Page 85 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

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Edinburgh in the sunshine requires few layers and much ice cream. It’s a city that is, in Finlay’s words,bougie as fuck, so every ice cream parlor (for in Scotland there exist a handful of these optimistic vendors) contains at least one vegan option. The establishment we bought from had been entirely dairy-free. Bougie as fuck, yes, but also kind of heaven.

Finlay wears an artfully slashed tee and a pair of frayed denim shorts, both of which probably cost the earth and came boxed with tissue paper and potpourri and made to be held in some luxury designer bag. His torn, painted, studded jacket, emblazoned withalba gu bràth, is knotted around his shoulders.

I narrow my eyes at him. Fitting, I guess, now that I know the real truth of his existence. Put on a shabby front, live in secret like an actual prince.

New money, my ass.

With everyone else either nursing hangovers (Rory, Luke), or so shattered with relief by the existence of a soft bed that they’ve said they’re going to take full advantage of it for a while yet (Danny), it’s only me and Finlay who’ve braved the outdoors for the first time since arriving.

And the outdoors… theyneedbravery.

Because Edinburgh is busy. It’s a small city but it’s crammed with tourists, even more so than yesterday. I stumble over small yapping terriers. I get shoved in the side by people with backpacks bigger than me. Cases of luggage reverse over my feet. I’m handed leaflets for shows I’m never going to see and discounts for restaurants I’ll never eat in.

“If this is Edinburgh noo, imagine whit it’ll be like when the festival’s on,” Finlay muses with a lick of his ice cream cone, sauntering around at half the speed of everyone else and looking like he thoroughly enjoys the madness. I try not to gape at the confident slide of his tongue over the swell of his ice cream, or pretend it’s some part of me being licked like that instead. But of course he catches me staring and exaggerates the lick into something deviously seductive, dropping me a self-satisfied smirk as he swallows.

Like the cat who caught the dairy-free cream.

Finlay tries to take my hand to steer me through the thick crowds of people, but I refuse. I’m still confused over what I’ve learned about him, what it all means. But it doesn’t lessen his look of hurt or the guilt that wallows in my chest.

“Whit’s wrang?” he asks with a frown. We come to a gradual stop in the middle of a busy street, and people tut as they barge past us. He tilts my chin with the hook of his finger and I raise my eyes to his. I quickly look away. Every time, I’m hit by their vividness, the calculations whirring behind them. They’re so green, so disarming, it makes me freeze like prey when their power is focused on me. “Sassenach…”

“Can we go somewhere quiet?” I ask, feeling like this may be a hopeless quest.

Finlay’s mouth tightens but he eventually nods, leading us away from the Royal Mile — the busiest part of the city — and down a side street. It’s a long road filled with ear-splitting honking from the latest traffic jam, and as we dodge swerving double-decker buses I wonder if Finlay’s joking about his idea of quiet. But just as I’m getting fed up with noise and traffic, he gently guides me around a sharp corner and into an unexpected graveyard hidden from sight.

It’s quiet. It’s peaceful. There are tourists here, but it feels like a little pocket of tranquility in such a busy city.

“A graveyard?” I gaze down at the ancient, crumbling headstones, my stomach lurching slightly. Death. Death is everywhere. “You really know how to impress a girl, huh.”

Finlay takes my hand, and this time I let him. “Cannae help it. It’s the wounded goth in me.”

We walk around the grounds hand in hand, observing the faded names on the headstones and wondering about the lives of the people buried here several centuries ago.

“Ye seem mair subdued today.” He cocks his head to the side, his dark hair falling into his eyes. “Last night, did you and Rory…?” he asks suddenly, and then bites his lip as though to put a stopper on the question, but it’s too late.

“Have sex?” I ask, bemused, and Finlay doesn’t even have the nerve to look embarrassed. “My apologies, I wasn’t aware I should keep you updated on all sexual activity.”

“That isnae whit I meant,” he mutters. “I just thought… when we… y’know… in the loch? I wondered… I wondered if maybe I shouldnae have been there wi’ ye.”

I’d been on the verge of telling Finlay to spit it out, but his words as a whole take me by surprise. “Why?”

He laughs slightly but there’s little humor in it. “You and Rory. I can see it wi’ my own eyes. Helikesyou, sassenach. And I know you like him. I shouldnae have intruded, no’ on yer first time.”

“But Rory brought you to the loch,” I point out. “Rory wanted you there.”

A look of conflict crosses Finlay’s face. “Aye,” he says, seeming puzzled by it. “But you? It would have been understandable if ye’d wanted privacy.”

I give him a small smile. His tentativeness is oddly endearing. “If I recall correctly, I’m the one who invited you to join us. To get into the water. To be with us together.”

Again, Finlay bites his lip. “Right.”

“So whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong.” And to make my point, I squeeze his hand tight.

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but eventually he asks, “Then why the silence? Ye’ve been cagey around me. I thought it was about the loch, but…”

I sigh, not really wanting to get into this. His disheveled hair and slashed tee and fraying shorts, and the millions behind his name. It made sense with Rory. He so obviously came from money. He never hid it. But Finlay’s knocked me sideways, and I feel like a complete idiot for getting sucked into his poor-little-rich-boy scheme.

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