Page 50 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

I wasn’t honest with him. I was closed-in and shut him out. I’ve confused matters entirely by leaping into Rory’s arms the moment he saidmaybe.

Maybe you’re useful to me. Maybe you can be with me. Maybe me.

I look inside the fridge, expecting a struggle to find something to cobble together, only to find a wrapped casserole dish with a label on it sayingSassenach. Inside, I see the grooves of what looks like a mashed potato topping.

“What’s this?” I ask, turning to Finlay.

He raises his head slightly. “I couldnae stand another dinner wi’ Luke. Or Rory, come tae think o’ it. So I made food for myself.” He gestures at the baking dish in my hands. “It’s shepherd’s pie wi’ lentils. A classic. I thought ye might want the rest.”

I stare at him in wonder. “You cooked something for me?”

He rubs the back of his head and corrects gruffly, “I just dinnae like food waste, that’s all. I thought ye might appreciate it at least, being vegan and that.”

But I beam at him in delight, overwhelmed by the gesture. No one’s ever made me anything before, and a vegan shepherd’s pie is definitely the way to my heart.

“No, dinnae dae that,” Finlay mutters weakly, glancing away from me, but his green gaze returns only a moment later. “Dinnae smile like that. No’ at me.”

My smile only widens. I’ve hurt him in the past, but we can make amends, I know we can. He’s my political twin, my lecturer, a font of knowledge so deep it makes me want to dive into it, and this isn’t just dinner: it’s a chance to work things out.

I set the temperature for the oven and slide the dish inside, coming to sit beside Finlay.

They’re little cookies, I realize, staring down at his plate.

He glances at me. “Want one? They’re just oatcakes.”

I rub my forehead, trying to fathom the difference between cookies and biscuits and cakes on this side of the pond. To me, they look like flat little cookies — but although they’re oatcakes, here they’re still biscuits with plant-based butter on them, and I have to resist the urge to scrunch up my nose because the American idea of savory bread-biscuits is far too ingrained in me.

“Sure,” I say, smiling, because at least Finlay is still talking to me while I pick an internal battle with my inner baker.

Naturally they taste amazing, like everything else I’ve eaten here, and I’m chewing happily when Finlay asks with a touch of spite, “Not wi’ the heir o’ the manor tonight?”

I tilt my head to the side. “Are you the heir of the manor?”

“No.”

“Then no. Tonight I amnotwith the heir of the manor.”

Finlay’s shoulders relax slightly, though his lips remain in an unhappy twist. “Ye’re wi’ his lapdog instead,” he murmurs, still picking at his oatcakes like they mortally offend him.

“Do you hate yourself this much?” I ask, watching his fingers turn oatcakes into crumbs. He rolls the jagged crumbs over the tips of his fingers as though they’re rosary beads, a meditative reflex, a kind of penance, every time he insults himself.

“How can I no’ hate myself right noo? After what I’ve done? After whit Rory telt me tae dae? And then leadingyouintae this… I was wrang. I’m a hot-headed eejit, nothin’ more than a daft zealot wi’ cloth for brains. I’m no better than Benji.”

“Stop it,” I say, growing hurt on Finlay’s behalf. “Do you think Benji would ever believe he’s wrong? No. He was obsessed with proving himself right, that the ends justify the means. The fact you’re having doubts makes you stronger, more real.You have a conscience. If you want to make things right, then you can start by making it up to Luke.”

“How?” Finlay asks testily. “He hates me.”

“You heard him. He said he wants to have fun.”

But Finlay just shakes his head. “Ye dinnae get it, sassenach. Ye cannae fix the betrayal o’ the century by havingfun. It’s absurd.”

“It’s what he asked for.”

“Well, I dinnae feel particularly fun right now. So…” He snaps another oatcake in half, crumbs raining onto the plate. It’s then I notice his hands, both of them, are completely pale. Un-inked. I’m so used to seeing rich colors decorating Finlay’s arms – or, more recently, the hard jet-black rectangle – that the sight of Finlay without them makes him seem not quite himself, his skin unbalanced, faded around the edges.

He notices my stare and raises his right hand, inspecting the back of it with distaste. “I didnae bring my pens,” he mutters. “I thought I’d gie my skin a break.” And then, to stop me from looking, he tugs down the sleeve of his sweater sharply. “Besides, I dinnae feel very creative.”

Not fun. Not creative. Not Finlay.

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