2. Chapter 2
Beau
Scottish Gaelic (gal-ick, NOT gay-lick)
Translation: A Celtic language brought to Scotland from Ireland, more commonly spoken in the Highlands and Scotland’s western islands
Usage: Not to be confused with Scots, a Germanic language more common in the Lowlands
Not my best attempt at flirting, but not my worst either.
I grin as I close the door after Torin leaves. The guy’s handsome, awkward as hell, and stubborn enough to carry a box twice his weight just to prove a point. Cute butt, too. Hard to miss when he stormed off.
I head for the bathroom. My clothes are already steamed and laid out, first day of school tradition, so I turn on the shower and line up the cavalry: moisturizers, toners, serums, creams, and shaving tools.
There was a time when deodorant and pomade felt ambitious.
My ex-girlfriend changed that. Senior year of college, I broke up with her.
I couldn’t explain why. She’d been very upset.
Calling, texting, voicemails that swung from heartbreak to fury.
I kept telling her it was for the best and that one day she’d see that, but she was insistent.
After a week of dodging her, I showed up at her apartment with no plan whatsoever.
When she went from begging for answers to demanding them, I finally blurted, “I’m gay.”
She stared at me for a long, terrifying moment, in which I thought she might have a total meltdown, then she squealed. It “explained so much,” she said. She was “so excited to have a gay bestie.”
While besties we are not, she did teach me that men are allowed to exfoliate.
I line up the bottles in the order I’ll need them.
If I don’t, I’ll get distracted and end up shaving only one side of my face.
Routine keeps the chaos manageable. I have what my doctor calls “raging ADHD,” so I have a lot of techniques for staying focused and for rewarding myself for productivity.
Like using a consistent order for routine tasks, and putting away items after using them, giving myself an ongoing sense of progress. Little victories to start the day.
I set an alarm so I don’t lose twenty minutes staring at the tiles, and step under the cool spray, which feels great on this warm day. My mind is already wandering back to Torin as I lather, rinse, repeat.
I don’t have a “type” per se, but I find Torin exceptionally attractive for a number of reasons.
We were eye to eye for a start, not something that happens very often at six-two.
And those eyes. A green so dark I was momentarily mesmerized.
Pile on the dark red hair, lean build, and sharp tongue…
that’s a great combo. Plus, he’s strong but still a size I can manhandle. I like that. A lot.
It’d been embarrassing to stare at him for several seconds before finding my voice, but he’d seemed just as out of sorts as I was.
It’d be nice to run into him again and make a better impression, but it’s a big university, so I won’t hinge any hopes on it.
On seeing him again or on making a better impression.
Most people find me charming, but if I’m attracted to someone, all that charisma goes out the window.
The easy banter is suddenly gone. I often lose track of the line between teasing and insulting, and when I inevitably cross it, I look like an asshole, often without fully understanding what I did to deserve the title.
Which probably explains why I’ve been out of the closet for five years but still haven’t had a boyfriend.
And now I live in another country with different cultural norms, I’m less sure than ever that I will have much game. It might be a lonely three years here if I don’t learn to rein it in.
That being said, sex is never hard to come by. I hooked up with a guy yesterday.
But in my experience, once a man gets that from me, he’s done. I’d thought someone would eventually come for the brawn and stay for the brains, but I often feel more like a conquest than a person. Like I’m a prize to be won. However briefly.
And I want more.
I’m a romantic. Always have been. And maybe that’s my problem. Maybe my desperate need for a relationship is keeping men at bay.
When my timer goes off, I turn off the spray and dry myself before shaving and moisturizing, my mind moving to the day ahead as I make my way through my routine.
Orientation should be a simple affair. Then I’ll meet my classmates and more of the faculty. I’m not worried about that at all. I enjoy meeting people and learning from them. I’m more excited than ever to gain new perspectives and experiences from those around me.
I get dressed and check myself out in the full-length mirror in my bedroom before I step out into the warm Edinburgh air.
It catches me off guard. Stone buildings the color of old parchment, narrow streets folding into one another, historic spires rising above it all, and green spaces like no other place on Earth.
There are no skyscrapers, just an old and wonderful city with a bookshop around every corner. I love it.
And I love knowing it was my choice to be here.
For most of my life I followed the plan my family had mapped out for me.
Scotland wasn’t part of that plan. My parents think this new adventure is ridiculous, but I’m approaching thirty, and for the first time I asked myself what I really wanted—after years of doing what was expected—and going to Scotland to study history was the only answer in my mind.
I pull out my phone as I stroll toward campus and scroll through the series of texts from Juliana and Lucas.
Since arriving in Scotland, I’ve woken up every day with a slew of messages in our group chat, the two of them bantering and shooting GIFs and stickers back and forth.
It’s a fun way to start the day, but I’m always sad to miss them in real time.
We met in a graduate accounting course. It was not the strongest skill for any of us, despite the fact we’d all worked in various financial organizations. We bonded over our shared misery and soothed our distress with dirty martinis as often as we could.
Lucas is an old Southern woman at heart and has a deep love for pet names, “pigeon” being one of his favorites.
We started referring to our trio that way at some point, so our unhinged group chat is called “The Pigeons.” We all moved to different cities after graduation but have stayed in constant communication ever since.
Despite the distance, our friendship continues to deepen. They mean the world to me.
The text I got earlier means that Juliana was awake at 2 a.m. her time and still going. She’d been happy to report that she was very drunk and a little high on her visit to New York and that she’d made out with a Broadway singer.
More texts had arrived while I was getting ready.
Juliana
my Uber driver is surly
Juliana
why is bottled water so expensive at this hotel
Juliana
zippers are hard
Juliana
should i even bother getting undressed before bed
I chuckle as I type back.
Beau
Glad you’re having fun. Want to hear more about this Broadway singer when you wake up.
Juliana
YAAAAAAAAS
I’d put money on her waking up tomorrow, dress halfway undone, heels on opposite sides of the room, and makeup all over her pillow. She’ll be chugging that expensive water in no time.
Switching over to the campus map on my phone, I follow the blue dot toward the building where they’re hosting orientation.
A short line to check in snakes out the door, and I throw on a charming smile to the woman who waves me forward.
She’s got red hair, and given that we’re in Edinburgh, I assume she’s Scottish.
Then I read Maeve on her name tag and take a chance by greeting her in Irish.
“Dia duit, Maeve,” I say.
“Dia duit,” she says with a smile, confirming her nationality. “Can I get your name?”
“Beau Fontenot.”
“Welcome to Edinburgh University, Beau. Fill out a name tag for yourself there, and here’s your information packet for the topics they’ll be covering today,” she says, handing me a folder. “The agenda is on the first page.”
I scribble my name on the sticker provided as Maeve flips through the stack of papers in front of her.
“There you are. Beau Fontenot. You’re checked in. Just to confirm for the luncheon, you don’t have any dietary restrictions?”
“No, ma’am. I’ll eat anything,” I tell her with a smile. She smiles back and moves her pen along the page, scanning my details.
“Oh, you’re studying history! Me too. I’m in my second year.”
“Will we have classes together?” I ask.
“We will. The core history courses are on an alternating schedule, so first- and second-years take most of them together.”
“Well, I look forward to learning with you, Maeve.”
“You too, Beau,” she says with a grin.
There’s an announcement from the room behind her: “Everyone please take your seats. We’re about to begin the first orientation session.”
“I better get in there,” I say.
“Enjoy,” she says with just a hint of sarcasm that suggests she remembers her own first day.
Heading through a pair of double doors, I browse for an empty seat. One close to the front looks promising. As I approach, I recognize a pile of red hair and a familiar blazer.
Maybe orientation won’t be so boring after all.