13. Chapter 13
Torin
Slàinte Mhath (slahn-chuh vah)
Translation: Good health
Usage: To toast to someone, often with a drink; similar to “cheers” in English
Night is falling as we trek down the steep hill from the castle, our footsteps echoing as the evening crowds thin.
I point out a few iconic elements of the city—the Balmoral clock tower standing tall near the Sir Walter Scott monument in the distance—before providing a history of New Town and its adjacent gardens.
He’s excited about everything I share with him.
We cross Princes Street, and I take a few steps before realizing he’s no longer beside me.
When I turn back, he’s standing in the middle of the pavement looking up at Edinburgh Castle, high up on its ancient stone foundation, wonder written all over his face.
He catches me looking at him and gives me a bashful smile. “Sorry,” he says. “I must seem like such a numpty to be so amazed by all these touristy spots.”
“Look at you, adopting the lingo,” I say. “And nah, you’re not a numpty. I’ve lived in Scotland all my life, and I still marvel at our castles sometimes.” I glance back at the fortress towering above us. “I’m lucky to live here.”
“We both are,” he says, his eyes meeting mine in the growing darkness. “Thank you for showing me around today. It was helpful.”
“You’re welcome,” I say. “You were a great student. You approached everything with what I believe Americans call ‘golden retriever energy.’”
He laughs, a warm, easy sound, and there’s a moment where we just look at each other.
My gaze drops before I can stop it. To his lips, his tongue sweeping across them.
I wonder if they’re as soft as they look.
My eyes snap back up to his just as the streetlamps flicker to life.
Beau’s watching me. Really watching me. There’s a knowing expression on his face that sends my eyes skittering to look anywhere but at him.
He’s not going to kiss me. Not after the way I behaved the first half of term. I need to rein it in.
Thankfully, he breaks the silence. “So you said something about a pub your sister recommended?” Our eyes meet again. “I’m starved and wouldn’t mind a drink.”
“Aye,” I say, snapping out of my thoughts. “It’s a bit of a walk, though. We can go somewhere closer if you’re that hungry.”
“Nope, let’s stick with the plan,” he says and gestures for me to lead the way.
Tension broken, we talk as we walk, drifting from topic to topic.
The castle, our classmates’ idiosyncrasies, the dozens of ways to say it’s raining in Scottish Gaelic.
Beau seems to be able to latch onto any subject and run with it, either offering some new insight or asking good questions that make me think or that send us off on another tangent.
I never feel like I’m searching for something to say with him.
He has an ease with conversation, which helps.
I don’t know if it’s his upbringing or a natural curiosity, or if he read a book about how to be charming, but it’s easy to talk to him.
I shove my hands into my pockets as we cross another street, a flicker of regret passing through me.
All the time squandered that I could’ve had with him. As his friend.
The pub is busy when we arrive, warm light spilling out onto the pavement as we push through the door.
Inside, the air smells of fresh-baked bread and polished wood.
A low murmur of conversation fills the room, many of the tables full with high-end clientele.
Beau’s eyes light up when he sees the bar on the back wall.
Shelves run up to the ceiling, a golden glow highlighting hundreds of bottles of whisky.
“Time for your next lesson in Scottish culture,” I tell him.
We navigate through the crowd and find a booth near the bar. A server in a tartan skirt and crisp white shirt immediately comes by.
“Alright? Here’s a food menu and a whisky list.” She sets them down on the table.
“If you prefer beer, you can see the tap easy enough from here, yeah?” Her Glaswegian accent is thick enough that I glance at Beau, wondering how much of that he caught.
“I’ll get you some water and be back to answer any questions. ”
Beau opens the whisky menu and scans the page, eyes moving steadily down the list.
“Have you had much Scottish whisky?” I ask.
He nods. “Yeah, my granny loves it. She’s the one who taught me about it.”
“Your granny sounds like a great lady,” I say.
His smile softens. “She really is.”
“What kind of whisky does she like then?”
“Oh, she’s a Speyside girl. I am too, s’matter of fact,” he drawls. God, he’s cute.
The server comes back with our waters and sees Beau looking at the menu. “You’ll be wanting some whisky, then?”
“Yeah,” he says. “We’ll have a couple of Balvenie fourteen-year Caribbean Casks to start. Neat, please.”
I force myself to hold in a grin. Men who are decisive at restaurants and who confidently order for their dates is #3 on The List. It’s hot when a man knows what he wants.
“Let’s also do an order of Scotch eggs and the half-pound burger with chips,” I add. “And our American friend here needs an order of haggis, neeps, and tatties. Extra whisky sauce, please.”
“Aye, I’ll be back,” she says, whisking the menus away.
“As will I,” says Beau, pushing up from the booth and heading toward the loo.
He and our server return at the same time, two elegant tumblers of amber whisky placed on the table between us. We raise our glasses.
“Slàinte mhath,” I say.
“Slàinte.”
We sip. The whisky is smooth with a subtle sweetness from the rum barrels it was aged in. A favorite of mine.
“Well,” Beau says with a smile, “you’ve helped me today, so let’s keep working on you.”
I sink back in my seat with a groan. “You’re not going to make me do lunges around the pub to burn off the empty calories, are you?” I ask, raising my glass.
“No.” Beau chuckles. “Cheat days are essential for a healthy, balanced life.”
“Good,” I say, “because I wasn’t going to do that.”
“No lunges. All you have to do is say nice things about yourself. Things you like about your appearance or abilities or personality.”
I groan again. “I change my mind. I’ll do the lunges.”
He laughs. “No, this is going to be even more helpful than the gym. You have to have a good relationship with yourself if you want to have good relationships with other people.”
He has a point. The problem is, other than my excellent knowledge of Scottish history, I don’t really know what else to say about myself. Beau takes another sip of his whisky and waits patiently while I mull it over.
“Okay,” I say, after a minute of pondering. Beau sets his glass down and gives me his full attention. “I like your eyes,” I say, then immediately blush and scramble to correct myself. “I mean, I like my eyes. Green is already a rare color in the world, and my specific shade is even more unique.”
Beau bites his bottom lip, clearly trying to contain a smile. “And?”
I rush to my next one, trying not to be embarrassed. “I love that I don’t just know history but that I’m good at it. Taking in all the information we can gather, putting my mind into a time and place, and seeing new interpretations for the events of the past.”
Beau nods. “Two good ones so far. Give me at least one more.”
I think for a second. “I can sleep anytime, anywhere. If I’m tired at all, it doesn’t matter what’s going on, I can pass out.”
“That’s a rare skill, indeed,” Beau says, “and a useful one at that.”
“Thanks,” I say, but I’m still feeling slightly mortified about the eye comment. I mean, I do like his eyes, but he doesn’t need to know that. He may not be as confident as I originally thought, but he definitely knows he’s attractive. No need to stroke that particular part of his ego.
Thankfully our server arrives with the food and sets the haggis squarely in front of Beau. “Freshly caught.”
Beau looks up, brow furrowed, clearly trying to decide whether he’s just missed a joke. “Thanks.”
“Will you be needing anything else, then?”
“Another round of whisky, please,” Beau says before she heads off.
“I can’t believe you’ve been in Scotland this long and haven’t had haggis,” I say.
“I just haven’t gotten around to it!” he says defensively.
“Well, you wanted to experience Scottish culture, so here we are,” I say as I pour whisky sauce over everything. “Go on, then. Give it a go.”
Beau picks up a forkful and raises it. “When in Scotland,” he says and takes a bite. It’s only a second before his face lights up. “Damn, that’s good!” He takes another bite, savoring it. “I’ve been missing out!”
“Surely there’s an American equivalent of haggis or blood pudding,” I say. “Something made of… parts.”
He considers while he chews, then nods. “Hot dogs,” he says. “Even the all-beef ones can hardly be considered meat, but they are essential American cuisine.” A pause. “I miss hot dogs.” His tone is forlorn, his face ponderous as he spears a Scotch egg with his fork and drags it onto his plate.
“What else do you miss from the States?” I ask.
“Lots of things, but if we’re talking about food, then I miss Mexican food and my granny’s blueberry pancakes. No clue how she makes them so fluffy, but they are the breakfast of dreams.”
We polish off the food and order a bread pudding with more whisky for dessert. Beau chooses an Aberlour distilled in sherry casks for this round. Then he’s off to the loo again.
When he gets back, we talk more about differences between the US and Scotland while we eat and then order a second dessert.
I glance around while we wait for it to arrive.
There’s a good mix in the clientele tonight, well-dressed couples, a table of students crammed into a corner, a few older blokes lingering over their drinks.
A couple nearby are feeding each other bites of their meals. They’re so cute it’s disgusting.
A flash coming from Beau’s direction pulls me from my people watching. I turn. He’s frozen halfway through lowering his phone, ears turning red.
“Sorry,” he says. “I got into the habit of taking pictures of my friends when I go out with them so they can use them for social media or dating profiles or whatever.”
“Dating profiles?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He glances down at his screen. “You just looked pensive and at ease. The lighting is good, but not good enough apparently because the flash still went off, and… You looked good is all.” He’s staring at his phone like it’s suddenly very interesting.
I open my mouth to say something but have no clue how to respond. He’s being weirdly timid, but it’s nice to be complimented by a man as gorgeous and magnanimous as Beau, so I just thank him.
“You’re welcome,” he says and finishes his glass.
He gets up like he’s headed for the bog again.
“Ya know,” I say, “for such a big guy, you have a very small bladder.”
Beau laughs. “It might be the only small thing about me.”
“Oh?” I say, raising an eyebrow.
His smile falters. The color in his face deepens as the implication of what he said catches up with him.
I take a slow sip of whisky and enjoy watching him squirm until he blurts out, “That’s not what I meant.”
“So there are other small parts of you?” I ask, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “Which ones?”
“No, I—I didn’t mean—”
I interrupt his sputtering. “So you don’t have any wee bits and bobs?” I say sweetly. “Go on then. Which is it?”
Beau sighs, throws his head back, and mutters, “I can’t believe we’re talking about this.”
Then he looks down at me. I smile angelically back.
Something shifts in his expression. After a moment he nods, as if making up his mind. “Fine.”
He plants those perfect hands on the table and leans toward me, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.
“You told me things you like about yourself,” he says, “but I haven’t told you any of mine.” I feel heat creep into my cheeks already. “So here are a few.” He holds my gaze. “I like my eyes, so we have that in common.”
I flush at him bringing this up again, but he goes on like he doesn’t notice.
“I like that I can generally find something interesting to talk about with anyone I meet, anywhere in the world. And…”
He leans closer, drawing me in with those beautiful eyes we both like so much.
“And…”
“And?” I ask, my voice betraying me.
“And,” he continues, “I can confidently say: there are no other small things about me.”