‘I’m like that farmer boy who never leaves home,’ Quinn said. ‘Hypothetically, of course. I can’t handle the muck of a farm. But you know the type. The ones born into the farm, and their dads teach them the trade, and they do that. My dad got his bookshop. I spent so much time there, and it just reinforced what I knew I wanted to do.’
Quinn was smiling despite the bitter, frigid chill. They were heading towards the bridge, huddled against the night, clutching their drinks tightly.
‘I bet his shop had a huge impact on you.’
‘Oh, definitely.’ Quinn sighed. ‘It was so perfect.’
‘You love it, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Quinn said. ‘It’s a small patch on the earth, but it’s my patch. I fit in here. This is my place.’
‘London is mine.’
The words felt as cold as the snow.
‘Ah, London,’ Quinn said. ‘If I lose my shop, I may have to follow you down there.’
They stopped at the edge of the bridge, and Noah turned to Quinn. ‘Why don’t you?’
Quinn’s smile, so wide, so content, faded. He turned his upturned head away from the sky and found Noah’s face, like he was cautious to look at him. ‘Sorry?’
Noah moved closer. ‘Why don’t you come with me?’
What was he doing? Why was he asking me this? Maybe he was drunk. Bloody wine. Bloody Blair Beckett. Bloody Hay.
‘Come with you … to London?’
‘You said you might have a job down there. An offer still standing?’ Noah asked, and Quinn nodded. ‘You may lose your prized possession, and I get it. It’s hard. But think of the opportunity down in the city.’
‘I don’t know if I want to start again,’ Quinn said. ‘Maybe in my early twenties I would have. But now I’ve left it too late.’
‘It’s never too late,’ Noah said. ‘You can do anything you want at any moment in your life.’
‘What’s in London for you? Why don’t you move back here?’
‘My life. My friends. And my partner.’
Wham. There it was. He thought he’d doubled over, as if being punched, but he knew it was only a feeling inside. That warmth turned cold, like the snow was falling straight onto his heart. His smile faded until he stared at the icy water.
His partner.
The conversation in Hermione’s kitchen. The plural we.
‘Oh, I didn’t know you had a partner,’ Quinn said, hoping his high-pitched voice didn’t give away the pain he felt inside.
‘His name is Matthew,’ Noah said. ‘Matty.’
Of course, it is.
‘He sounds nice.’
‘Yeah.’
Silence. Stiffness. Cold.
Quinn had to say something, anything.
‘Is he staying with you, too?’ He knew the answer, but needed to hear it.
