Page 63 of The Tartan Thesis

Lucas

The spirits I took into my person yesternight are trying to get out. Through my brain.

Juliana

oh no! electrolytes!! lay!! trash food!!!

Lucas

Dying sounds easier.

Lucas

Say nice things about my butt at my funeral.

Juliana

he died as he lived: with a nice ass

Beau

“I will miss him. His caring nature, his odd sense of humor, his awkward chuckle when he was uncomfortable. Also: dat ass.”

Juliana

HAHAHAHAHA the only way to end a eulogy

Lucas

Knew I could count on my pigeons.

Lucas

Merry Christmas.

Juliana

MERRY CHRYSLER

After another incredible meal, we have more whisky in the living room, our voices and laughter getting louder as the night wears on. When it’s almost time for bed, Margaret asks Torin to hand out the final presents. I pull a T-shirt and pajama pants out of a gift bag and see that everyone has gotten something similar. Margaret smiles around at everyone before turning to me. “It’s a Ramsay family tradition to get pajamas on Christmas so we have something cozy to wear on Boxing Day.”

“Even Flick gets a set,” Freya says as she pulls a tartan sweater over the border collie’s head.

Unrolling my new shirt, I see a Highland cow looking back at me.

“Torin said you love those,” Margaret says with a grin. “When I asked if he knew your shirt size, all he said was, ‘bigger than me,’ so I hope they fit.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, checking the tags. “These should fit great. Thank you. For the pajamas and for including me in your tradition.”

“Of course, dear! We’re so glad you’re here!” Margaret says.

“So am I,” I tell her. So am I.

Torin is brushing his teeth in one of the sinks when I enter the bathroom to do my nighttime skincare. He gives a small wave as he brushes, his eyes flicking to where the shirt is stretched tight across my chest. I flex my pecs while I line items up on the counter and find him pointedly staring at his own reflection when I look over to gauge his reaction.

I smile and check him out while he’s avoiding my gaze. We’re wearing the same pajama bottoms, but his must be a size smaller. They’re long enough but snug on his bubble butt, which makes me need to subtly adjust myself.

With that perky, tartan-clad ass so close by, I can’t help myself. “So you like to be spanked, huh?” I ask, sending toothpaste flying out of Torin’s mouth and splattering all over the mirror.