Emma looked baffled. ‘Not really?’
‘This isn’t home.’
Quinn averted his eyes, biting his lip. It hurt to hear Noah talk about his distaste at being back here in Hay, like it was some sordid place that nobody should ever go to.
‘I think the readers of Hay Herald would disagree.’
‘Let them.’
Quinn tried to pretend he wasn’t listening, but he wanted to turn and lock eyes with Noah, to see his expression. His words sounded angry, tense, like he resented coming back to this town.
Emma cleared her throat. Quinn knew this wouldn’t make the article. It would put Hay in a poor light. Imagine churning out a bestselling novelist only to find that he didn’t enjoy being back in the town he came from.
‘Your new romance novel is blazing through the charts. Any more in the works?’
‘I always have a lot of ideas, and I’m halfway through the next instalment. The reaction to this book has been so special.’ Quinn rolled his eyes, realising how easily Noah became interview ready. ‘I would have never imagined this book doing better than the others, as it was a little harder to write.’
‘Why?’
A pause. ‘Heartbreak.’
Quinn, his arm raised to put away a book, froze.
‘I see,’ Emma said. ‘Would you like to tell us about that?’
‘Heartbreak can inspire a lot of things. A lot of the art you see comes from intense feelings of dread, grief, anger, hatred, hurt. I think that’s what fuelled me to write this book. It feels rawer than the others, I guess, and I guess people relate to that because of what happens in the world.’
‘Right. There is a lot to be sad about.’
Quinn glanced behind him. He could see the top of Noah’s head through the display. He stepped back into the shadows, cursing the creak of a floorboard.
‘There are. Like this place. We might lose this bookshop, Hay’s only queer space. Why would anyone want to lose that?’
Quinn gasped and covered his mouth.
‘What does this bookshop mean to you?’
Quinn stepped forwards, and this time he saw Noah looking at him.
‘This bookshop means everything to me.’ Noah broke the gaze first. ‘When I was a kid, growing up here on the border of England, I felt so lost. The world seemed so much bigger than this corner of Wales, with its bookshops and its history. It felt old to me. It felt rigid. And inside me was this feeling that I was trapped as someone else. That I needed to escape, not only the confines of this small town, but escape me. I had never heard the word gay. When I did, it hit me. I was gay. Could I have been gay in Hay? Of course I could. Did I want to be? No. I wanted to see the world.’
Their eyes met again. He smiled, and Noah smiled back.
‘So, I ran from Hay. I left it behind. I didn’t know if I would ever come back. All I knew was that I needed to escape me, escape Hay, and escape … some other things.’
Quinn wondered if Noah’s words alluded to his mother.
‘But would I have done that if this shop had been here? Would I have wanted to escape so much if someone had been here to listen to my demons, to talk to me? Would I have stayed in Hay if I had instead escaped to the multiple pages of gay literature, of real-life queer stories and experiences? Of queer history? My story may have been a lot different, and this interview may never have happened.’
There was a thud, and they turned to look at Quinn, standing like a rabbit paralyzed in headlights. He had dropped a stack of books.
The photographer excused himself and went to help Quinn, leaving Emma and Noah at the altar. Quinn thanked the photographer, but tried his best to listen to the interview a few feet away.
‘There are people like me in Hay. People who may be afraid to come out. Who may be afraid to be themselves. Then there are people close to Hay who call this their only safe place. There are those who want to be educated, and those who want to get lost in a queer romance story. And I think that is beautiful.’ Noah nodded at Quinn, who held all the books he’d dropped. ‘The story isn’t me being back in Hay, Emma. No one cares about that. The story is about this bookshop, and how if nothing is done, we will lose it. You should talk to Quinn.’
Emma turned to Quinn, standing there with his eyes wide, his mouth ajar, his hands propped on the books he’d dropped. The photographer raised his camera and took a photo of Quinn, a flash blinding him.
‘Delete that right now.’
