“I stared out the window, watching the shadowy patterns of the rain-soaked beams pass by. This bridge had always felt like a portal, a passage to somewhere else, a place where the world might change, where I might emerge as someone different.” – Nicholas Young, Under the Covered Bridge
WRITTEN IN a beautifully stylized, almost lyrical prose, Nicholas Young’s debut novel, Under the Covered Bridge, feels deeply personal yet widely resonant: a queer coming-of-age story rooted in grief, language, and the fragile architecture of family and community, all from a Canadian perspective.
What struck me first was the emotional authenticity of the queer narrative. I know that sounds like “flowery verbiage,” but let me explain. This isn’t a story that dramatizes “coming out” for spectacle. Instead, it unfolds in quiet realizations, painful missteps, longing glances, and self-reflection. Kaveh Hartwell’s queerness feels genuine not because it’s loudly declared, but because it’s complex, and yes, complicated. It exists alongside fear, love, resentment, and confusion; it’s typical of many gay/queer origin stories.
Young understands that the path to self-recognition and self-acceptance is rarely a singular, triumphant moment of clarity; it’s a process that reverberates through every relationship you have, beginning with yourself, which intrinsically extends to the family you share space with. And one’s family can be transformed in appearance in a flash, as Kaveh learns at a young age.
The novel’s handling of parental loss adds another layer of gravity. Grief isn’t treated as decorative backstory; it shapes identity, as trauma often does, for better and worse. Losing parents while still trying to figure out who you are intensifies everything, and Young captures that with remarkable emotional intelligence. And I do not use that term lightly. The ache of wanting guidance and tangible love from people who are no longer there, contrasted with those who have taken their place, especially when they are cold and unwelcoming, feels painfully real. There is a subtle but persistent sense of standing slightly outside the social circle of compliance, expectation, and conformity, even within one’s own home. All of this shapes Kaveh’s relationship to masculinity and femininity, vulnerability, and belonging. Sadly, sometimes queer individuals must be performative to fit in, even survive.
Along with the beautifully lyrical prose, which adds an element of sophistication to the narrative’s
autobiographical tone, the interweaving of Québécois French throughout the novel feels organic. It isn’t inserted as an aesthetic flourish; it carries emotional weight. The bilingual texture reinforces the book’s larger meditation on dual identity, and not just queer identity, but cultural identity. The movement between English and French mirrors the protagonist’s own negotiation between different selves.
As a Canadian writer myself, I felt a particular kinship with this element. With my thriller work, I’ve woven Québécois language into the narrative to reflect Canada’s duality, that ongoing dialogue between English and French. Language in our country is never neutral; it signals history, power, intimacy, and sometimes exclusion. Young understands this. His use of French underscores the authenticity of the setting while also symbolizing the layered nature of identity itself. You may say I’m reading too much into this aspect, but I can only speak on how it affected me.
The rural backdrop amplifies the emotional stakes. There’s always that certain quality about small communities: their intimacy, their history, their resistance to change and that which is different. It definitely intensifies a queer coming-of-age story. The “covered bridge” becomes an apt symbol of transformation: a sheltered crossing point, a transitional space between concealment and revelation. It’s where secrecy and self-discovery coexist. The metaphor never feels heavy-handed, even when a violent scene of homophobia unfolds there. Young renders this moment with visceral honesty and exquisite precision, preserving its emotional impact without softening the horror of such violence and hatred. To prepare readers, Young includes a sensitivity warning at the start of the novel.
What I appreciated most is that the novel doesn’t tidy everything up when it comes to understanding one’s authentic self. There is growth, yes, but identity isn’t presented here as a puzzle to be solved; it’s something continually assembled. That choice gives the gay/queer story credibility. It feels authentic to lived experience, where resolution more often than not arrives in increments rather than epiphanies. Kaveh isn’t broken or fragmented. He’s doing the deeply human work of understanding his full, authentic self, both the totality of who he is and the experiences that shape him.
Emotionally, the book is tender without being sentimental. Intellectually, it invites reflection on how language, grief, sexuality, and geography intersect. Personally, I found myself thinking about my own negotiations as a gay youth and man, a queer person, as a writer, as a Canadian navigating dual cultural landscapes.
Under the Covered Bridge succeeds because it trusts readers will appreciate quiet moments alongside passionate revelations and experiences. And above all, it honours the authenticity of becoming true to who you are and not just accepting it, but loving it. It’s about realizing you were never broken to begin with. Wholeness isn’t something newly constructed; it’s something gradually recognized. That recognition is a process, and, like any self-discovery, it inevitably encounters roadblocks, both internal and situational.
Young delivers a tale that is at once beautiful and uncomfortable, a journey of discovering oneself. The novel recognizes that queer love can be transformative without pretending it erases trauma or grief. The romantic elements feel honest, sensual, and, at times, messy, rather than idealized. Young, as any smart writer should, allows his characters, like Kaveh, Niall, and Chloe, to be flawed and uncertain. This realism makes their moments of love, friendship, and connection all the more poignant. There’s a quiet ache in the novel, a sense of standing at the edge of gatherings, of translating oneself constantly, a navigation of the path between fear and courage, resentment and forgiveness. A triumphant debut, Nicholas.
