Epilogue
Torin
Auld Lang Syne
Translation: Old long since (literal); old times’ sake; days gone by
Usage: To refer to a song that asks a poignant question: Is it right for the past to be forgotten?
“Hey, Tor. Come look at this.”
Two years after our first visit to Inverness together, and Beau still has that boyish joy that never seems to fade and always makes me smile.
We finally made it to the renovated Inverness Castle today, enjoyed afternoon tea, then wandered around the roof terrace to take in the beauty of the city and surrounding landscape.
The exhibits are about to close for the night, but the love of my life really wanted to see the tapestries before we left, so here we are.
I join him where he’s squatted down, staring at a panel, close enough that his breath fogs the glass. “Isn’t this cool?” he says without looking up.
“Aye, Beau,” I say. “It’s bonnie.” This tapestry features a man hiking across the Highlands and surrounded by smaller patches of stitched flowers, birds, and symbols, so I’m not sure which part has his attention.
Until I spot a small multicolored cow, hair in its eyes and horns on its head. Of course.
“I wonder what his name is,” Beau says, and my smile widens.
“His coloring is pretty psychedelic. Maybe we call him Cowabunga.”
Beau grabs my leg to keep from falling over as he laughs at my lame joke. Puns are always a hit with him. He stands, still chuckling, and kisses me. “Have you always been this funny?”
“Aye, I’m hilarious,” I deadpan, taking his hand and guiding him toward the exit. “Everyone knows that.” He hums his disbelief but follows, lacing his fingers through mine.
We exit into a cold night, Beau zipping up and buttoning my coat for me while I do the same for him.
It’s impossible to count the number of times we’ve helped each other into and out of various articles of clothing.
I prefer to remove his, but that will have to wait until after dinner with Freya at her favorite pub.
He kisses me again, soft and sweet, only making things worse.
“Come on,” he says, taking my hand this time and heading toward the river.
I hold my ground. I’m stronger than I used to be. “Where? We’ve got a dinner reservation. You know I don’t like being late.”
“We’ve got time.” He looks back at me, that grin already working against me, then tugs on my arm. I sigh but follow. I always do. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to tell him no.
We walk down the hill through the cool night air, past twinkling Christmas lights, slow-moving clouds covering and revealing the stars above us. I breathe in deep, relishing being in this familiar city, now painted with even more happy memories, beautiful moments spent with Beau. Today was another.
When we reach the River Ness, he heads toward the islands. I smile. “Returning to the scene of the crime, eh?”
“Something like that,” Beau says, squeezing my hand and glancing over with a timid smile.
We make our way across the planks till we’re back to the site of our first kiss. Wreaths, garlands, and fairy lights all back in place, casting golden light on Beau’s face as he turns toward me in the middle of the bridge.
His eyes search mine, and I lean forward, ready to reenact our last visit to this location, just as he drops to one knee, still holding my hand.
Goosebumps erupt across my body, adrenaline shoots heat through my veins, my jaw drops. I stare down at him; he looks up at me with tears in his eyes.
“Torin,” he says, voice rough, “I knew you were mine the first time I met you.”
“What the—” I clap my hand over my mouth. “Are you—”
He nods, swallows hard, and continues. “I had no idea what I was doing when I moved to Scotland. I was scared and uncertain. I didn’t know if I’d ever truly belong.” His lip quivers. “Then I found you.”
“And I made your life a living hell?” I say with a grin, a tear already gliding down my cheek.
“Yes.” He laughs. “You decided I was your mortal enemy. You were mean to me.” He sticks out his lower lip like a pouting child, and it’s my turn to chuckle.
“But even when we battled in the classroom, I knew there was more to you. A lot more. Something beyond the prickly exterior.” He takes a shuddering breath.
“Then you finally let me in, and it turns out I was right.”
“That I’m an unhinged mess?”
He laughs again. “No! Well, yes. At times. Now stop interrupting me.”
I pretend to zip my smiling mouth closed.
“Thank you. Where was I? Oh! The part about me being right. I love that part.” I roll my eyes at his grin, and when my gaze returns to him, his face has gone serious again.
“Torin, I know our past isn’t perfect. You don’t have to remind me.
I know our future won’t be either. But I can’t imagine my life without you.
” His voice cracks; I hold in a sob. “I love taking you to bed and waking up next to you every morning, making you lift weights and eat cottage cheese while you swear at me under your breath. I love the way you look when you’re reading history, like you’re a sponge, absorbing every bit of information, and how your eyes light up during the opening bars of your favorite musicals.
I want to be there for every important moment of your life, the ordinary ones too.
I want to do everything and nothing with you. For the rest of my life.”
He reaches into his coat, pulls out a small ring box, and pops it open. Two identical gold bands catch the light. My heart feels like it’s slamming against my rib cage.
He wets his lips. “Torin Ramsay,” he says, his accent curling warm around my name, “my beautiful, fussy, intelligent soulmate, will you grant the wish I made two years ago on this very bridge, and marry me?”
“Aye, Beau,” I say, voice trembling, “I’ll marry you.”
“Yeah?” he says, fumbling for a ring.
I nod, unable to speak, my vision blurring as tears spill faster than I can blink them away.
He frees one of the bands and has to hold my hand steady as he slips it onto my finger.
Then he stands, his mouth on mine, and we both laugh and cry as my arms wrap around his neck, his hands finding my waist, holding me like he never wants to let go.
“I love you,” he says against my lips.
“I love you more.”
He kisses me again, then pulls back, looks over my shoulder, and shouts, “He said yes!”
And that’s when the screaming begins.
I turn to see Freya sprinting toward me, Maeve and The Pigeons not far behind, Isla and her fiancé trailing them.
They crash into us in singles and pairs, wrapping us in their arms, jumping up and down, laughing and shouting, the kind of chaos that only comes from people who love you too much to stay quiet.
Maeve kisses both of us on the cheek; Freya jokes that I can’t wear a white dress to the wedding, given what she knows about me; The Pigeons make warbling noises between cackles; Isla and Thomas grab my hand, wanting to see the ring.
It’s loud. It’s ridiculous.
It’s perfect.
“Alright, alright,” Beau says, hand on the small of my back, always there for me, “it’s time to celebrate!”
Cheers go up again, and we head back into the city. Beau holds my hand as we trail just behind our chattering band of weirdos, glancing over at me every few steps, smiling like he can’t quite believe this is real.
I’m not sure I can either.
Before we reach the pub, I stop him, pull him close, and slide his ring onto his finger.
We decide we’ll call my parents after dinner and his tomorrow morning to tell them our big news.
His family… they’ve completely come around.
I didn’t know what to expect when I met them our first summer together, but they were so welcoming, so happy to meet me.
Now Beau’s mum asks about me every time they talk, and she sends me even more presents than him—Christmas, my birthday, Valentine’s, Easter, and any other holiday she deems fit for gift-giving.
I’m not entirely convinced she wouldn’t celebrate a Tuesday if it meant wrapping something up for me.
I kiss Beau again, unable to help myself, then step into the cozy pub as he holds the door open, ever polite.
Maeve is already in full command when we reach the table, shifting chairs, flagging down a server, requesting a replacement for a wobbly one. She directs us to our place in the middle, and everyone’s in high spirits as we take our non-wobbling seats and order drinks.
Lucas browses the menu with a furrowed brow. “Do they not have hot dogs here?”
“Ooh, yes! I want a hot dog, too,” Juliana says, bouncing in her seat. “No, I want two hot dogs. With mashed avocado, chopped tomato, hot sauce, ketchup, spicy mustard, and mayo. In Chile, they call it a ‘completo.’”
“It might have been a bad idea to sit them across from each other,” Beau mutters to me, the corner of his lip curving upward as The Pigeons argue about the best toppings for tubed meat on a bun.
“Take it up with your event coordinator,” I say, nodding toward Maeve who’s already deep in conversation with Freya about wedding plans. Sounds like Flick is going to be the ring bearer.
He nudges me with his elbow. “Yeah, I’m not sure it was wise to put those two together, either.”
“Too right,” I say, nudging him back.
Beau clears his throat. “We should move here after graduation.”
My head swivels in his direction. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he says, taking a whisky from the server.
“It’d be the perfect place to start my historical foundation, and University of the Highlands has all but made you an offer for a tenure-track position.
They love your research on Scotland’s impact on the modern world.
Plus Freya lives here, your family is nearby…
I can’t imagine being anywhere else.” He turns those beautiful blue eyes on me, and my body goes weak. I kiss him again.
“I’d love that.”
“Good,” he says, returning the kiss, then nuzzling my nose with his. “Let’s do it.”
Freya makes a gagging noise. “Get a room.”
“You wanted us to get together!” I say.
“I might’ve sabotaged it if I’d known how much you’d touch each other in front of me.” She had a breakup over the summer and still seems a wee bit bitter about it.
“I think it’s sweet,” Maeve says from beside me.
Isla and Thomas exchange a look, shrug in perfect unison, then lean in for an exaggerated snog. Everyone laughs, and The Pigeons yell, “Huzzah!”
When the kissing subsides, Lucas raises his martini. “To Beau and Torin!”
“To the happy couple!” Juliana says, raising hers, too.
Glasses clink, more quick toasts are made, and through it all, Beau holds my hand, fingers threaded through mine, as our nearest and dearest celebrate the love we have for each other.
We eat, we laugh, we teach the Americans how to say slàinte mhath—with mixed success—then Isla finds the jukebox, and a familiar song starts to play.
I catch Beau’s eye, and we share a silent memory as we hear the opening bars of “Loch Lomond,” the perfect song to play at the end of any Scottish wedding. One we’ll play at ours.
Everyone gets to their feet, collectively ignoring an obvious lack of dance floor, and bounces around to the beat of the music. Beau sings terribly and off-key, and I smile, shaking my head as he butchers every note with complete confidence.
And I realize, standing there with him, that this is it.
Despite our rocky start, we changed the course of our shared history, turned it into something better, something happy. It led to this perfect moment and all the ones that will come after.
I squeeze his hand and release the bad things from our past because, though they’re part of us, they don’t define us. Like this country I love so much, Beau and I can grow and change and persist. We can be strong.
His eyes sparkle in the dim light, and I imagine what he’ll look like when we get married.
My handsome Beau, Southern gentleman and cow lover extraordinaire, standing across from me as we exchange vows.
I don’t know what I’ll say in that moment—not yet—but I make a promise to myself now: Instead of worrying about days gone by, I’m going to focus on the future, on all the good things, and on building the best life possible.
With Beau.
Forever.
“We should dress the same when we get married,” Beau says, excitement in his eyes, our friends dancing around us. “The photos of same-sex couples in matching suits are always so adorable.”
I scrunch up my face. “I don’t know. We can still be individuals, even in a partnership, and attire is part of that.”
“Come on, Torin. We’ll be so cute in the same tartan.”
We go back and forth, our voices rising.
“We’ll look like Instagram try-hards,” I contend.
He smiles. “It is a nice bonus that our pictures will look great online.”
“I’ve always said you were a pretty boy,” I say, shaking my head at him.
“So you still think I’m pretty, huh?” He waggles his eyebrows and shimmies toward me.
“Wait, we were just arguing, weren’t we?” I pause. “Why were we arguing?”
Beau just smiles and pulls me to him. “For auld lang syne, my dear.” He kisses me, thumb caressing my jaw. “For auld lang syne.”