Upside Down Read online

  Upside Down

  N.R. Walker

  Copyright

  Cover Art: N.R. Walker & SJ York

  Editor: Boho Edits

  Publisher: BlueHeart Press

  Upside Down © 2019 N.R. Walker

  All Rights Reserved:

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events or locales is coincidental. The Licensed Art Material is being used for illustrative purposes only.

  Warning

  Intended for an 18+ audience only. This book contains material that maybe offensive to some and is intended for a mature, adult audience. It contains graphic language, and adult situations.

  Trademarks:

  All trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  The Next Weekend

  Three Years Later

  About the Author

  Contact the Author

  Also by N.R. Walker

  Blurb

  Jordan O’Neill isn’t a fan of labels, considering he has a few. Gay, geek, librarian, socially awkward, a nervous rambler, an introvert, an outsider. The last thing he needs is one more. But when he realises adding the label asexual might explain a lot, it turns his world upside down.

  Hennessy Lang moved to Surry Hills after splitting with his boyfriend. His being asexual had seen the end of a lot of his romances, but he’s determined to stay true to himself. Leaving his North Shore support group behind, he starts his own in Surry Hills, where he meets first-time-attendee Jordan.

  A little bewildered and scared, but completely adorable, Hennessy is struck by this guy who’s trying to find where he belongs. Maybe Hennessy can convince Jordan that his world hasn’t been turned upside down at all, but maybe it’s now—for the first time in his life—the right way up.

  Chapter One

  Jordan O’Neill

  Asexuality is defined by the absence of something.

  * * *

  I read the line again, and another time for good measure, then I mumbled it to myself out loud. “Asexuality is defined by the absence of something.”

  I squinted at the screen. “Oh, you can fuck right off,” I muttered and looked up, directly into the horrified face of a customer. She had those lines above her top lip, like she’d spent a good portion of her sixty-something years scowling. It made her mouth look like a cat’s butthole. Her coral-coloured lipstick bled into the lines around her mouth, and I had to make myself not stare. And now not think of cats and their puckered, coral-coloured buttholes. So gross. “Oh, not you, obviously. I wasn’t saying that to you. I happen to like cats. Not their buttholes, necessarily, I was just…”

  “He was just taking these for me. Hello, Mrs Peterson, how are you today?” Merry said as she slid a pile of books from the counter into my arms. She shoved me out from behind the counter and smiled at the now-glaring woman. I was going to suggest Mrs Peterson stop scowling, or at least buy a half-decent lip filler, but thought better of it. I reshuffled the pile of books in my arms, which Merry hadn’t even alphabetised yet, and disappeared into the stacks. It gave me time to bang my head on the top row of books and die of frustrated embarrassment.

  Working at the Surry Hills library certainly had its perks. Hiding in the stacks from irate customers with feline buttholitis of the mouth being my all-time favourite perk. Books, a close second. Working with Merry a well-placed third. Okay, so well, maybe working with Merry could be better than books… especially when she understood my awkwardness and social ineptitude and bailed me out of situations like she did just now with Mrs Peterson. It also didn’t hurt that she reminded me of the Hobbit she was nicknamed after: short, funny, loyal, though thankfully she was absent the huge, hairy feet. Her real name was Meredith, but Merry suited her perfectly.

  But in all seriousness, I loved my job. Loved it. There was routine, order, everything was catalogued, numbered, and shelved accordingly. It was organised, neat, and usually quiet most of the time. Except on Tuesdays when they held Library Time for preschoolers and there were book readings and sometimes a finger puppet show. Or on Wednesdays when they held their community computer courses for aged folks. Not that they were loud the way thirty preschoolers running through the stacks was loud, but when there were fifteen elderly people all speaking up so they could hear themselves talk, it was kind of noisy. Thursdays, on the other hand, were usually quiet. The only community group that met that day was the local mime actors club, so they didn’t make any noise, really. Except for that first time, not long after I’d started, when I was walking past as they were finishing up and the room erupted in applause, causing me to almost drop my armful of books. It startled me so much I’d done an Oscar-worthy rendition of Samuel L Jackson being TASERed and let out a “Motherfucker” to end all motherfuckers. The biggest sacrilege of the whole performance was that a 1952 dust jacket edition of Hemingway’s Men Without Women hit the floor. It was completely unscathed. My ego, however, not so much.

  Fridays were typically busy. English Language Workshops during the day, then Book Club on Friday nights. Because this was Surry Hills, hipster central, it was where all the nerds and geeks could come to be awkward introverts together. I quite often spent my Friday nights in a room full of like-minded people, avoiding eye contact and dying inside every time someone tried to make small talk.

  That’s the thing about me.

  I’m an awkward, introvert book nerd, sci-fi geeky twenty-six-year-old librarian, with brownish-ginger hair. Oh, and I’m a gay man. I’m also an expert in Percy Shelley, Lord Byron, and Wordsworth… or just all French Revolutionary poets in general, really. I also have to wear some item of clothing that is perfectly colour-coordinated with my shoes, and I have an inclination to say motherfucker an awful lot. Oh, and there is also a very good chance I’m asexual.

  The jury was still out on that. Actually, that wasn’t true; the jury had been in for some time, I’d just been resisting their verdict. I didn’t need another label. I had enough of them. I had enough hang-ups, quirks, traits, and societal boxes to tick and squeeze myself into.

  I didn’t need one more.

  But I couldn’t decide if having one more label was causing my anxiety to spike or if not having the label confirmed was what gave me anxiety. Maybe I needed the label. Maybe everyone could fuck the fuck off and let me live in my anxiety bubble of non-asexualness. Maybe whoever wrote that article online and said “asexuality is defined by the absence of something” can fuck off too.

  And that’s where I was up to when Merry found me, with my forehead pressed up against The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck in the How Ironic section, mumbling to myself. “You doing okay, Jordan?” she asked.

  “To define asexuality by the absence of anything infers that something is missing and therefore incomplete or insufficient.” I looked at her. “I am not any of those things, and I resent the implication—”

  She put her hand up and spoke over me. Gently, but firmly, like she knew how to deal with me, or something. “The article goes on to explain
that by definition, the absence of sexual attraction makes it difficult to label and the resulting struggle to identify with something that is, by definition, the lack of something.”

  I sighed petulantly. “I didn’t read that far.”

  “I gathered.”

  “Did Mrs Peterson seem okay?”

  Merry smiled. “Of course, she was fine.”

  “I’m sorry about that, and I’m really thankful you swooped in to save me. Again. So, thank you.”

  “That’s okay. I left a massive pile of returns for you to shelve as payment.”

  I glanced at my watch. It was almost five…

  “Plenty of time,” she said with a knowing smile. “I would never let you miss your bus. God forbid you miss seeing him.”

  “I regret the day I ever told you,” I grumbled. She smiled, so I poked my tongue out at her but made quick work of the returns so I could be at the bus stop outside the library at 5:06. I couldn’t be late.

  I was done by five on the dot, grabbed my satchel, and wrapped my scarf around my neck. It wasn’t too cold yet, but the blue of the scarf matched my shoes. I wore charcoal trousers and a long-sleeve white button-down shirt as a standard dress uniform, so every day I added a little colour where I could. And it had to match. Because I didn’t spend the first eighteen years of my life in the closet and not come out with some sense of style.

  I met Merry at the doors of the library and we headed out together. I only had to walk a whole ten or so metres to the bus stop and she headed up Crown Street toward her flat. “We still going tomorrow night?” she asked as I stood in line.

  “Ugh,” I said, making a face.

  “Jordan, you’re going tomorrow night,” she said, holding my gaze. “We are going tomorrow night. Don’t bother calling in sick tomorrow. I know where you live.”

  “That sounds a lot like a threat.”

  “Because it is,” she said with a smile.

  “I’ll need to go home first and get changed,” I said in a last-ditch effort to bail.

  “That’s fine. And if I catch the bus with you back to your place,” she leaned in and whispered, “I’ll finally get to see your guy.”

  My stomach knotted with dread. “I never should have told you.”

  She looked over my shoulder and nodded. “Speaking of which.”

  My bus. The 353 from the city to Newtown. Right on time at 5:06.

  “Say hello to him for me,” she said with a smile and waved me off as she turned and walked up the street to her place.

  She knew damn well I’d never speak to him, let alone be conversational enough to make any kind of greeting on her behalf. I mean, Jesus fuck, I’d only ever made eye contact with him once and I’d almost died. Literally. He’d looked up once and caught me staring at his beautiful face, I’d stumbled up the narrow aisle, almost fell, took out some poor kid with my messenger bag, and landed in the lap of a nun who, for the record, probably could have done without my “fucking motherfucker” expletive as I fell. On the bright side, Headphones Guy wore noise-cancelling headphones and was oblivious, and I’d slid into a seat up the back with nothing more than a bruised ego and death-stares from the nun. The whole experience had been horrifying.

  So no, Merry, I wouldn’t be saying hello to Headphones Guy any time soon, thank you very fucking much. I glared at the back of her head as she walked away until the bus came to a stop and the doors opened. I got on, tapped my Opal card on the swipe screen, and went toward the back. And, just like every day, I scanned the faces until I saw his, careful not to make eye contact.

  I got lucky because I scored a seat across the aisle, two seats back, which meant I could stare at his side profile until he got off at the Cleveland Street turn. He had kind of pale skin, brownish-black hair and the scruff to match. Not a full beard, just enough though. He always wore jeans or pants, a shirt and a jacket, and usually boots. I wondered where he might work to dress like that. His clothes were all brands I couldn’t afford, so he had to work somewhere that paid half-decent money. He came from the city every day, yet he never wore a suit like every other guy who worked in the city. He had long fingers that would clutch the rail on the bus as he got off, and blue eyes and pink lips, and I wondered what his voice sounded like. I wondered a lot about him…

  I wondered what music he listened to with those headphones. What his playlists looked like. Was it the latest charts, or was it jazz or blues? I could see him listening to some jazz-fusion, or an obscure band that no one had ever heard of, and maybe the sales clerk at the indie music store kept one-off vinyls behind the counter for him.

  I wondered why he caught the bus. If he made such good money like his outfits suggested he did, why didn’t he drive? Did he even own a car? Not many people in Surry Hills did, I allowed, so maybe that wasn’t too strange. I certainly didn’t drive or own a car. I couldn’t afford one, but maybe he could? He’d only been catching the bus for six months now, and I wondered where he came from. What brought him here?

  I wondered where he lived. Was it a one-bedroom studio? Did he share a flat? Did he live with someone? I wondered if he was single, spoken for, married. I wondered if he had tattoos, and I wondered what he smelt like. I bet he smelt so good…

  And I wondered why I bothered with such daydreams when I knew, even on the slightest chance he might look my way again, that once I told him I didn’t like sex, he’d probably laugh and wish me good luck. He would’ve dodged a bullet and I would have taken one, right to the heart. Again.

  It was pointless.

  I sighed and sank back in my seat, but I still couldn’t look away from his profile. He was so intriguing, gorgeous in an unconventional kind of way, even from this angle. The line of his neck, his jaw, his temple, his cheek.

  And that was when I noticed. It wasn’t the light from outside the bus playing with the light of his face, it was a tear. A motherfucking tear.

  He was crying.

  My Headphones Guy was crying. Actual tears. Silent, heartbreaking tears.

  He didn’t wipe them away. He just sat there and let them fall, and so help me God, that made it worse.

  And the noise fell away as though it was me wearing the noise-cancelling headphones. The chatter, the traffic, all became silent, and I wondered what on earth had happened to hurt him in such a way?

  I wanted to ask him if he was okay. I wanted to reach out and tell him everything would be fine.

  Of course, I couldn’t. I couldn’t exactly call out to a stranger on the other side of a crowded bus and ask if he was okay, could I? Well, I could, but not without drawing the attention of every passenger, and my Headphones Guy couldn’t hear me anyway because he had his headphones on. Then, before I could do or say anything, the bus turned onto Cleveland Street and he shook his head, wiped his cheeks, and glanced around to see if anyone had noticed.

  Of course I had.

  He stood and hurried off the bus. He didn’t look up, he never did. He kept his head down, kept his headphones on, and the bus pulled away.

  “You look terrible.” Merry frowned as she studied me. “You’re not stressing about tonight, are you? You’ll be fine, Jordan,” she said, squeezing my hand. “You might even be surprised how much you enjoy it.”

  “No, it’s not that,” I replied, uncurling my scarf from around my neck and opening my locker. Truth be told, I hadn’t thought anymore about our plans for tonight.

  “What is it?” She was more concerned now.

  “My guy,” I started, but then immediately felt foolish for calling him my anything. “You know, Headphones Guy. He was crying on the bus yesterday.”

  “Crying?”

  I nodded. “Not sobbing. Just staring out the window while silent tears rolled down his cheeks.”

  “With his headphones on?”

  “Always.”

  “Wow.”

  “I know, right? And so of course, I spent the entire night wondering what happened. I could barely sleep.”

  “If it’s any co
nsolation, your red shoes and scarf match your bloodshot eyes really well.”

  I sighed. “I’m not thanking you for that. That was not a compliment and I refuse to reward inflammatory behaviour.”

  “I meant it as a compliment.”

  I looked around dramatically. “Alexa? Alexa, what is a compliment? Merry needs a refresher.”

  “Alexa isn’t connected here,” Merry replied. Then she smiled and held up her phone and pretended to examine my face. “Siri, what are some beauty tips for exceedingly large bags under bloodshot eyes?”

  I pursed my lips at her. “Siri, what is a bitch?”

  Merry laughed and put her phone into her pocket. “I was joking, Jordan.”

  “Then your delivery needs work.”

  Merry smiled. “Coffee first?”

  “Yes, please.” I groaned and threw my messenger bag into my locker and locked it. I held my foot up. “But seriously, would you look at these fucking shoes? Are they just not everything?” They were red suede desert boots.

  “They’re gorgeous.”

  I bumped her hip with mine as we walked toward the kitchenette. “Of course they are.”

  “Maybe his grandpa died.”

  “What?”

  “Headphones Guy. Maybe that was why he was crying.”

  I sighed and took my cup from the cupboard. I looked inside it to double check it was clean and that no one had used it, then proceeded to make my third cup of coffee for the morning. “Maybe. Or maybe he lost a priceless art piece and the insurer did a number on him but there was a double-cross and—”