38. Chapter 38
Beau
In A Swither
Translation: To be in a state of hesitation or doubt
Usage: To describe how you feel when you wonder about something and can’t make a decision
I watch the pub’s front door as my classmates celebrate around me, passing plates of food back and forth, hugging and congratulating the soon-to-be graduates, calling them “doctor.” I glance down at the beer Maeve thrust into my hand earlier, but I haven’t taken a sip.
I should be in a great mood. I did really well this term, especially considering all that happened—I got good grades, my thesis topic was approved, and at some point, I got back to the gym—but those victories feel hollow because, despite everything, I still miss him.
Our brief conversation today was enough to make that clear.
I shift my weight, fingers tightening around the glass as the door opens again. Not him. Just another group of grad students pushing in from the street, loud and looking for a drink.
I need to stop moping. I deserve to have a good time tonight.
I’ve worked hard, and I won’t see these folks outside of the classroom till the fall term.
I should socialize. But my gaze is still trained on the entrance, just in case, hoping Torin had felt it, too, whatever it was that flowed between us earlier today.
I watch a few minutes longer, standing by the bar, the beer growing warm in my hand, then set it down with a sigh.
He’s not coming. Maybe it’s for the best.
Even if he did show up, it would probably make things harder in the long run.
It’s better this way. Definitely. I’ll go home for the summer and clear my head. Then—hopefully—I’ll be able to face him without the pit of longing and misery in my belly.
“That beer isn’t going to drink itself.” Maeve is looking up at me, mouth drawn as if to say not this again, then raises her glass toward me. I grab my Guinness and clink it with hers before splitting the G. I show her, which earns me a grin.
I glance at the door one more time, then turn to face her, finally giving up on Torin making an appearance.
“So you’re headed back to Texas tomorrow?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “I fly out tomorrow afternoon.”
Maeve nods. “It’ll be nice to be home for a while, yeah?”
“Uh huh.” I nod, aiming for enthusiasm and missing. “It’ll be great.”
She doesn’t call me on it, just puts a hand on my forearm, squeezing gently.
“I know things have been difficult for you, but as the old Irish proverb goes, What butter and whiskey won’t cure, there is no cure for.
” She flags down the bartender and orders two half shots of Teeling, a Dublin-made whiskey, along with a plate of Scotch eggs.
“I’m stealing that phrase,” I say as we settle onto barstools.
We chat about our summer plans, Blair recites a Robert Burns poem, the food arrives, and we eat our fried snack. With all the hubbub and chow, I almost forget that Torin isn’t here. And how much I want him to be.
I reach for a napkin and wipe the grease off my hands, then Maeve gasps. I look at her, but her eyes are on the door. I turn, already knowing. Torin is standing just inside the entrance, hands in his pockets, head down as he looks around, like he’s not sure he should be here.
“Torin!” Isla calls, waving at him. “Over here!”
He waves back, then his eyes flick to me, and my heart ceases to function.
He makes his way across the pub, stopping here and there, saying hello to some of our colleagues, awkwardly accepting hugs, keeping his gaze in my general direction.
Maeve pats my hand, then takes a shot of whiskey to him, steering him to the bar.
“Slàinte,” he says, looking somewhere above my shoulder, seeming intent on not making eye contact. I tap my half-empty beer to his glass, heart thumping. He tips the liquor down his throat, then grimaces. “Should’ve known she’d give me the Irish stuff.”
I smile and try not to hope he’s actually here for me. “Yeah, she loves her country. Almost as much as you love yours.”
His cheeks turn red as a bashful smile spreads across his lips. His gaze catches mine, then drops down again, the toe of his right foot drawing and re-drawing an invisible line on the old wood floors. I drum my fingers on my glass, searching for something, anything, to say.
Torin beats me to it. “Beau, listen, I—”
Maeve claps. “Right! Attention, everyone! It’s time for awards!”
Everybody cheers, except Torin, who groans beside me and orders a beer. Then we turn our attention to our self-elected social chair.
“First up—Isla! You incredible woman. I dub you Most Sarcastic. You earned this honor through years of dedicated service.” Isla takes a theatrical bow, accepts her certificate, and immediately critiques the font choice.
“For our favorite religious scholar, Blair—Most Likely to Swear in Class.”
“Too fucking right,” Blair says, to roaring approval.
The rhythm builds—laughter, clapping, groaning, photos, people jostling each other out of the way.
I glance sideways. Torin’s watching, but not really. His attention keeps slipping—back to me, then away again, like he’s trying not to get caught doing it.
“And now,” Maeve says, flipping her hair back and looking meaningfully around at everyone, “it will be a shock to absolutely no one that I selected Torin as Most Likely to Get Tenure!”
The room erupts.
He freezes mid-sip. Slowly lowers his glass.
Drags a hand over his face. With a quiet exhale, he pushes himself off the bar and trudges over like he’s being led to the gallows.
A camera flashes as he poses half-heartedly for a picture with his certificate.
He nods at something Maeve says, then comes back over, face and ears red, and takes a deep pull of his ale.
“Congrats,” I tell him.
“God,” he mumbles, “that was so embarrassing.”
When Maeve calls my name, I accept my fate as Most Likely to Have Crumbs Under His Desk and return to Torin. He eyes the piece of paper in my hand, brow furrowed.
“What do you think?” I ask. I used to be so good at reading him, but now I have no idea how to interpret his expression.
“You should’ve had a better award,” he says, then his eyes finally meet mine.
“What?” I look at the certificate, then back at Torin.
“I mean, yours is accurate—don’t get me wrong—but it doesn’t recognize your intelligence, the work you’ve put in, how much you achieved your first year. The way you care about everyone around you… even if they don’t deserve it.”
“Torin, you don’t have to—”
“Aye, I really do,” he says, setting his beer down too hard on the counter. A couple of heads turn. He swallows before saying, “You’re a good person, Beau.”
“What the—”
“I just”—his eyes return to his shoes—“wanted you to know that.”
I gape at him, blinking rapidly as Maeve continues to hand out mock awards. He stands there a beat longer before looking up, nodding, and brushing past me. I turn and watch as he marches to the door and leaves without a backward glance.
I shower when I get home, allowing the white noise of the flowing water to comfort me, its warmth easing my tense muscles. What did Torin mean?
You’re a good person, Beau.
And what about the rest of his speech? My intelligence?
Last time we really talked, he’d told me in no uncertain terms just how dumb he thought I was.
And caring about people that don’t deserve it…
I’m sure he was talking about himself, but if he was trying to tell me something definitive, he should’ve provided way more context.
I shut off the water and stand there a second longer than necessary, droplets running down my back, waiting for something to click into place. Nothing does.
I dry off and go through the motions, moisturizing and continuing to ponder his intentions, but none of my expensive lotions and serums seem to have any answers.
I enter my bedroom. Hairy Styles Jr. is waiting for me, perched on my bedside table. He’s staring at me with glass eyes, his plush fur sticking out in all directions from constant attention and snuggles. I’d needed someone to hold when Torin left, and this little guy had come to my rescue.
I sit on the edge of the mattress and pat him lightly on the head.
“I know, bud. I miss him, too.” He doesn’t respond, so I go on. “He talked to me twice today. He didn’t say much.” I pause. “Or maybe he did. I’m not really sure.” I shake my head, then look at the tiny cow and sense judgment.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say. “He extended an olive branch. It’s no big deal. He’s just… I don’t know.” The amount that I don’t know could fill a Guinness glass, it seems.
Hairy continues to stare at me with that doe-eyed expression on his adorable face.
“Fine, fine,” I relent, throwing up my hands.
“How about this? If he tries to talk to me about what happened, I’ll consider hearing him out.
Deal?” I reach out and shake his front hoof to seal our agreement.
“But after my final class tomorrow, you and I are headed to the airport, little buddy. It’s time for you to see Texas. ”
He still doesn’t respond, so I sigh and crawl into bed, nestling into the cool sheets and pulling the comforter over me. I reach over and turn off the lamp, then grab Hairy and pull him against my chest, tucking him under my chin.
“Goodnight, sweet boy,” I say, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Thanks for always being there for me.”
I wrap my arms around the little coo, and like I have every night since I met him, I imagine it’s Torin I’m holding instead.