Chapter 2

Chapter Two

‘Quinn, there you are!'

Ivy rushed to him, but he turned his attention to his Welsh brewed beer, staring into the glass with discontent. Fizzing beer had never been so interesting. ‘Leave me alone.'

He wore a pair of tie-dye elasticated harem trousers, something that was being sold on a self-confessed hippie stall for an extortionate price. They clung to his ankles, almost cutting off the blood supply. His grey trousers, still wet with champagne, were in the cloakroom for him to collect later. He felt like a fool.

‘These look very good on you,' Ivy spoke, admiring his new trousers. ‘The colours suit your aura.'

‘Ivy, not now.' He slurped his beer like he was at his lowest ebb, willing away the pain inside.

‘Look, I'm sorry, I got excited.' She sighed. ‘Besides, nobody talked about it after…'

‘After Bloody Blair Beckett joked about it, yeah,' Quinn said. ‘I missed the whole thing.'

‘I wondered if you were going to come back.'

Quinn turned to her, fighting back tears. ‘How could I? Everyone thought I'd wet myself!'

Those nearest at the bar looked at Quinn with concern. Ivy shook her head in a way that said, ‘I'll deal with this', and they nodded with sympathy.

‘I told them it was champagne. Besides, people forgot as soon as Noah started speaking. You would have loved it, honestly. It was so good, Quinn. He spoke about his romance novels, but he also spoke about queer stories. I asked him why he hadn't written one yet, and he said he was thinking about it.'

Quinn perked up, almost forgetting about his ordeal. ‘He did?'

‘Oh, yes.' Ivy smiled. ‘And now he's doing his book signing at the bookshop tent, and I think you should come with me to meet him.'

‘Ivy, no, I can't.'

The last thing he wanted was to meet a man he fancied who no doubt thought he had pissed himself.

‘You absolutely can!' She touched his arm again, the rings cold on his skin. ‘He won't remember. No one will. They will be too excited to see Noah!'

‘Ivy, no.'

Ivy cocked an eyebrow. ‘You always do this, Quinn. You shy away from moments that could change your life.'

Quinn wanted to tell Ivy that life-changing moments never happened to him. Average life, average person. The most average man to ever live.

‘But these.'

They both looked at his trousers, garish and brash.

‘They are perfect.' Ivy said, with no sense of irony. ‘Now come. Bring your beer with you.'

She took his hand, and clutching his pint, he allowed her to usher him across the bar area. They swayed over to the pop-up bookshop. That was the thing about Ivy – she navigated the cramped festival like there was no one around. People moved for her, smiling as they did so, and she thanked every one of them with genuine enthusiasm. He supposed that if they were looking at her, they weren't looking at him and his trousers that felt like they might catch flight if a gust of wind came through. Quinn couldn't see through all the people, but when those nearest to them parted, he could see Noah. Despite the other authors signing away, Noah had the biggest line. At the corner of the room stood Deb and June, who both looked like they were arguing over a signed tea cosy.

‘Well, Deb, you know I bought you that after all.'

‘No, this belonged to my grandmother.'

‘No, no, I remember buying it from Hay market.'

‘Well, explain this bloodstain then!'

Ivy dragged Quinn away before anyone could question why a tea cosy had blood on it.

Quinn took a deep breath as he took in the crowd. He craved the sanctuary of his bookshop. A row of shelves on all sides of the tent were full of people reading blurbs, adding things to their baskets, and talking. Despite the cold weather outside, the chill didn't reach the tent. Electric heaters glowed Santa Claus red, and the same fairy lights from outside twinkled here in the tent, too. Christmas music played over the speaker, but it didn't feel gaudy. Instead, it added to the cosy atmosphere; warmth radiated from every passer-by.

‘They're saying a white Christmas, you know,' Ivy said.

‘That'll be surprising.'

‘Will it?'

Quinn didn't answer. Anxiety twisted in his stomach, his legs feeling like that time he overexerted himself on a treadmill without eating and then never went back.

Maybe that was because of the cut-off blood supply.

‘What are you going to say to him when you meet him?'

‘Nothing, Ivy.'

‘Nothing? Say something .'

Quinn was more than happy to say nothing at all. He didn't have to have a conversation with Noah Sage because staring at him for too long would turn him to stone. Not because he was Medusa or anything. His hair was too perfect to be compared to hissing snakes, but Noah's looks were enough to petrify him.

He struggled to speak his mind at the best of times. Telling Noah how much he loved his books and wanted to know everything he could about him was not an option.

‘Come on, there he is.'

They joined the back of the queue, miles away from Noah. The pile of Noah Sage books on the nearby round table was dwindling. Quinn recognised other authors who were about to finish their signings early or were twiddling their thumbs, waiting for any last stragglers.

Quinn watched Noah as they got closer, and closer, and too close, no, this was too close. He was all smiles, ever the professional. His teeth were perfect: straight and a Hollywood white done by professionals and not with whitening strips ordered from Amazon like Quinn tried once. He bared a dazzling grin for photographs, asked every person about their day, signed with accuracy and speed, and wished them farewell.

Quinn's heart started beating faster as they got closer. He realised he didn't have any books with him. What would he ask Noah to sign? He thought about the blood-covered tea cosy and wondered if it was too late to go back and ask if he could borrow it.

His throat tightened. Was his tongue swelling?

‘Your throat chakra's blocked,' Ivy said.

‘My throat is very wide. Thank you very much.'

Ivy held her own copies, the covers crumpled at the edges, well read. She chatted away, telling him about something he couldn't focus on. With every step they took, it was like he couldn't remember how to walk. What if Noah asked about his accident? How would he explain it was champagne? That, yes, he was an adult, and yes, he had full control of when and how he peed. That no, he didn't sit there and release. Would he even be able to say one word, with that thumping heart of his, the dry throat and mouth, the shakes that made him question why he was getting so flustered over a man he only knew by name?

You're being silly. You're star-struck.

Yes, that was it. Star-struck. This was one of the most famous authors of the moment. That's all this was: overwhelming feelings of complete disbelief that he was in the presence of someone with so much media attention and exposure.

This must be what groupies feel like when they first meet their favourite rock star. Only the groupies end up joining the band on tour, and they get up to many devious and fascinating deeds, and then rush to the clinic for antibiotics two weeks later. This would simply be a ‘hello, I didn't wet myself,' and that would be that. If he could even string a sentence together.

Quinn met many authors. You couldn't own Hay's very own—and only—bookshop dedicated to queer stories without meeting writers. People came from all over to browse his selections on everything from LGBTQ+ history to the latest gay novel. He created a staple piece on the scene here in Hay, which made the ordeal in the tent such an embarrassment. People who lived here knew him. He did not want that to be something that was brought up all the time.

Quinn tried to recall being star-struck over other authors he'd met in this small Welsh town that straddled the English border. He was no stranger to author signings, whether they be in his own shop or at someone else's. He'd spent many a night at a pub chatting away about writing and books with authors, with writers, and with those who devoured every page they could get their hands on.

So why was this feeling so intense? So scary?

A simple high school crush? Maybe.

Two people separated them now, with Noah's eyes fixed on the person in front of him. He didn't know that Quinn was about to arrive.

So, calm down, Quinn told himself. He sees so many faces that he will not remember you. It was dark anyway. Those house lights weren't as bright as you think.

But that stare. That moment when everything stood still. Had he imagined it?

And then it happened again. Next in line. Noah looked up. Quinn looked away, but not before his eyes met with those green eyes once more.

Such was the standstill moment of the situation that Quinn didn't see the man with the headset approach. He didn't see the pretty black-haired girl, who had been on the phone, head towards Noah.

‘I'm sorry, ladies and gents, but he has to go,' said the man with the headset.

‘Oh, dear,' Ivy said.

What was happening?

Noah got to his feet, the woman next to him telling him about something, the man with the headset looking tense but apologetic as he explained to Ivy, to Quinn, to the queue growing behind them that Noah had done his time, and that signed copies would be available on the bookstand.

‘I'm very sorry,' Noah said, and for the first time, Quinn thought he looked tense. Up close, that carefree persona wasn't as convincing. Perhaps because he was moments away from meeting a man who people thought wet himself.

Quinn looked at Noah one last time, part of him wanting to savour ever being so close to a man of his stature, another part of him wanting to feed the curiosity that was gnawing away inside him. His heart squeezed, and it flipped, when he saw Noah watching him.

‘Nice trousers,' Noah said, before turning away and disappearing into the crowd with the girl and the man with the headset.

That voice, thick with the sing-song Welsh lilt, gentle yet firm.

‘Oh. My. God,' Ivy gasped. ‘I told you! They are gorge on you!'

With stinging cheeks, shaking and aching legs, and a thudding heart, Quinn threw back the pint he was holding until it was empty.