7. Chapter 7
Torin
Dobber
Translation: Penis
Usage: To refer to an annoying person, generally insulting
Christ on a bike. Beau got a C+ on his midterm.
I knew he hadn’t been keeping up with me, but I hadn’t realized he was doing so poorly. I should be celebrating because there’s no way he’ll be Professor Drummond’s research assistant now. Instead, I find myself watching him.
He turns back to his work, shoulders rounded in a way I’ve never seen before. The look of defeat on his face sucks any joy out of the situation.
I tear my eyes away and try not to look at him as I prepare for class, but he’s even more distracting than usual, slumped over this desk, cheek braced in one perfect hand, looking like he’s lost all hope.
He glances over at me, making brief eye contact before snapping his gaze back to his screen and putting his earphones in.
The room fills as the day goes on, people discuss their grades, but Beau keeps his head down. It’s quieter without his contributions. I already miss his smile.
I force my eyes down to my meticulous notes. Perfect grades. Research assistantship. Tenure. That’s why I’m here. Beau’s personal crisis changes nothing. I won’t back down from my goals now just because he’s beautiful when he’s sad.
I turn the page and begin creating talking points for today’s class discussion, refusing to look up again for the rest of the day.
Maeve stands and twirls a finger in the air. “Right, class time, people.”
We pack up our things and file out the door. Beau walks in front of me, Maeve’s arm around his. They aren’t chattering on like they usually do. She must be as keyed into his mood as I am, and she’s letting him be, lending him silent support with her presence.
If I hadn’t been such a dobber to him all term, maybe I could’ve been there for him, too. As a friend.
There’s a strange twist in my stomach. I’d like to be friends with Beau. Now that he’s not a threat, maybe I can be.
Beau braces the door open for Maeve, arm stretched across the frame, then glances back and, giving me a weak smile, gestures for me to go ahead of him. I duck past him, close enough to catch the faint herbal scent of his soap, avoiding his gaze but muttering my thanks as I pass.
Manners. His are so ingrained that he can’t help but be polite, even when he’s at his lowest. Damn him for continuously ticking items off The List.
Professor Drummond is already there and smiling, welcoming everyone as we take our seats. He claps his hands and rubs them together. “Now, I believe everyone has their exam papers back, aye?”
He waits, presumably to see some nods, before saying, “Let’s recap some of the finer points of how you did on the midterm.”
He launches into a quick, pointed lecture about the topics covered, highlighting common weaknesses and offering suggestions for improving our analytical writing.
I take notes, despite having a perfect score.
Across the room, Beau seems zoned out. He’s usually so focused. It’s odd to see his lack of attention.
After answering a few questions, Professor Drummond writes our discussion topic on the board. “Let’s begin with Mr. Fleming’s paper.” Instead of opening the discussion up to the floor as he usually does, his gaze sweeps the room before settling on Beau.
“Mr. Fontenot, what are your thoughts?”
Beau’s head jerks up, and Maeve stiffens beside him, her hand shifting toward his knee.
“Me, Professor?” Beau asks. The tremor in his voice has me squirming in my seat.
“Yes, Mr. Fontenot, I’d like to hear your thoughts on Mr. Fleming’s paper.” The professor stares expectantly.
“Oh, um—” Beau shuffles the pages in front of him. The hesitation stretches. Beau flips another page.
I need to rescue him.
“Professor, if I may—” but he cuts me off with a raised hand.
“I believe I asked Mr. Fontenot,” he says, barely sparing me a glance.
Heat creeps up the back of my neck. “Of course, Professor.”
Beau finds the page he’s looking for. “Well,” he begins, voice tight, “Fleming almost certainly overstates the Kirk of Scotland’s authority over clan chiefs, especially in the early years of the Reformation.
His suppositions are mostly made from church records and Kirk Session minutes, so his paper leans toward the positive impacts of the Reformation on Scotland and is biased in his historicity, claiming that the Kirk did more than can reasonably be supported when viewed with a wider lens. ”
Professor Drummond nods. “Go on.”
“According to scholars such as Dawson and MacGregor, loyalties persisted well into the seventeenth century, especially in the Highlands,” Beau continues.
“The Kirk introduced new structures across the country, but those didn’t immediately replace existing power networks, and were usually only successful if a clan chief gave his permission. ”
“And what does that suggest about the relationship between religious reform and political authority?”
Beau glances down at his notes again, picking a page up with trembling fingers before slapping it back down on his desk.
“That the Kirk’s distribution of power was uneven at best, coming on slower in the Highlands and only gaining more control as the clan structure began to weaken for other reasons that had nothing to do with the Reformation. ”
Drummond seems to consider this. “Interesting.”
Releasing the edges of my chair that I’d gripped in secondhand embarrassment, I clear my throat; Beau’s head snaps up, his bright blue eyes ablaze with something I’ve never seen on his sculpted visage before: anger.
I lose my train of thought, but Beau wades into the silence. “Go ahead, Torin. Tell me what was wrong with that statement. It’s always something. Let’s get it over with.” There’s a tremor in his voice, his face is turning red, and Maeve’s arm flexes as she grips his leg.
“I… No, I was just going to say—”
“You were just going to say I don’t know what I’m talking about? Like you do every day, in every class?”
“Mr. Fontenot,” Professor Drummond says calmly.
Beau doesn’t seem to hear him. “If you could go one day without nitpicking every word that comes out of my mouth, could it be today?”
I’m trying to figure out how to defuse things, say something soothing or apologetic, but for some reason I diagnose the situation out loud. “Is this because of your grade?”
“Mr. Ramsay!” the professor says, less calm now, as my classmates gasp.
The color drains from Beau’s face, and Maeve puts her arm around his back. She’s shooting daggers at me, and everyone else just looks plain shocked. My stomach drops at an alarming rate, my mouth going dry.
“Shite, that’s not what I meant—I mean, I didn’t mean to—” My thoughts are racing at breakneck speed, and my mouth has no clue which ones to use.
The color comes back to his face quickly. “What? You didn’t mean to tell everyone I almost failed the midterm?” Fuck, he’s shouting now.
“No—” I start to say as the professor continues to call our names, his voice growing more stern with every attempt to get our attention.
“You weren’t trying to prove yet again that you’re the smartest boy in class?” Maeve is shaking his arm now; he doesn’t even glance her way. He’s clearly been bottling up his irritation with me, and I feel even worse. That is until his words catch up with me.
Did that prick just call me a boy? I was trying to help him, and now he’s name-calling? This is what I get for trying to be a good classmate? Fuck that.
“Yes, I do prefer being the smartest person in the room. It beats getting a C-plus and trying to get by on my looks, pretty boy.”
Beau slams his hands onto the desk and shoots out of his seat, causing everyone to jump in theirs.
His fists are balled, and his entire body shakes as he stands there, staring me down.
My spine presses hard against the back of my chair.
Even like this—flushed, shaking, furious—he’s absolutely beautiful.
“That’s enough!” the professor yells. Beau’s eyes flick briefly to him but are back on me in a flash. My anger melts as quickly as it came. I did this. Once again, I should’ve kept my mouth shut.
Professor Drummond takes a step toward Beau. “Sit down, Mr. Fontenot.” Maeve grabs one of his fists and tugs on him with no effect. He stands there, breathing hard.
“Mr. Fontenot,” the professor says, calmer this time. Beau finally lowers his large, rigid frame into his seat, then pulls his gaze away from me as his heaving chest deflates. He stares down at the pages in front of him again as everyone else glances around with wide eyes.
I look at the professor who whips off his glasses and rubs one eye before shaking his head and turning to the chalkboard.
“That’s all for today, I think,” he calls over his shoulder as he begins to erase his writing.
“Please post your thoughts on Mr. Fleming’s work online before our next session. Class dismissed.”
It takes a moment before anyone moves, but once Blair reaches for his bag, everyone else starts shuffling around as well.
I stay where I am. So does Beau. Maeve packs up slowly.
When she stands, she puts a hand on Beau’s shoulder, dipping so her face drops into his line of sight, but his eyes don’t leave his flexing fists.
“Thank you, Ms. Byrne,” Professor Drummond says. “If you’ll be so good to step out while I speak with Mr. Fontenot and Mr. Ramsay…”
She files out after everyone else, concern in her eyes.
No one looks at me at all, much less shows any kind of support.
Given my little performance just now, I don’t deserve it.
I fucked up, and based on the stern expression on Professor Drummond’s face, the assistantship I was so sure was in my grasp is almost certainly slipping away.
I finally look at Beau. His chest rises and falls hard, fists flexing against the desk as if the wood beneath them is the only thing keeping him upright. When he lifts his head, his eyes shine like he’s trying not to lose control in front of me.
I’d wanted to beat him. That’s the whole point of graduate studies—prove you’re the best, prove you deserve the opportunities that come next. For weeks I’ve told myself he’s just competition—someone to outwork, outthink, outrun on the way to that assistantship.
But this wasn’t the win I’d had in mind.
I hadn’t wanted to break him.