Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

Quinn wanted to dance. He was soaring, flying high, higher than Santa on his sleigh. Like Rudolph, when he found his purpose and led the fleet in the sky. He felt like singing from the rooftops, announcing to the world that he was going to be writing Hermione's autobiography.

Of course, they needed a publisher.

And he needed to save his shop.

The fear and the anxiety started creeping towards him, like the frost that crept across surfaces in the dead of night. It threatened to tighten around him, choke him, and make him struggle to survive. He wasn't high anymore. He was no longer Rudolph.

He was your bog-standard reindeer reject.

Noah got his car moving again, the tyres slipping on the black ice of the road until they found their grip.

Quinn's mind was buzzing. Why could he only fear the impending dread, like Krampus was about to come and snatch everything away from him? Why couldn't he allow himself this small sliver of happiness?

‘Publishing can be fickle, and there's no guarantee her book will see the light of day,' Noah said, not realising that this was not what Quinn needed to hear right now.

He could write. Couldn't he? A degree told him he could. The chapters that Hermione liked meant he did something right. A job offer in publishing told him he knew something about writing.

He could write Hermione's story.

‘Did you know your mum knew my dad?'

‘I didn't,' Noah said. ‘Did she know him well?'

‘Very well, by the sounds of it. Sounds like Dad treated her kindly when nobody else did.'

‘Hm,' Noah said, his hands tightening on the wheel.

‘What?'

‘Nothing.'

‘No, something,' Quinn said. ‘Your knuckles have turned white.'

‘Have not,' Noah said before loosening his grip. He glanced at Quinn, meeting his probing stare. ‘Oh, fine. It's just … that's hard to hear.'

‘What is?'

‘That someone was nice to Mum when everyone else wasn't. It reminds me I wasn't nice to her. Still not nice to her.'

Quinn winced, worried he'd offended Noah. He looked at the snowy landscape around them as they approached Hay, his eyes looking toward the graveyard. It wasn't that far from Hermione's home. No wonder she'd found solace in visiting his father.

‘You're nice to her.'

‘I could do better,' Noah said. ‘But I'm glad she had someone in the form of your dad. That must make you proud.'

All the stories he'd heard of Hermione, and the way others spoke of her, came to Quinn. He wished he'd known all that time that his father hadn't been like them. That he'd been kind.

Outside the shop, Noah cut the engine.

‘Do you want to come in?' Quinn asked, looking at Daniel Craig through the window.

‘Best not,' Noah said. ‘Got to do something.'

‘Writing?'

‘Something like that.'

Quinn watched Noah drive away before heading into the shop. Daniel dropped the book he was reading, the title catching Noah's eye. ‘ The Curious Man ?'

‘I was … curious,' Daniel said, his cheeks blushing.

Quinn stepped a little closer to Daniel, noticing that the shop had a flurry of browsing customers. ‘Daniel. If you wanted to talk to me about anything…'

‘Coffee?' Daniel asked, snatching his book up from the counter. He hugged it to his chest as he disappeared to the back of the shop before Quinn could answer. Message received.

The bell above the door tingled, and Blair Beckett sleeked back his hair. ‘Interview ready?'

His interview with BBC News for their online website went off without a hitch. Quinn, still thinking of Hermione, somehow said all the right things to Blair. After the interview, they filmed him doing things around his shop, such as taking orders from a customer in the form of Daniel and stacking the shelves. Blair explained that a digital segment, along with an article, would appear online in the morning.

The rest of the day went by in a blur, with racing thoughts of Hermione and her book, how the BBC coverage might look, and Noah's wonderful hair. Now, if he could figure out a way for Noah's hair to save his shop then he'd be grand.

Ten minutes to closing, Quinn decided to step outside and bring in a board advertising his Christmas reads. Dazed from the day, he barely paid attention as he left the warmth of his shop, crashing straight into the chest of a man.

He skidded, gracelessly crashing to the ground. A hand gripped his arm, steadying him mid-fall and pulling him back upright, back to earth, and into the proximity of a god.

‘You alright?'

Am I alright?

Noah's eyes glinted at Quinn, freezing him in time again.

‘Why do you keep running into me?' Quinn laughed. ‘We have to stop meeting like this.'

Flirting.

How bold he was!

It was because of the feeling inside him, now rushing back: that elated high, gathering momentum now that Noah stood before him. His hand, hair growing on the back, clutched a disposable cup of coffee, and Quinn wondered why Noah wasn't wearing gloves. His hands would freeze in this weather. He imagined their icy touch on his skin, remembering how his touch felt. But in another circumstance, with different meaning, would they be rough? Gentle?

Stop it.

He was beaming so bright that if Icarus flew by, he would melt. Noah watched him, intrigued.

‘Have they saved your bookshop?'

‘What?'

‘You seem happy.'

And then he crashed. The smile faded and disappeared. His broad shoulders shrugged. Icarus floated by with glee, surviving another day.

‘No, it's been a weird day. A good day.'

‘Well, I'm glad you've had a good day since I saw you.' Noah's voice dripped with sarcasm, before he paused and caught himself. ‘Sorry. I'm going stir crazy here.'

‘Why?'

‘I thought I'd have a drive around. Maybe brave it and explore Hay a little. All it did was make me realise why I want to go back home.'

‘What is home like for you?'

Noah moved aside as someone stepped out of the shop behind him. He reached out for Quinn, pulling him with him. They were pressed against a window, a Christmas display of shining, twinkling red and green lights, which lit them both up. Green looked good on Noah's skin. He wished a stampede of customers would go by so he could stay like this with Noah for longer than a moment.

‘I live in a two-bedroom apartment,' Noah said, and even though the customer had gone, they remained at the window. ‘I own it. Thank the lord for my book sales.'

If anyone else had mentioned owning in London, Quinn would have rolled his eyes. He might see them as bragging, trying to impress. But Noah admitted his owning of his home like it was shameful, like it was not to be shared. It was humble, acknowledging his privilege. Quinn couldn't help but smile.

‘Where is it?'

‘Um…'

‘Come on, I promise I won't stalk you. It's not like I'm a stalker. I wouldn't be asking if I was a stalker. Stalkers just kind of follow, don't they?' Stop saying stalker. ‘I'd hope you wouldn't think I'm a stalker anyway. No, you don't have to tell me. It's okay.'

Noah was smirking now, and Quinn liked it, but he didn't like it. That smirk was curious, humorous, and at his expense.

And it's driving me crazy.

‘Chelsea.'

‘Chels— Chelsea! '

Those passing by looked at this outburst like Quinn was a nuisance. He cleared his throat, feeling somewhat silly, the red colouring of his cheeks caused not by the bitter cold weather but by his embarrassment. ‘Sorry. But that's, like, desirable.'

‘Desirable?'

‘Houses. Price wise!'

Noah, still smirking, nodded. ‘Why I bought a place there.'

‘Is it nice?'

‘Yes, it's nice. But now I'm going to have to peep out the window when I get back. Might not feel safe there. Seeing as I might have a stalker.'

‘Why are you so paranoid? You're like your—' Quinn stopped. Not his mother. Never bring the mother into things. ‘Characters in your books. Suspicious of the motives of others.'

‘You should always suspect others. I mean, you just said you're not a stalker. Isn't that what a stalker would say?'

‘You don't have proof of that.'

Noah looked Quinn up and down, placing a hand against the window, leaning towards him.

‘Being at my talk at Hay. Locking me in your shop. Saying, "why do you keep running into me" and "we have to stop meeting like this" like you're following me.'

Quinn swallowed, so close to Noah that he could see all the finer details of his face. ‘And who has come upstairs and knocked on my door twice? When there's a whole other door outside you have to get through first that always seems to be left unlocked?'

‘Isn't it your responsibility to lock it?' Noah was grinning now. Warm, friendly, so bloody sexy.

Hearing his words recited back to him, like it was poetry, made Quinn feel like he might faint. Only he might faint because here was Noah thinking he was a stalker. ‘I think you have a key.'

‘Yeah, I got one cut.'

‘Please tell me you're joking.'

‘Depends,' Noah said.

‘On what?'

‘On what kind of stalker you'll be,' Noah said.

Was he flirting? No.

Flirting with me?

‘Well, you might have to find out what kind of stalker I am, then.'

‘A fun drunk one,' Noah said, his breath dancing over Quinn's skin.

Quinn laughed, recalling their evening together. How long ago it seemed. ‘Did I embarrass myself?'

‘I don't remember.' Then he paused. ‘Did I?'

‘Oh, you told me how to find your house, enter it, and your daily routine so that I know your every waking moment.'

‘Bingo.' Noah moved back, sipped his coffee, and Quinn never felt so jealous of coffee before.

‘Listen, this may seem like what a stalker might say, but fancy doing something?'

Did I just ask that?

‘Doing something?' Noah asked. ‘Like what?'

Like kiss. Taste each other. Fuuuu…

‘Like, something fun.'

‘I want fun.'

Where had Quinn heard that before? Grindr?

‘What about your shop?'

‘Closed.'

Before Noah could say anything, Quinn darted around Noah and inside his shop. Daniel, leaning against the counter, covered the book with his hand.

‘Hiya, Quinn.'

‘You'll be alright to lock up?'

‘Course I will,' Daniel said. ‘Speaking to Noah about your shop, is it?'

‘Something like that.'

Quinn stepped back out into the cold.

‘All good?' Noah asked.

‘Brilliant.' Then, pausing, he turned back to the shop. ‘Daniel?'

‘Mm?'

‘Can you bring the sign in?'

‘Sure.'

Outside, Noah raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. ‘Ready?'

‘Definitely.'

So, throwing caution to the wind, they headed out onto the snowy street, trudging into the layers of snow that wouldn't budge. As they exhaled, their breath formed misted shapes in front of them, which they could interpret if they paused. The winter dark took hold of Hay, and despite the cold, the place felt warm. Shops stayed open later, aromas of fresh baked confectionery and steaming caffeine drifting throughout the night.

‘I smell something fruity,' Quinn said, and before Noah could object, Quinn took Noah's hand and dragged him down the slippery street. They went past the butter market, which was built to be cold, so god knows how cold it was in there now, and around the corner, where a woman in a large puffer jacket stood in the doorway, her face visible through the top like a mare ready to race. The two men laughed, jostling each other like it was only them in the street.

‘Mulled wine, gents?' She smiled, taking them in. Her eyes settled on Noah touching Quinn's forearm. ‘Oh, I heard you were in town.'

‘You did?' Noah asked, dropping his hand and stepping away from Quinn. Quinn fixed the faltering smile on his face, convincing himself he was overthinking.

‘Gossip spreads fast here, Mr Sage. You should know that.'

Quinn looked at Noah to gauge his reaction. He smiled, but he wondered if Noah felt a little awkward. His eyes glanced at Quinn and darted away.

Hay didn't change. Everyone knew everyone. And everyone loved everyone. Which meant that everyone gossiped about everyone. But it was a kind place, a joyful place, a place where neighbours looked out for one another.

The woman turned away from the door and went into the kitchen of a café that wasn't allowing people to sit inside during the dark night. She came back carrying two disposable mugs, steam rising from the top. Inside was dark red wine, scented with spices and citrus – a spicy scent that made Quinn already feel warm. Quinn made to pay, but Noah shook his head.

‘I'll get them.'

‘Oh, no, you bring enough to Hay as it is.' She winked at Noah. ‘Have these on me, boys.'

‘Thank you,' they both said.

‘Will we see you at the wassail tomorrow?'

‘The … what, sorry?'

Quinn smirked, seeing Noah for what he had become. ‘City boy here doesn't know what that is.'

Noah turned to him, grinning. ‘Oh, so now I'm "city boy"?'

‘The wassail happens every year, Noah,' Quinn said. ‘I guess cities don't have any fun.'

‘I can assure you cities are a lot of fun, hippie boy.' Noah turned back to the woman, who grinned at their exchange. ‘What's the wassail?'

She showed a poster pinned on a board next to her. A colourful image of a horse's skull, decorated with tassels and baubles for eyes, was the focus.

‘We gather and sing, going from house to house,' she said. ‘It's tomorrow night.'

‘What the hell is that horse thing?' Noah asked.

Quinn gasped. ‘Do not disrespect our Mari like that.'

‘Mari?'

‘You are from Hay, aren't you?' The coffee seller jested.

‘He left when he was sixteen,' Quinn said. ‘City boy now.'

Noah nudged him, and Quinn wondered if he discovered the way to get more physical contact from him. Wind him up. The breaking away of a few moments ago had been forgotten.

‘There was no Mari when I was here,' Noah said.

‘No, she's had a resurgence,' Quinn admitted. ‘It has to be seen to be believed.'

‘There's a free drink to get you started,' the woman said.

‘We'll be there,' Quinn said.

‘We will?' Noah asked.

‘Free drinks, Noah.'

‘Great!' The woman beamed. She bade them farewell and waited at her door for another passer-by. They strolled down High Town Road, the snow slipping off the butter market gates as they trod on by. At the bottom of the street, all souls had disappeared.

It was just Quinn and Noah.

‘Have you tasted yours yet?'

‘Not yet,' Quinn said.

‘Go on. Warms you up!'

Quinn did as he was told. He sipped, feeling the warmth on his lips and the sweet taste pinching his taste buds with a hint of spice. Swallowing, he felt like he had drunk ginger. It tingled as it went down, warming his chest. He drank some more, clutching the mug tight, savouring the warmth.

Warm lights from inside homes on the street spilled out onto the snow.

‘Hay in the winter. Beautiful,' Quinn said.

‘Hay any time of the year is beautiful.'

‘Ah.' Quinn's eyebrows raised. ‘So, you don't hate it completely, then?'

‘I don't hate it here. I could never hate it here.'

‘Don't you ever think of coming back?'

Noah pondered it, his eyes drifting to the stone homes, sandstone walls, and crooked windows. He smirked. ‘No, I don't.'

‘Shame.'

If Noah sensed the same words being used on him, he didn't show it. Quinn wanted to ask so much more. How could anyone dislike Hay? The thought of not being here made no sense to him. Quinn loved his life here. Saw his future here. The London job had been rejected because Quinn couldn't bear to leave this place behind. And now, with its snow and the glimmering lights, it reminded him why he fell in love with Hay.

They walked down St John's Place, neither of them saying anything, instead listening to the stillness of the night. No cars, no birds, no people. Just silence.

Imagine if Noah came back. What might happen then? Quinn could be his friend. Who was he kidding? He'd be his boyfriend. There wasn't any possibility that he could be only friends with Noah. But he refused to come back. He didn't see his life in this small town.

‘When I was a kid, I always wanted to be a vet,' Quinn said, filling the silence that he could no longer stand. They stood outside a tapas bar, where laughter punctuated the still night. Quinn's voice, so docile, gave permission for the raucous noises of the restaurant's inhabitants to speak again. ‘I thought that would be the career I would have. I always loved to read, of course, but I loved animals. Then, when I was eight or nine, I had an English lesson and the teacher was telling us about the story structure. Then I wanted to be a writer.'

‘You did?'

‘I did,' Quinn said. ‘So, I wrote. And I submitted. I got nowhere. I studied English literature and realised that if I can't be a writer, I can be a champion of it. I can support authors, support writing, sell the beautiful art of crafting stories from words. And I have never been happier.'

They continued down Brook Street, lit only by a lone lamppost. Noah was closer to him now, and between the warmth of the drink and him, Quinn felt secure. He wondered if he was a lightweight, and if the wine was stronger than it seemed. He would blame the funny feeling in his stomach on that.

‘I'm like that farmer boy who never leaves home,' Quinn said. ‘Hypothetically, of course. I can't handle the muck of a farm. But you know the type. The ones born into the farm, and their dads teach them the trade, and they do that. My dad got his bookshop. I spent so much time there, and it just reinforced what I knew I wanted to do.'

Quinn was smiling despite the bitter, frigid chill. They were heading towards the bridge, huddled against the night, clutching their drinks tightly.

‘I bet his shop had a huge impact on you.'

‘Oh, definitely.' Quinn sighed. ‘It was so perfect.'

‘You love it, don't you?'

‘Yes, I do,' Quinn said. ‘It's a small patch on the earth, but it's my patch. I fit in here. This is my place.'

‘London is mine.'

The words felt as cold as the snow.

‘Ah, London,' Quinn said. ‘If I lose my shop, I may have to follow you down there.'

They stopped at the edge of the bridge, and Noah turned to Quinn. ‘Why don't you?'

Quinn's smile, so wide, so content, faded. He turned his upturned head away from the sky and found Noah's face, like he was cautious to look at him. ‘Sorry?'

Noah moved closer. ‘Why don't you come with me?'

What was he doing? Why was he asking me this? Maybe he was drunk. Bloody wine. Bloody Blair Beckett. Bloody Hay.

‘Come with you … to London?'

‘You said you might have a job down there. An offer still standing?' Noah asked, and Quinn nodded. ‘You may lose your prized possession, and I get it. It's hard. But think of the opportunity down in the city.'

‘I don't know if I want to start again,' Quinn said. ‘Maybe in my early twenties I would have. But now I've left it too late.'

‘It's never too late,' Noah said. ‘You can do anything you want at any moment in your life.'

‘What's in London for you? Why don't you move back here?'

‘My life. My friends. And my partner.'

Wham. There it was. He thought he'd doubled over, as if being punched, but he knew it was only a feeling inside. That warmth turned cold, like the snow was falling straight onto his heart. His smile faded until he stared at the icy water.

His partner.

The conversation in Hermione's kitchen. The plural we.

‘Oh, I didn't know you had a partner,' Quinn said, hoping his high-pitched voice didn't give away the pain he felt inside.

‘His name is Matthew,' Noah said. ‘Matty.'

Of course, it is.

‘He sounds nice.'

‘Yeah.'

Silence. Stiffness. Cold.

Quinn had to say something, anything.

‘Is he staying with you, too?' He knew the answer, but needed to hear it.

‘At Mum's house,' Noah said. ‘Spending Christmas with her. I haven't done that in a while.'

‘Why not?'

‘I spend it in London with…'

A patch of silence nipped in the bud by Quinn.

‘Matty.'

‘Matty, yeah,' Noah said. ‘I invite her every year, but she always says no.'

‘Why?'

Though Quinn knew the answer.

‘The press.'

‘Right.'

‘They don't exist, by the way.'

‘What?'

‘Mum thinks she is still being hounded by the press,' Noah said. ‘She is paranoid to leave the house for fear of them harassing her, but the only times she has appeared in the press is when she calls them herself. The true reason she won't go out is because of the people here.'

On this bridge, alone, feeling small and like a blip on the landscape, the words between them seemed to pour out. Quinn felt safe, and he thought Noah felt safe, too. Trust stretched between them like the bridge, linking them to each other.

‘Everyone knows, don't they? They all know about Hermione and her author son. Everyone thinks it's so simple, but they don't get it. I bet you all gossip about it and have a right old laugh.'

‘Actually, Noah, no one cares,' Quinn said. Noah stepped back, defensive, his arms crossed, his warm drink held in his hand. ‘Hermione is someone we wish came here more than she does. We miss her. What happened to her is a sad story. And you. You're one of us. You're both one of us. But neither of you wants to be here because neither of you seems to care. You don't remember the support available to you. You're both just hung up in your own little world, and that world isn't a real one.'

‘How dare you?'

‘It's true.'

‘You don't know me.'

‘No, I don't,' Quinn said. ‘But I'd like to.' He cleared his throat, his eyes drifting over the bridge. ‘I'm going to tell her story.' He dared not look at Noah. He dared not read too much into his expression.

‘I couldn't think of anyone better.'

Had he said that?

Quinn looked at Noah, seeing him smile, but this time he didn't let their eyes meet. ‘You mean it?'

‘Of course,' Noah said. ‘I haven't been able to talk to someone like this in a long time. You have a way about you, Quinn, that makes people feel like they can trust you. There's something about you that makes me feel safe.'

OH MY GOD.

Soaring, flying, fleeting high in the clouds, shining bright like Rudolph. It was back, and this time it wouldn't freeze and die in the crisp grip of winter.

‘You don't think it will be weird?'

‘No, I don't think so,' Noah said. ‘I guess you'll be at the house, then?'

‘Yeah, I think so.'

Noah met his eyes. That familiar feeling gripped them. Quinn was suspended in mid-air and a light illuminated them like the beam of God's light rather than headlights from a Jeep Wrangler crossing the bridge.

‘I'll like that,' Noah said. ‘A lot.'

Dare he move closer? Close enough to smell that aftershave that Noah wore, that Quinn had smelled on him the night in his shop? If he moved closer, what might happen?

But before he could even take one step, Noah checked his watch, and Quinn fell from the sky and landed in a heap on the bridge.

‘I should head back home now,' he said, unaware that he had shot Quinn out of the sky. ‘I might be a big boy now, but Mum still worries about me.'

‘Mothers,' Quinn said, wondering just how much of a big boy Noah really was.