright,” he says with a smirk.

“Aye, you’re a musical genius,” I deadpan. “I certainly won’t be forgetting that performance anytime soon.” Then under my breath, “Though I’d like to.”

He immediately fires back, loud enough to fill the car, “What was that? I couldn’t hear you! I was practicing my speech for when I win my first Grammy!”