‘Everything alright?’
‘Oh, dandy.’
He’d never said that in his life.
‘What happened to needing to write?’ Hermione asked her son.
‘Well, I remembered something. Don’t you have your interview with the BBC today, Quinn?’
‘I do.’
‘Shouldn’t we go?’
‘I … should.’
‘The BBC,’ Hermione said. ‘Please don’t tell them about me. About this. Not yet.’
‘No, of course not,’ Quinn said, though he was sure they wouldn’t ask. Or care.
‘We’ll see you later, Mum,’ Noah said, giving her a soft kiss on the top of her head.
As they left, Quinn wondered if it was appropriate to be jealous of Noah’s mother.
ChapterTwenty-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.’
