15. Chapter 15
Torin
Blether
Translation: Talk
Usage: To describe the act of talking or to refer to a conversation
I hate Bulgarian split squats. I’m sure the Bulgarian people are lovely, but this exercise is pure torture.
One foot on the bench behind me, a dumbbell in each hand, struggling to balance as the sweat drips down my temple and into my eye while my quads scream for me to stop.
I suddenly wish I hadn’t asked Beau for another trip to the gym.
I could have been halfway to Inverness by now.
The train would be warm, my sister would already be texting to ask when I’d arrive, and there would be tea waiting at the kitchen table when I got home.
Instead I’m here, trembling like a newborn foal while Beau watches my form with the calm patience of a man who seems entirely unbothered by the concept of muscle fatigue.
All because I extended my stay in Edinburgh when I found out he wasn’t going home for Christmas.
Which is ridiculous. He’s not dependent on me to keep him company. Until a few weeks ago, we barely even talked. But now that we’re friends, staying here to spend time with him seems like the nice thing to do. I’m also still trying to make up for how rude I was the first half of term.
I lower into the squat again, my quad screaming at me once it’s parallel to the floor, and push upward with ever-flagging energy. My leg wobbles dangerously as I reach the top of the movement.
I’m knackered when Beau says, “Three more on that side and you’re done. Don’t stop now or one leg will be bigger than the other and you’ll spend your life walking in circles.”
Under normal circumstances I might find that amusing. Unfortunately the leg currently supporting my entire body is trembling so violently that the idea of walking anywhere ever again seems wildly optimistic.
I take a breath and do another rep.
Beau encourages me as I grunt my way through the last two, then drop the weights without ceremony.
I pull my foot off the bench and lean over, hands on my knees, while my lungs try to remember how breathing works.
He slaps me on the back like he always does when I finish a set, and the sudden jolt pitches me sideways; for one dizzy second I’m certain I’m about to collapse face-first onto the gym floor.
But Beau catches me, his grip warm and strong around my arm.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to knock you over. That was just epic. I only had three sets on the plan, but you picked up weights for a fourth, so I didn’t stop you.”
“Seriously?” I ask through gasps. “I didn’t have to do those last twenty-four reps?” I don’t know if my heart will ever slow down again, and an unpleasant wave of nausea begins creeping up from somewhere deep in my stomach.
“Torin, you don’t have to do any reps at all,” he says, watching me closely, “but you show up and do them and it’s paying off.”
I want to feel that compliment, but everything feels off-kilter. I try to look up at him, but the sweat in my eyes stings, blurring him.
“Oh, damn, you’re pale as a sheet,” he says. His hand closes gently around my arm as he guides me back to the bench. “Come sit down before you keel over.”
I sink down onto it while Beau digs around in his gym bag and pulls out a bottle of electrolytes and a bag of Sour Patch Kids.
He twists open the bottle and hands it to me.
My fingers are trembling badly enough that I nearly drop it.
While I chug the salty grape-flavored beverage, he sits down, tears open the neon packet, and dumps some sweets into his hand, launching a few into his mouth.
He grabs my wrist and holds it tenderly as he pours a few of the sugary confections into my open palm.
“Eat up, big boy.”
I pass the bottle back to him and chew; the sharp sweetness hits my tongue, and within seconds the nausea begins to loosen its grip. He takes a swig and looks back over at me before nodding.
“You’re looking better now,” he says, “but let’s not go anywhere just yet. You definitely pushed a little too hard on that one.” He passes me the electrolytes again.
“You’re the knowledgeable one here,” I say with the little indignation I can muster. I’m worn out, and it’s hard to get upset with him anymore. “You could’ve stopped me.”
“I could’ve, but you seemed confident, and I don’t know where the line is for you,” he says. “That’s something you have to learn for yourself.”
I nod noncommittally as he dumps more sweets into my hand. “And,” he continues, “it’s nice to hear you tell me I’m smart. Add that to the one other time you’ve complimented me, other than when you accidentally said you liked my eyes, and my head may never deflate.”
I sputter on the drink and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
“I said ‘knowledgeable,’ which is not technically the same thing, and when have I ever complimented you before? Other than the eye thing, all I’ve mentioned is your golden retriever energy, which was more of an astute observation on my part than anything. ”
He looks at me like he can’t tell if I’m serious or not. I stare back.
“The first time we ever met?” he hints with a nudge.
I continue to stare.
“You told me I was pretty, remember?” he asks, batting his eyelashes at me.
“I meant it as an insult,” I say, rolling my eyes.
My mind flashes back to the day we met. He was dressed pretty similarly then as he is now, athletic clothes that seem designed specifically to emphasize the sculpted lines of his arms and chest. At the time, I’d thought he was just a smug American with glistening muscles and beautiful eyes.
Now I know he’s witty, excitable, caring, and smart.
And that despite how vain and confident he might appear, he’s sometimes unsure.
At some point, he stopped being a sculpted statue and became a real person to me. I like him better this way.
And he has the most kissable lips I’ve ever seen. It’s hard not to glance at them constantly. I wanted to kiss him on St. Andrew’s Day, but it didn’t happen, which is probably for the best. I really don’t want a repeat of what happened with James.
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll settle for ‘knowledgeable’ for now, but if you don’t think I’m pretty, then who do you think is?”
I startle at this. Of course I think he’s pretty, more than pretty, but he’s my colleague, and we’ve become friends. This hardly feels like the moment to admit how often I imagine what he’d look like naked. And on top of me. Unsure how to proceed, I gather more information. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Like, what’s your type? Do you like twinks, bears, otters? Maybe you like daddies?” He’s really warming up now. “Oh, how about a sturdy middle-aged gentleman like Professor Drummond?” He looks at me with those bright eyes, brows wagging, and it’s hard not to laugh.
“No,” I say. “Definitely not into any of the faculty.”
This doesn’t seem to satisfy Beau’s curiosity, and though I’m screaming YOU YOU YOU I’M ATTRACTED TO YOU in my head, I give a non-answer aloud.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I just like who I like.”
But he’s not letting this slide. “Well,” he says and looks around the gym, “what about Joseph at the front desk? He’s pretty hot, and he’s working here while he gets his master’s in anthropology. Fit and plenty to talk about.”
I look over to see a guy a couple years younger than us. Brown hair, decent build, lightly tanned skin. He’s cute, but I shrug.
Determined, he continues, “What about Craig?”
“Who?”
Beau nods toward the guy on the treadmill closest to us.
He’s handsome and looks strong. He’s got a little extra weight and wears it well on his tall frame.
“Dad bod over there. Early thirties, I think. Works at the main library on campus. Married and has a kid on the way. He’s a very good-looking guy. ”
Rather than commenting on Beau’s increasingly detailed catalogue of attractive men, I deflect. “Do you know everyone here?”
“Not everyone,” he says with a laugh, “but I’ve made a point of creating my own little community here. I like to know the people I see all the time.” He looks back at Craig just as he looks over at us. He gives Beau a little wave before nodding at me. Beau raises a hand back with a smile.
Beau points out a few more men, and I continue to provide noncommittal responses.
He has something nice to say about literally everyone here, whether he knows their names and professions or not.
He told me before that he respects anyone who does something hard in order to better themselves, and it seems he was telling the truth.
Feeling less nauseated, I turn to him and ask, “What about you?”
He seems confused, tensing up a bit. “What about me?” he asks, tone cautious.
“What’s your type? Do they need to be all muscly like you?”
“Oh,” he says, shifting uncomfortably on the bench. “I like all kinds of guys.”
The answer sounds sincere, but the way he avoids eye contact makes me wonder if I’ve stumbled into uncomfortable territory.
I didn’t mean to make him nervous, but it seems fair to ask about his type since he’s interrogated me about mine.
I’m sure he wants someone that looks more like him, and being the kind person that he is, he’s sparing my feelings by not responding. I let it go.
“I think I can finally hobble my way out of here,” I say. “It’s time for some brotein.”
Beau laughs. “You did not just call it that.”
I try an American accent. “What? Don’t you want some gains, bruh? Do you even lift?”
“Oh, no, please don’t be that guy,” he says, shaking his head. “Also, I think your American accent might be even worse than my Scottish one, which is saying something.”
“Go on, then! Let’s hear it!” I can’t wait to take the piss out of him for whatever is about to come out of his mouth.
He lets out a resigned sigh. “I suppose I should’ve expected that.”
“Stop stalling. Give it a go.”
He takes a deep breath and then says, “No, we can’t be givin’ whisky to the bairns. They’re too wee for it. They’ll end up in the loch with the monster.”
A sound bursts out of me somewhere between a laugh and a choke, and I nearly tip sideways off the bench as the laughter takes over entirely.
Beau’s cheeks flush a deep red, a helpless grin stretching wide across his face.
I work to catch my breath, but I keep falling into fits of mirth.
Tears blur my vision by the time I get enough air to say, “I don’t know if I’m more offended by the stereotypes”—I wheeze—“or the fact that your accent sounded more like a cross between Irish and Cockney.” That sets me off again.
“Oh shut up,” he says, pushing me playfully. “Your American wasn’t any better.” Then he stands up and retrieves his bag while I struggle to compose myself.
When he smiles and reaches out his hand, I take it, and he hoists me to my still-slightly-wobbling legs. “Come on, Broseidon, King of the Brocean. You’ve earned your brotein. Smoothies at my place.”