18. Chapter 18 #3
Freya tells a story about a date she went on recently, gesturing wildly with a biscuit in one hand while the other sloshes her cocktail dangerously close to the rim of the glass.
Torin pokes fun at her about the kinds of guys she likes, and she banters right back about the guys of his past. Margaret and Callum join in with questions about their lives, and they laugh constantly.
I love seeing Torin like this. He’s still fussy, but it’s easy to see that this really is home for him. He belongs here.
I swallow down the feelings of jealousy and disappointment that I don’t have a similar relationship with my own family, taking a big swig of my Buck’s Fizz.
“Alright, Bodach na Nollaig,” Callum says, grabbing what has to be his fifth shortbread, “it’s time for some presents.”
My Gaelic isn’t great, so I’m confused until Torin looks sideways at me, then gets up and dons a red Santa hat.
“Bodach na Nollaig?” I ask. “Is that his Gaelic nickname or something?”
Freya jumps in before anyone else can. “Aye, it means ‘I like to be spanked.’”
Torin’s spine stiffens, but he doesn’t turn around.
Callum seems to be choking on his biscuit, so Margaret pats him on the back and tells me, “Don’t you mind her.
Bodach na Nollaig is Gaelic for ‘Father Christmas.’ When Torin was wee, he’d crawl under the tree and divvy up the presents to everyone on Christmas morning, so we started calling him that, and the name stuck.
Now it’s tradition for him to bring them to everyone. ”
“That’s so sweet,” I say, causing Torin’s ears to turn the same shade of red as his hat.
He bends to the pile of gifts and starts distributing them, carrying each over one by one and dropping them into people’s laps. I’m surprised at how many he sets in front of me. The gifts from my parents are back in Edinburgh, so these must be from the Ramsays.
I read the labels before opening anything. There’s one from Freya, one from Torin, three from Santa, and one from Margaret and Callum.
“Santa?” I ask.
Callum smiles. “Oh, aye, you do believe in Santa, don’t ya, lad?”
I hedge a look over to Torin, who rolls his eyes.
“Of course he does, Dad,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Everyone knows Santa Claus is real.”
My confusion must be apparent because Freya chimes in, “Just agree, otherwise Dad might take those presents back.”
“Absolutely,” Callum confirms. “We have a strict policy in this house: if you don’t believe, you don’t receive.”
“Even though we’re clearly adults,” Torin says under his breath.
I laugh and raise my hands in surrender. “I’m a believer. In fact, I think I even heard some reindeer on the roof last night,” I say, pointing to my flashing antlers.
Freya groans. “Please don’t encourage him.”
“There’s a good lad,” Callum tells me. “Now let’s see what he’s brought you.”
The room fills with the sound of chatter, tearing paper, and rustling tissue as we open our gifts.
There’s a history of Scottish swearwords from Freya, which immediately becomes the subject of much discussion, then a Scottish cookbook, a bottle of my favorite whisky, and a plush Highland cow from Santa.
Another small box contains a gift card to a clothing shop with a note that says For your first proper kilt.
Love, Margaret & Callum. I only choke up briefly, hoping that my parents will do something similar someday when I take someone home to meet them.
Then I open Torin’s gift, a shallow silver cup with two flat handles sticking out on either side, the words We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne, etched into the bowl.
Torin is watching me when I look up. “It’s a quaich,” he says.
“It’s used at ceilidhs, weddings, births, any kind of celebration or life event.
It was also used in the past to welcome a guest.” He points at the sides.
“It has two handles because when you drink with both hands, you show you’re unarmed.
It’s also communal, so it’s passed around as part of the celebration. ”
“You’ll be wanting to practice, then, aye?” Callum asks, opening the bottle of whisky I’d gifted to him.
“No, that’s for you,” I tell him.
“Don’t be daft. Whisky is meant to be shared. Bring your quaich over here.”
Dumping a healthy pour into the cup, he says, “Drink up, lad,” and I do, the whisky smokier than I usually drink but still good.
I pass it to him, and he says, “Slàinte mhath,” before taking a swig.
He tries to pass it to Margaret, but she is pulling a blanket-sized tartan cashmere scarf out of a large box.
“Oh, Beau, you shouldn’t have,” she gushes.
Freya has one too, which she’s already wrapped around herself like a shawl. She takes the quaich from her dad and says, “Hush, Mum. I’m not giving mine back.”
“I’m glad you like them,” I say.
Torin seems pleased with the workout clothes I got for him. He recently bought an outfit for the gym so he’s not always wearing my old stuff, but his new shorts are long. I like seeing his sexy legs when we work out together, so the skimpier clothes I gave him are sort of a gift for both of us.
I spend the rest of the day helping Margaret and Freya in the kitchen but get hauled outside to help lift a heavy piece of equipment in one of the outbuildings.
It’s a busy day, but it’s actually really nice.
Margaret opens my cookbook and shows me how to make cranachan, Freya tells me increasingly embarrassing stories about Torin, and Callum pats me on the back and says, “There’s a good lad,” anytime I help him with something.
I text Maeve a Merry Christmas, and she reminds me to take action on my feelings for Torin. She’s relentless. But I do need to figure out what to do about my ever-growing crush.
My parents video call when my nieces and nephews unwrap their presents, which is adorable, as always.
Torn wrapping paper flies everywhere while the kids shriek over toys and candy.
They pass the phone to my granny, and I swallow my homesickness while we talk.
She’s the only reason I considered going back to the US for the holidays. God, I miss her.
The Pigeons are agents of chaos, as usual.
Lucas
Pretty sure I’m dying.
Juliana
don’t die we love you
Beau
What did you do?
Lucas
The spirits I took into my person yesternight are trying to get out. Through my brain.
Juliana
oh no! electrolytes!! lay!! trash food!!!
Lucas
Dying sounds easier.
Lucas
Say nice things about my butt at my funeral.
Juliana
he died as he lived: with a nice ass
Beau
“I will miss him. His caring nature, his odd sense of humor, his awkward chuckle when he was uncomfortable. Also: dat ass.”
Juliana
HAHAHAHAHA the only way to end a eulogy
Lucas
Knew I could count on my pigeons.
Lucas
Merry Christmas.
Juliana
MERRY CHRYSLER
After another incredible meal, we have more whisky in the living room, our voices and laughter getting louder as the night wears on.
When it’s almost time for bed, Margaret asks Torin to hand out the final presents.
I pull a T-shirt and pajama pants out of a gift bag and see that everyone has gotten something similar.
Margaret smiles around at everyone before turning to me.
“It’s a Ramsay family tradition to get pajamas on Christmas so we have something cozy to wear on Boxing Day. ”
“Even Flick gets a set,” Freya says as she pulls a tartan sweater over the border collie’s head.
Unrolling my new shirt, I see a Highland cow looking back at me.
“Torin said you love those,” Margaret says with a grin. “When I asked if he knew your shirt size, all he said was, ‘bigger than me,’ so I hope they fit.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, checking the tags. “These should fit great. Thank you. For the pajamas and for including me in your tradition.”
“Of course, dear! We’re so glad you’re here!” Margaret says.
“So am I,” I tell her. So am I.
Torin is brushing his teeth in one of the sinks when I enter the bathroom to do my nighttime skincare.
He gives a small wave as he brushes, his eyes flicking to where the shirt is stretched tight across my chest. I flex my pecs while I line items up on the counter and find him pointedly staring at his own reflection when I look over to gauge his reaction.
I smile and check him out while he’s avoiding my gaze. We’re wearing the same pajama bottoms, but his must be a size smaller. They’re long enough but snug on his bubble butt, which makes me need to subtly adjust myself.
With that perky, tartan-clad ass so close by, I can’t help myself. “So you like to be spanked, huh?” I ask, sending toothpaste flying out of Torin’s mouth and splattering all over the mirror.
I chuckle as he clamps a hand over his lips, his eyes wide before he hastily grabs a towel.
“I’m going to smother her with a pillow,” Torin grumbles, wiping the mirror, unable to look at me.
“Oh, come on,” I say, “you’ll never do that. You two are inseparable.” I pause. “Also, and more importantly, you didn’t answer my question.”
“And I’m not going to,” he says, still avoiding my eyes.
“What? Why not?” I ask, grinning.
“Because it doesn’t matter what I may or may not enjoy in the bedroom,” he says, finally looking my way. “That’s between me and whoever I sleep with.”
The thought of him being in bed with someone else sends jealousy tingling across my chest and down into my gut.
“That sounds like a yes to me,” I say as he wipes up the last of the mess.
He sighs and squeezes more toothpaste onto his brush. “Just brush your damn teeth. Ya eejit.”