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.
Thatvoice,thick with the sing-song Welsh lilt, gentle yet firm.
‘Oh. My. God,’ Ivy gasped. ‘I told you! They aregorgeon you!’
With stinging cheeks, shaking and aching legs, and a thudding heart, Quinn threw back the pint he was holding until it was empty.
ChapterThree
‘It was awful, Dad, awful. The man thought I’d wet myself.’
Quinn shivered in the graveyard underneath an ancient yew tree. Turns out, thin fabric hippie trousers were not the most practical thing to wear in the icy depths of winter. With a gloved hand, he brushed aside the snow from his father’s gravestone. Despite the darkening sky, it felt light here, almost if the light came from the heavens.
He’d said goodbye to Ivy, promising to meet her at the local pub later in the evening. He held a bag with his wet trousers. After today’s ordeal, he needed time to himself. Except he wasn’t by himself. Not when he came here.
Quinn observed a fresh bouquet lying beneath his father’s name:Gerald Oxford. Even seeing his name made Quinn want to cry. He wondered if his mother left the flowers lying in the snow. He didn’t even know for certain if Claire still visited the grave. They didn’t talk about Gerald often, if at all, and his grave was definitely not something to bring up in conversation.
Quinn crouched so that Gerald’s name was eye level.
‘Did Mum leave you these? I wish you could tell me. I know what you’re thinking – why don’t I just ask her myself? In all honesty, Dad, I don’t want to.’ Quinn sighed, white mist floating before him. ‘She’s so… Well, I doubt you want to know about Harold. But ever since he came around, she’s … different.’
Talking about his mother out in the open felt strange. He glanced around the snow-covered graveyard, almost expecting that people would watch him like he was performing a soliloquy. But underneath the yew tree, everything felt so private. Gerald’s plot felt secluded, even though it was in a long line of passed souls, some of whom no longer got visitors.
He couldn’t recall how he’d started talking to his father like this. Since his death, Quinn needed someone to listen to him. He found it hard to talk to people when they were in front of him, as if they might judge him. His father’s dead ear wouldn’t judge. His father wouldn’t judge full stop. Gerald always had time for Quinn and he never felt like a burden. He had been more to him than just a father – he was a friend and a trusted source of comfort.
Losing that ruined Quinn. When Gerald died, Quinn lost his confidence. The ability to talk to others seemed to die when his father did.
A red robin landed on Gerald’s gravestone, holding a twig with a red berry in its petite beak. Quinn smiled.
