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Finlay’s quirked brow only rises. “Is that so?” he muses. “Perhaps, then, the Moncrieff gene pool isnae beyond redemption.”
* * *
It’s difficult not to sayfuck thatand sit with Finlay at dinner. It’s more difficult, however, to watch the eye-fucking across the tables between Rory and Finlay. The energy linking them is an almost tangible wedge, slick and buttery and hot. Finlay doesn’t eat. He twirls his fork around his plate, occasionally sliding it into his mouth, and licks deliberately, provocatively along the metal tines. My cunt clenches at the sight. The whole school is watching Finlay, which he seems to take unguarded pleasure in, but his focus is solely on Rory.
It all ends when Baxter cuts her dinner short, dragging Finlay out the hall with the snap of her voice, and he follows behind at a lazy stroll, blowing a sweet kiss to Rory.
Rory pretends to look cool. But there are two high pink spots on his cheeks that he can never quite disguise, no matter how hard he presses his fist against his face.
That night in politics class, Rory’s playing it even less cool. “Don’t know what he was thinking,” he grumbles, angrily turning a page in The Times. “Just because there’s this connection between us all, it doesn’t mean he needs to advertise it to the whole world. What happened in Edinburgh that’s turned him into a raging nymphomaniac?”
“Why are you so bothered?” Danny asks. “You should be happy he’s back.”
“Because he’s picturing Finlay fellating a fork and wishing it was him,” I suggest lightly, and Rory’s scowl is so dark and menacing that it has the opposite effect on me than it would have on anyone else, and I laugh. “Maybe you’d be less uptight if you, y’know, actually came one of these days. Really, this whole saving-yourself-for-marriage thing is completely alien to me. Is it some strange Scottish custom?”
Rory shoots me a withering glare, the irony of an American asking this question not lost on him.
It’s nice to be joking around like this. Finlay’s return has added a certain levity to the castle. The day seems brighter.
“I don’t know how you can concentrate,” Danny agrees. “How can you even stand up? You must befullof— well, anyway.” He clears his throat at the thought, staring hard at his newspaper, his eyes not shifting. I don’t blame him for not reading. The dominant opinion in the press is that Luke should shut up and fuck off, which is funny since he hasn’t said anything since his new year speech — it’s the press generating masses of puff, ranting for weeks on end aboutthe Bonny Princeand his privilege and entitlement, his pathological persecution complex, his indefensible past indiscretions, that it makes him seem practically omnipresent.
“I mean… we don’t even have a date yet,” I raise hesitantly, “for the wedding.” I pause. Talking about it makes it seem more real, like we aren’t just kids playing pretend. Like I might not have a netted curtain for a veil and a daisy chain for a ring. “If there’s even to be a wedding?” It occurs to me how weird it is that I should know so little about my impending nuptials. Even when I try to picture it, I can’t. I can’t visualize myself in a white dress, in front of a figure of authority whose blessing we seek, Rory by my side rocking a tuxedo, his face shining with adoration. I can’t hear the words pronouncing us husband and wife. I can’t hear wolf whistles and applause. I can’t picture the kiss. Nor the signing of a marriage certificate, the tossing of a bouquet, the happy throwing of confetti, a drunken, joyous after-party, my mom, Rory’s dad…
I don’t know if I can’t dream it because my imagination’s suddenly turned to crap. Or if, deep down, I suspect it’ll never happen.
Not like that, anyway. Not the way normal people get married.
“There’ll be something,” Rory mutters tersely, crossing his legs. “Current circumstances are making life difficult to plan.”
“Oh my God, what if youdie?” Danny whispers in one dramatic rush. “And the last time you came was last year?” He goggles at Rory. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”
“Believe me, I’m asking that question more and more when you keep banging on about it, D-boy. You seem rather over-invested in my ejaculation habits.”
“Aren’t we all?” drawls a voice from the doorway. Finlay’s leaning against the wall, arms folded and surveying the scene before him with dancing eyes.
Rory’s not in the kind of mood that indulges dancing eyes. He slams down his copy of The Timesand rises from his chair. “When did you get in?” he asks sharply.
Finlay just smirks.
“You have some fucking nerve,” Rory breathes, slowly approaching Finlay. “Not one letter. Not one fuckingpassenger pigeon. And the first time I see you — inweeks— you’re making a spectacle of yourself in the dining hall.”
Finlay tilts his head to the side. “Did ye no’ enjoy the spectacle?”
Rory ignores the question. “And now you’re swaggering in here like some fucking city boy—”
“Iama fuckin’ city boy.”
“—like you’re some big shot, just because you got a taste of the outside world.”
“Oh, I know who the big shot is around here,” Finlay demurs in an almost reverent tone, and for a second Rory’s frustrations seem to lessen. His whole body sags as he stands close enough to Finlay to touch. “Missed ye, chief.”
“Don’t.”
Finlay shoots him a puzzled smile.
“Don’t do that. Act all cute. Trying to get into my good books.”
“It’s fine. I already know I’m there.” He glances over Rory’s shoulder at me and shoots me a cheerful grin. “Page one, right beneath Jessa. Because bein’ beneath Jessa is whit any sane man—”
