‘I understand. But I want to. He does, too.’
Quinn nodded, watching Daniel flick through the leaflets on the sexual resources that he’d given him.
‘Does it hurt?’ Daniel asked, blushing.
‘Yes, it can hurt. Go slow, lubricate, and only do what makes you feel comfortable. Don’t rush it.’
Daniel inhaled, nodding. ‘I wish you could be there to guide me through it.’
‘That would be inappropriate, Daniel.’ Quinn laughed, heading to the door to welcome in customers.
‘And what about poppers?’
‘Ah, leaflet in the drawer. I would recommend you don’t do those just yet.’
‘People always talk about poppers,’ Daniel said.
The bell above the door tinged.
‘I did poppers once.’
Whipping around, Quinn saw his mother standing behind him, wearing a large white coat and a hood over her head that she fought to peer through. She seemed to blend into the background, her hands in her pockets, trying to shield herself from the cold air.
‘You scared me, looking all ghost-like.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Poppers, Mum?’
‘I was curious.’ Claire shrugged.
‘Straight people can take poppers?’ Daniel asked.
‘I sure did.’
Daniel looked like he wished this conversation wasn’t happening and excused himself. Quinn watched him go, wondering how else he might help. The only thing he could do was let him know he was there to talk to him. Knowing his bookshop helped Daniel feel confident enough to talk mattered most.
Claire cleared her throat. ‘Listen. Can we go get a drink? I want to talk.’
His mother never did this. She never wanted to ‘talk’, preferring instead to brush any potential problems under the carpet and pretend they didn’t exist. It wasn’t like she wasn’t there for him. It was that acknowledging problems meant having to deal with them, and they were too British for such a thing.
So that she wanted to talk right now meant it was serious.
‘Yes, if you want to.’
‘Will Daniel be alright on his own?’
‘Yes, he will be,’ Daniel called.
Quinn laughed. ‘Sorry to keep dipping out on you.’
‘You’ve got lots on,’ Daniel said. ‘Go talk.’
As they walked down the high street, Quinn felt as though he saw Noah in every face. He double took when he thought he saw him in the crowd, or when he thought he’d heard his voice, even though Quinn knew he wouldn’t see him here.
Claire found them a seat in a cosy restaurant playing Christmas jazz music, a genre Quinn didn’t know existed until now. They sat in a bay seat window, looking out through frosted glass at people walking in the snow.
The restaurant, an Italian, smelled of garlic and olive oil, making Quinn’s stomach rumble. They ordered two coffees.
