‘Youarefrom Hay, aren’t you?’ The coffee seller jested.
‘He left when he was sixteen,’ Quinn said. ‘City boy now.’
Noah nudged him, and Quinn wondered if he discovered the way to get more physical contact from him. Wind him up. The breaking away of a few moments ago had been forgotten.
‘There was no Mari when I was here,’ Noah said.
‘No, she’s had a resurgence,’ Quinn admitted. ‘It has to be seen to be believed.’
‘There’s a free drink to get you started,’ the woman said.
‘We’ll be there,’ Quinn said.
‘We will?’ Noah asked.
‘Free drinks, Noah.’
‘Great!’ The woman beamed. She bade them farewell and waited at her door for another passer-by. They strolled down High Town Road, the snow slipping off the butter market gates as they trod on by. At the bottom of the street, all souls had disappeared.
It was just Quinn and Noah.
‘Have you tasted yours yet?’
‘Not yet,’ Quinn said.
‘Go on. Warms you up!’
Quinn did as he was told. He sipped, feeling the warmth on his lips and the sweet taste pinching his taste buds with a hint of spice. Swallowing, he felt like he had drunk ginger. It tingled as it went down, warming his chest. He drank some more, clutching the mug tight, savouring the warmth.
Warm lights from inside homes on the street spilled out onto the snow.
‘Hay in the winter. Beautiful,’ Quinn said.
‘Hay any time of the year is beautiful.’
‘Ah.’ Quinn’s eyebrows raised. ‘So, you don’t hate it completely, then?’
‘I don’t hate it here. I could never hate it here.’
‘Don’t you ever think of coming back?’
Noah pondered it, his eyes drifting to the stone homes, sandstone walls, and crooked windows. He smirked. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘Shame.’
If Noah sensed the same words being used on him, he didn’t show it. Quinn wanted to ask so much more. How could anyone dislike Hay? The thought of not being here made no sense to him. Quinn loved his life here. Saw his future here. The London job had been rejected because Quinn couldn’t bear to leave this place behind. And now, with its snow and the glimmering lights, it reminded him why he fell in love with Hay.
They walked down St John’s Place, neither of them saying anything, instead listening to the stillness of the night. No cars, no birds, no people. Just silence.
Imagine if Noah came back. What might happen then? Quinn could be his friend. Who was he kidding? He’d be hisboyfriend.There wasn’t any possibility that he could be only friends with Noah. But he refused to come back. He didn’t see his life in this small town.
‘When I was a kid, I always wanted to be a vet,’ Quinn said, filling the silence that he could no longer stand. They stood outside a tapas bar, where laughter punctuated the still night. Quinn’s voice, so docile, gave permission for the raucous noises of the restaurant’s inhabitants to speak again. ‘I thought that would be the career I would have. I always loved to read, of course, but I loved animals. Then, when I was eight or nine, I had an English lesson and the teacher was telling us about the story structure. Then I wanted to be a writer.’
‘You did?’
‘I did,’ Quinn said. ‘So, I wrote. And I submitted. I got nowhere. I studied English literature and realised that if I can’t be a writer, I can be a champion of it. I can support authors, support writing, sell the beautiful art of crafting stories from words. And I have never been happier.’
They continued down Brook Street, lit only by a lone lamppost. Noah was closer to him now, and between the warmth of the drink and him, Quinn felt secure. He wondered if he was a lightweight, and if the wine was stronger than it seemed. He would blame the funny feeling in his stomach on that.
