Page 20 of Any Girl But You
I put on my blinker and follow Quinn’s truck off the highway and onto a bumpy county road. “Right now, I’m moving all the chilled stuff to Quinn’s Christmas tree farm because she has a fridge and freezer, then we’ll figure everything else out later.”
A pause follows. “Quinn, huh?”
Oh no. The smile in her voice is undeniable, and I cannot deal with it right now. I made the tiniest mistake last week of mentioning Quinntwice, and my mom latched on to Quinn’s name like a bulldog with a bone. I had to break it to her that Quinn and I are just friends—if you could even classify it as such—and will never be any more than friends.
When she pressed me, I’d clammed up, and she backed off. Thankfully. I didn’t want to explain that Quinn and I want fundamentally different things from a relationship. Quinn is unapologetic in who she is, and what she wants from women. Honestly, I wish more women were up-front and just owned that part of themselves. The heartache I went through with Josie was enough. I’m not setting myself up for that kind of pain again. No matter how cute and tempting Quinn may be, knowing what she wants versus what I want is like a relationship warning label:Enter at your own risk. My heart is fragile enough—I’m not risking breaking it again.
“Yes, Quinn,” I finally say. “She and Frankie helped me pack everything up. Anyway, I’m turning into her place now, but wanted to let you know that I’m fine and I’ll call you later.”
Maybe not the entire truth, as I have at least another half mile, but I don’t have the energy to field any potential invasive questions. We say goodbye and I grip the steering wheel as I crunch over the gravel leading down the winding road into Quinn’s property. Burnt oranges and reds pop from the trees through the lush greenery. I follow the truck through one more turn, bump over some potholes, then pull in next to the women in front of the massive gray wood barn with chipped siding.
Once I kill the engine, I fly out of the car. Me, Frankie, and Quinn move items from vehicles into the barn, and set them on a stainless-steel table in the kitchen area in the far back corner. Hurrying, I kick a rock out of the way but stumble on the path.
On my second trip back to the car, I’m nearly sprinting. If any of these items thaw, they’re unusable. I need to salvage anything I can.
Quinn stops me as I pass her. “Hey, how about Frankie and I bring these in, and you start stacking the fridge and freezer? I know your walking boot is off and all, but this property has so many dips and rocks, and I’d hate for you to trip and fall and sue me.”
I’m tempted to say I’ll be fine, but I’ve only had my boot off for a week, and I’m still getting used to using my foot full force. If I break it again, I’m going to bury myself in a mountain of almond flour and never return.
Frankie and Quinn are serious workhorses. Quinn might not be as strong as Frankie—not sure who is—but she’s as quick and lifts almost as much. Inside the small kitchen area, I pop openthe nearly empty freezer and refrigerator, minus a case of water and a case of Chardonnay.
“Don’t judge,” Quinn calls out over her shoulder, her messy bun slipping to the side. “It was left over from a wedding party in May.”
“No judgment here,” I say, removing it and setting it on the empty wooden bench next to me. “I’m just wondering when we can dive into it.”
Quinn checks her watch with a grin. “Well, it’s technically after noon, so I say anytime.”
She bolts back through the open barn doors. I pop the top off the Styrofoam cooler and try not to gag when it squeaks against the bottom. Ugh, that sound makes me cringe. I stack the items like my life depends on it—which it feels like it actually does—when Quinn joins at my side and hands me products.
“Last one,” Frankie says as she crosses the barn floor. “Is everything holding up okay?”
“Yes, thank gosh.” Everything that Quinn’s handing me still feels cool to the touch, and the tightness in my chest is evaporating. “I think we’ll be okay.”
“I mean, really, would anyone know?” Quinn says, handing me eggs. “I ate a box of mac and cheese yesterday that I didn’t know expired six months ago and I’m alive to tell the tale.”
“Gross.” I groan, adding the final egg carton to the bottom shelf. “If someone got sick because of me, I would never forgive myself.”
Frankie opens the cooler stuffed with butter and stacks them in the fridge. “Never ever take food advice from Quinn. She likes ketchup on her noodles.”
Quinn nudges Frankie with her elbow, then reaches around her for the fruit compote. “I spice it up with Cajun seasoning, though, so it’s practically gourmet.”
Double gross. I’m not sure if they’re joking or not so I don’t say anything. The last thing I want to do is come off as a food snob—which I very much am—and insult the woman who just saved my heinie.
We scramble at a breakneck speed to get everything into the fridge and freezer, and when I finally close the doors with the most satisfying click of my life, I nearly collapse. Frankie crosses the almost bare room and returns with three folding chairs, Quinn tears into a case of bottled water, and I plant my palms on the cool stainless-steel table and close my eyes.
Once Frankie unfolds the chairs, we all flop down, polish off bottles of water, and sit in silence.
My gaze travels the space. Last year, Morgan and Frankie fixed this barn up to host a wedding. The barn is rustic and bare besides white lights wrapped from the beams. The floors are in good condition and the windows look new. Boxes and totes line the wall. There’s one simple cash register sitting on a wooden mantle in the corner alongside dozens of mason jars, and stacks of folding chairs and tables rest in racks in the corner.
The place is an empty palette. Clean, unaffected. If given the right time and tools, Quinn could absolutely bring back that Christmas magic. It might be mid-October, but I could use some Christmas magic in my life after this disastrous day.
Frankie leans back in the chair and fans her shirt. “Now that we’re breathing again, what are the next steps?”
“Wait, let me grab a notebook.” Quinn scurries to the corner and returns, flipping to a page and poising a pen. “So, I think you should put something out on social media letting the community know that you’re closed for the next few weeks for unforeseen issues. Did you tell your employees?”
I twist the top back on the bottle and set it next to me. “Yes, I called them this morning.”
“Okay,” Quinn says, “so then we have to cancel the deliveries for the next few weeks, contact the parties that you have prescheduled orders…”
