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“From my perspective,” I begin hesitantly, wondering if it’s even possible to say what I’m about to say with a hint of diplomacy, “it looks like the only person who hasn’t lied to me about his identity is Rory.” Finlay shoots me a confused look. The confusion lessens when I continue. “No, he’s embraced every swaggering, arrogant inch of himself. But you and Luke…?” I shake my head. “Luke thinks he’s the next king of England and you think you’re a salt-of-the-earth peasant, when none of these things are true.”
The crease deepens between Finlay’s brows. “Sassenach, I go taeLochkelvin Academy, and no’ on a scholarship. On a full-fat fee-paying basis. At what point did ye peg me as anything other than upper middle class?”
“Upper middle class?” I scoff. “You live in a street casually referred to as millionaire’s row and you think that’supper middle class?”
Finlay shrugs like this line of conversation is far beneath him, an act that reminds me so much of Rory. “Well, I’m no’ aristocracy. I’m no’ auld money. And besides, whit does it even matter? If my upbringing surprises you, then frankly it’s a good thing. It means I can fit in wi’ people from any socioeconomic background.”
I give him a baffled look. “What does it matter? It matters to me that you’ve lied.”
He meets my gaze, serious. “I’ve never lied once tae ye, sassenach. Not once. I’m no’ that kind of person. Just because I don’t boast about wealth, it doesnae make me a liar.” He scuffs the toe of his Doc along the gravel path, as though trying to make them shabbier for me. “And anyway, it’s myfamily’swealth, no’ mine. I get a few o’ the spoils when my mother can be bothered tae remember the anniversary she gave birth tae me — a new guitar, music lessons… But right noo it’s no’ my fortune. I’m no’ entitled tae a penny. And that’s fine. I’m no’ interested in materialism, anyway, and I’m under no illusion that I’ll have tae work hard tae earn my keep.”
“I don’t understand, then. If your family’s loaded, why do you care so much about revolution? About poverty and changing the system?”
Finlay’s green eyes glitter at me knowingly. “Because I want tae steal fae the rich and gie it tae the poor.”
He says it with such meaning, such pride, like he really genuinely believes himself to be some Robin Hood hero. “But youarethe rich.”
“So, whit, I should get back in my box? Stay in my lane? No’ try tae use my position for the greater good?” Finlay shakes his head, his expression growing determined. “I want the one-percent gone as much as anyone. From my perspective, I’m intimately aware o’ the imbalance in society, the growin’ gap. A free society is better than nae society, aye? I see how oor institutions arenae servin’ its folk. I cannae help the circumstances I was born intae, but I can use them tae help alleviate the suffering o’ others. That’s my goal, sassenach. Surely ye’ve understood that about me by noo?” He slides his gaze toward me, as if to check. “Just because I dinnae bang on about comin’ from money — I mean, it’s kinda a given as a Lochkelvin student, aye? — it doesnae make me a liar. It means I’m no’ a braggy show-aff like the others, and that, hey, maybe I care mair about merit than class.” The hardness in his voice and face softens as he regards me. “I dinnae see the problem.”
“I thought you were relatable,” I say, feeling stupid, like my words aren’t enough to express the hurt, the shock. Like I’m such a massive fool to have fallen for his devil-may-care grins and promises of wild adventures, when really he’s just as much of a prince in a tower as all the rest of them. “It’s like you’re just… slumming it. A visitor, trying on oppression for size. Poor when it suits, rich when it suits. Like… You have some nerve to accuse Luke of putting on an accent whenyou–”
“Why should my accent be fake? I’m no’ puttin’ it on. This is how I talk.” He gives me a look bordering on pitying. “Sassenach, none o’ us are relatable. No’ even Danny.” These words alone are a swift kick to my chest. “Whit, he’s never telt ye about his huge farmstead up north? Granted, it’s cheap as fuck tae live up there because nae other cunt’s mad enough tae try, but he isnae some wee Victorian urchin. No one at Lochkelvin is. We’re privileged little arseholes, each and every one.”
We wander around the graveyard, passing a large shiny memorial stone. It readsGreyfriars Bobbyand teems with sticks and floral tributes. When I pause in front of it curiously, Finlay glances at me.
“D’ye know the tale?”
I shake my head.
“There was this wee dug, a terrier called Bobby, and his master died,” Finlay begins. “And all day lang he’d sit by his master’s grave and pine for him. Every single day he’d be there for him, and it grew and grew until people would come just tae see Bobby. Because pure loyalty is somethin’ so exceedingly rare in this world that it becomes a spectacle. And when Bobby died, Edinburgh mourned him.” He shrugs on his punk jacket, planting his fists inside his pockets. “There’s a statue o’ him o’er the road, but daft tourists are being cunts and chippin’ the paint aff his nose. They think it’s some fabled tradition or something but they’re just destroyin’ it like mindless wee vandal pricks. Anyway.”
I blink at him, at this sudden switch between sentiment and aggression. It’s something that seems common among Scots — or maybe just Finlay.
We find a large bushy tree, lush with foliage, and settle beside it. Finlay lays out his jacket like a blanket for us to sit on. He tilts his head back, lounging against the ragged bark without a care in the world, as though the day has already robbed his energy and softened him for an upcoming nap. He smiles sleepily at me from his little patch of shade, his chin raised and his throat exposed to the sky.
It’s difficult not to stare.
It occurs to me that Finlay doesn’t look strange in Edinburgh. With his pins and studs and angry, vandalized jacket, he looks more like a university student than the one school rebel.
There’s a rebalancing, in being watched by gravestones, a tranquility that gives way to necessary openness, the exposure of long-held secrets, surrounded by the reminder that any day might be your last.
“Danny,” I whisper, and Finlay turns to look at me with a cocked dark eyebrow. “He…” I don’t know how to say it. I don’t know how to mention that I saw them together, that I can picture them together so clearly in my mind, mouth to mouth, sharing alcohol and a deepening, messy kiss. “He… Did something happen?” It sounds clunky, like I’m clanging my way through a chamber filled with bells, but Finlay holds my gaze in steady silence for a long time.
“Er…” Finlay begins, and then stops, as though he thinks better of it. He rubs the back of his head, lounging deeper against the thick trunk of the tree, like he’s physically trying to escape the question. He frowns. “We, ah, kissed.”
I almost miss his words, his voice is so low. When I blink down at him, Finlay swiftly adds, “I think he needed somethin’, and I needed somethin’, and he was there and I was there. And maistly we were hammered — it was the night o’ the dance. Honestly, it didnae mean anythin’, sassenach. It was just two pissed folk havin’ a moment.”
“You kissed Danny?” I ask, surprised not by the admission, but by him gracing me with the truth. Maybe Finlay does tell the truth, in his own weird way.
His mouth twists as though he’s not proud of it. “I was so lost that evening. He was available. I… I likely took advantage o’ him, tae be honest, that’s how he’s no’ talkin’ tae me.” He fiddles with the frayed threads of his shorts, rubbing the raw edge as though trying to destroy it more. He says nothing, letting birdsong overrule us. “It isnae a good position tae be in,” he eventually mutters.
“How so?”
Finlay sighs, distracting himself by smoothing out the wrinkles of his jacket. His head rolls against the bark of the tree and he shoots me a strange, embarrassed look. “Danny is… There’s history, okay, ye get that?”
“Of course,” I tell him, frustrated, because surely it’s time I knew. Surely it’s time I found out the truth? I’ve been friends with Danny and friends with Finlay for almost a year and neither has spilled. Hinted, yes. Something bad happened, yes. What that something was, no one will say. “It feels like everyone’s tiptoeing around some terrible secret.”
“It’s no’ exactly terrible,” Finlay mutters, “but itissomethin’ Rory would rather no’ discuss. So.” He glances away, guilty. “Ye didnae hear it fae me, all right?”
