‘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.
ChapterTwenty-Two
The morning came, and with it, memories of his night with Noah. Like every waking moment of his life, Quinn could only think ‘if only’ and ‘what if’, wishing he said something more profound, or at least something bold and clever.
Yet last night felt like he had cemented a friendship with the author. They spoke openly, talking like they had known each other for more than just a few days. It almost felt like they were old souls, together again, reunited after a past life.
He was sure Ivy would know something about past lives. He texted her last night, filling her in on Hermione and her book.
As he showered, he couldn’t help but think of the faceless Matty. Who was he? Why didheget Noah? How long had they been together? What did he look like?
These open-ended questions left Quinn imagining the worst. The worst being that Matty was as desirable as a film star. That he had the media-approved body of muscles and a perfect symmetrical face, meaning that whenever he went outside, a scouting agent would stop him and say, ‘Matty, youmustbe in our fashion campaign for Calvin Klein!’ And then Matty would say yes, and he would pose in those wonderful tight boxer briefs, not needing any Photoshop on what was inside those boxer briefs, and Noah would be on the other side of the camera, a smile on his face as he swooned over his conventionally attractive boyfriend.
Yes, Matty was a Greek god, a perfect match to Noah’s glorious features. Matty was no Quinn. Matty’s better.
Feeling like the stalker he so desperately tried to assure Noah he wasn’t, Quinn searched the internet for Matty no face. He typed in ‘Matty Noah Sage’, for which nothing came up, and then typed ‘Matty model’. Being greeted with the men Quinn thought Matty would be didn’t help. Any of them could be him. He found Noah’s Instagram, trailing back in time to see if there were any posts of Noah with another man. There were none.
Quinn, however, did click on a photograph of a topless Noah taken on a beach somewhere tropical.
He had a V-line.
A V-line!
That classic V that seemed to point down between his legs, disappearing into red swim shorts. His blond hair was windswept, damp with salt water. Alone, the beautiful scenery paled in comparison. But someone had taken that photo of him. No doubt Matty.
A tattoo of a book was visible on the top of his arm. Quinn tried to zoom in by double tapping the image, and with horror, he saw he liked the photo. A red love heart appeared on the screen, fading away, betraying him so disastrously.
‘No, no,’ Quinn groaned, triple tapping, unliking and liking the photo again.
In dismay Quinn exited the app, swiping it off his screen, his heart thumping heavily in his chest. What could he say? What could he do?
That’s it. I’m moving to Ecuador.
Yes, that is what he would do. Delete all the socials, change his name, and disappear to Ecuador. He would have a lovely life there; he was sure of that. He would live in solitude, in a home that didn’t have internet, and he would forever think of how he had liked a topless thirst photo of Noah Sage by accident.
And then Matty would find him. His face would be one of beauty. Only it would be angry, contorted into hatred, because by him liking the photo of Noah, which was a year old, by the way, he had come between the couple, who were about to get engaged and get married, of course. The community would then oust Quinn in Ecuador, and he would have to be a nomad, on the run from Noah, Matty no face, and an army of haters.
Tired, with not nearly enough coffee, Quinn stumbled out of his apartment building, feeling the cold winter chill, and trudged the few steps to his shop’s front door, underneath his apartment. Only he walked straight into a burly back, almost falling to the slippery floor. He looked up and saw a small crowd of people, all of whom he knew by their faces, some of whom he knew by name. They were outside the shop. His shop. They were clutching newspapers in their hands. When they saw him, their voices erupted.
‘Is it true?’
‘You can’t sell. You just can’t do it.’
‘My daughter would never have told me she was gay if you hadn’t been here to help her.’
‘This shop is Hay’s heart. You can’t go.’
‘Screw that developer. We won’t have it.’
‘And that video on the BBC was fantastic!’
