Page 7 of The Tartan Thesis

Focus will be key for the next three years. I can’t afford distractions.

But until classes start, maybe I can afford a little distraction. I have a habit of scrolling through fit men on Instagram because I’m hoping to get body dysmorphia for my next birthday. I scroll through images of various fitness influencers and somehow manage not to look up Beau. I wonder how he’d compare to some of these blokes? He’d handle himself, I’m sure. The way those biceps flexed, the tone of his abs…

When it’s finally time, I tear my eyes from my phone and head toward the liberal arts complex so I can be early to the reception. I’ve been to enough of these social occasions that I know to arrive before the crowd gets too big and latch on to an extrovert who can introduce me to others as the event wears on.

I walk into a boardroom with the meeting table pushed against the far wall and the chairs spread out around the perimeter. A red-headed woman frees a stack of paper cups from its packaging, placing them by the wine and liquor, then adjusts the cheese tray and moves the plates just so. She turns around looking satisfied, then startles with a yelp when she sees me.

“Christ, you scared me,” she says in a lilting Irish accent.

“Sorry!” I say. “I was just letting you finish before I said anything.”

“No, it’s alright. I’m in a public space. I shouldn’t be surprised to find another person here.” She laughs, but her hand is still pressed to her heart, so I step forward and introduce myself, wanting to put her at ease.

“Maeve,” she says, shaking my hand and seeming to calm. “Nice meeting you, Torin.” She backs toward the table and asks, “You’re joining the history program, yeah?”

“Aye. Do you work for the department, or…”

“No, I’m in the program too. Started last autumn and offered to help out with the reception this year because I couldn’t stand the thought of another event with Jack Daniels anywhere in sight.”

I laugh. “Well, thank you for putting this together with proper Scottish whisky,” I say, awarding myself a battlefield commendation for excellent small talk.

“Proper Irish whiskey, too.” She grins.

I must make a face because she grabs a bottle I haven’t seen before and pours a bit into a cup before shoving it my way. “Here, try this.”

I take the cup, giving it a tentative sniff, but she’s watching expectantly, so I sip—then blink. “Shit, that’s good!”

“Told you,” she says with a smug smile. “Scotland doesn’t have a monopoly on good whiskey.”

“No, but we are damn good at it.”

“Fair. Just don’t make that face again when I mention anything Irish or we’ll have to be mortal enemies, and my list of foes is already so long.”

I laugh again. She’s definitely the extrovert I’d been hoping for. “So, what’s your research focus?” I ask.

“Ah, right to it then, so?” she says with a tilt of her head. “I focus on medieval England and France. I know I shouldn’t like them so much, being that I’m Irish, but I can’t help but be enthralled by the Plantagenets.”

I take another sip and agree. The Plantagenet family ruled England and large swaths of France after William the Conqueror’s line ended, also claiming Wales, Ireland, and Scotland as their own. “They were a formidable dynasty, to say the least, and that time period is rich with world-changing events.”

“Glad you understand,” she says with a wink. “What about you? What brings you to Edinburgh University?”

“I’m focused on Scottish history, specifically the negative impacts the Union of the Crowns had on Highland culture and life.”

“Well, aren’t you just the flower of Scotland?” she says, giving my arm a little poke.

“It is my honor to claim that title,” I tell her with a small bow, though being called a thistle could be a compliment or an insult, depending on how it’s delivered.

Her eyes flick over my shoulder, and she yells, “Isla!” before rushing past me to greet a woman with long brown hair. They collide in a hug, Maeve bouncing on the balls of her feet, their voices tumbling over one another as they catch up about their summer and cackle at their ample inside jokes. Not wanting to intrude on their reunion, I go and pour myself a dram, this time of Scottish whisky.

I take a sip and a deep breath. It’s time to be social.

I turn back, and Maeve waves me over, introducing me to Isla, a PhD candidate. She’s in her third year, which means she’s completed her coursework and is working entirely on her thesis this year.

“Isla is the reason I made it through my first year,” Maeve says with her arm around her friend. “I wasn’t nearly prepared enough for the Scottish coursework, but she took me under her wing and helped me understand what makes this country so…” She searches for a word and, after a moment, lands on, “magical.”

“Oh, I didn’t do much,” Isla says. “Just got you drunk when you needed a night off and gave you words of encouragement here and there.”

“You’re just repeating what I said,” Maeve quips back.