Page 16 of Any Girl But You
A flash of panic crosses Quinn’s face. “Do you have to go? I don’t know where Morgan is.” She runs a palm across the tablecloth and smooths it out. “I’m freaking out a little bit doing this on my own. But also, totally cool if you need to jet, because I get it. The last thing you thought you’d be doing is sitting here with me talking about movies.”
This really is the last thing that I thought I’d be doing today, and somehow, it’s exactly where I want to be. I saw Morgan walk by a few times, and glance at us, but Quinn’s back is to her and didn’t notice. And now is a perfect time to call that out.
But there’s something about sitting here like this. It’s refreshing. Reminds me a little bit of when Josie and I first met, the way we laughed before everything crashed and burned, the way we bonded over the most random thing, like stockpiling the Lucky Charms marshmallows so you could have that one big bowl with double the goodness.
Being with Quinn is easy and light. Everything about my time here today makes me forget, for a moment, about the scars of my past, and makes me think that maybe there is, in fact, a soulmate out there for me.
NINE
QUINN
A knock outside my door snaps my attention away from the book about surviving workplace trauma I’ve been devouring for the past few days. “You may enter at your own risk. I will take no shit about the state of my room.”
I dogear the page, and stuff it under my pillow. Seven weeks ago, at the Christmas in August event in Duluth, Morgan mentioned PTSD, and I thought in true Morgan fashion, she was over-the-top. I’d seen movies on this, but it was all about soldiers who saw combat, or people who’d been in terrible accidents, or really heavy things that I frankly don’t want to think about. I genuinely didn’t know that PTSD existed on different levels. That, like everything in the world, a spectrum exists, and my New York experience qualifies.
After I berated Zoey at her shop, something clicked in me, and I knew I had to kick my ass into high gear and start getting over what happened. But I’m not quite ready to share the rabbit hole of research I’ve gone down on the effects of a toxic workplace on mental health. I love my sister, but she’s so up in my business, and the last thing I need is her worrying more than she already does.
The other thing that happened since the vendor pavilion? I’ve thought of Zoey almost every day. So far, I haven’t had the courage to do anything more than visit her store a few times a week for some dessert and a quick chat. Her shop is always busy, which honestly is a blessing in disguise, because the thoughts I’m having about her aren’t good.
And Zoey made it clear—she’s different than me. She’s not interested in a hookup-only-type situation, and I will never have a solid, steady relationship. So yeah, these thoughts are making me frustrated in all the ways, and none of them pleasant.
“Christ, it’s messy in here,” Frankie says as she opens the door and kicks at a pile of bags in the corner.
“Nope. I already said I would take no shit from anyone. You may kindly see yourself out, fuck you very much.” I stuff the pillow behind my back and scoot up higher on the bed. “What do you want?”
“I was going to head down to Zoey’s and grab some dessert for tonight. Want to come with?” Frankie leans against the door frame and runs her fingers through her dark cropped hair.
The whole cool and casual vibe is not working. I know what Frankie’s doing. I’m staying away from Zoey as much for her protection as my own. Zoey has this sweetness, almost a naivete, to her that’s rare. Someone who substitutes swear words with other words because her ears are too delicate to handle cussing. The last time I saw her, she even said, “Shut the front door!” with her soft, doe-eyed wonderment, when we realized we have the same cross-body purse in canary yellow. She’s gentle, and kind, and caring. I’m saving her from me, even if she doesn’t know it.
Zoey’s not my type. Like, at all. She’s too pure for this world, probably the type of woman who likes gentle sex on a bed with roses sprinkling the ground after having a picnic in the park. I like quick and dirty orgasms, names optional, and movingstraight on with my life. Messy and fun. And Zoey is clean and stable. We’re built completely different.
So, yes, the thoughts I’m having about her are irrational. But the better I get to know her, the more I think we could be friends. And friends are good. Even though I grew up in this town, there’s a reason why I cut ties with everyone and bolted out of here as quickly as I could at eighteen.
Growing up, I never had genuine friendships with anyone, not in the way Frankie did, or I saw in the movies. While Frankie was a sports star, going to state in basketball and brutally taking names in hockey, I was out in a corn field getting wasted with my classmates on cheap 40s and hooking up in cars. During my entire high school experience, I don’t think I had a single genuine conversation with anyone. I never talked about feelings or fears or the deep rejection I felt from my parents.
But at the vendor fair, Zoey was like this gentle nymph, coaxing my thoughts from me with her warmth. And I’m not sure I’m ready for someone like her to see all the ugliness inside me.
“So?” Frankie says, tapping the door frame. “Zoey’s. Now. Whaddya think?”
“Where’s your girlfriend? Go bother her,” I say to Frankie. “I don’t want to go to Zoey’s.”
This is such a lie, and Frankie’s going to take one look at my face and call me out. Ialwayswant to go to Zoey’s. I think I’ve hit her place at least a dozen times since we’ve met. When I see her, something inside me lifts. And every time that happens, I feel a little bit of the old me—the starry-eyed one who fourteen years ago marched to New York with two suitcases filled with hopes and dreams—return.
Frankie crosses her arms and gives me thatlook. The same look she used to give me when I’d dry my tears on the subwayand drag myself into our apartment telling her my day was “just fine.”Ugh.No one can read me the way my sister can.
“First, Morgan has a client meeting so she can’t go with. Second, I’m calling massive bullshit on you that you don’t want to go to Zoey’s. It’s like a kid saying they don’t want to go to Disneyland, or anyone in the world saying they don’t want to go to a Taylor Swift concert, or a pit bull saying they don’t want that piece of bacon or?—”
“Got it. Christ, okay.” I throw my blankets down and knock over the pillow. I scramble to cover it up, but not before Frankie sees the book. I love my sister. More than anyone in this world. But some things I’m not ready to share.
Her brow furrows as she scans the cover. “You doing okay?”
No. I’m not. I’m lost, and don’t know if I made the right decision in buying this Christmas tree farm. I’m scared and maybe a little lonely, and desperate to prove to everyone that I can do this. “Yes, I’m fine, you overbearing mother hen. Come on. Cupcakes are waiting.” I toss the blanket back over the pillow, trip over a box of craft items I need to bring to the farm, and stuff my feet into sandals.
“Hey…” Frankie’s voice goes soft.
Nope, this isexactlywhat I don’t want. Since I was little, Frankie’s always been my protector. Strong, quick, will stand up to literally anyone on my behalf, no matter who they are or their size. I loved it back then and still love it now. But some things I need to do on my own. Navigating my deprogramming and relearning my worth is step one.
A hand reaches and grips me, then pulls me into a tight hug.
