Page 1 of Any Girl But You
ONE
QUINN
I am totally convinced nobody actuallylikesChristmas.
And before you get your garland-covered pitchforks out, hear me out. Throughout the year, people glamorize the holiday and view it through a sparkly bow filter where everything looks like a sweet, magical winter wonderland. Parents picture themselves in their matching flannel pajamas, sipping spiced eggnog and watching the little ones tear into their gifts. Friends laugh at the memory of exchanging goofy white elephant gifts while competing in the office’s annual ugly Christmas sweater contest. Kids remember ripping through shiny wrapping paper and pulling out the gift they begged Santa Claus for at the mall. Thinking about Christmas,that’sthe fun part.
But comeactualChristmas time, those parents spend the week swearing like drunk frat boys while assembling presents, friends stress over fighting traffic and coming up with a “clever” white elephant gift while grinding at their jobs, and kids throw temper tantrums when Santa doesn’t bring the toy they want.
The holiday is loud, chaotic, and the same damn song plays over and over (can we all agree there are some solid Mariah Carey fans out there?) During the season, there’s too manypeople at the store, too many screaming toddlers, and too much sugar.
Wait. That last one I take back. The sugar is one of the best parts of the season. Especially when co-workers bring in their butter toffee and I bet a trip to the dentist that I can make it through one without a cracked tooth.
But that’s it. The music sucks. The people suck. They think they’re excited, but they’re not. They’re stressed-out. They’re angry. Last year, I saw a grandma throw a candy cane at a man at a store. Maybe he deserved it, who knows. The guy did look like a dick. Point is, anactualcandy cane. Lobbed through the air and smacked him square on the cheek.
So, why the hell did I choose to buy a Christmas tree farm?
Yes, that’s right. Seven months ago, I went from Quinn Lee, Wall Street Executive Assistant of Vice President Asshat, to Quinn Lee, Tree Farmer in Spring Harbors, Minnesota. And I’ve been asking myself this exact question every day since I purchased this place. I’ll probably keep asking it until I die. Or sell. But my stubbornness rivals a bulldog’s, so I’ll say die.
These are the thoughts that consume me as I step out of the shower and scrunch my hair in a towel, being careful not to rub. My curls can be a temperamental little bitch, and the slightest deviation from my coconut hair creamer and wet-diffusing process will fray the strands. Trust me—nothing can ruin a day like suboptimal coils.
Was the dead of January the smartest time to decide on buying a run-down tree farm outside of my small hometown of Spring Harbors, Minnesota? Probably not. But the emotion of that weekend seven months ago overtook me, grabbed me by my North Face jacket lapel, and made me jump headfirst—the stresses of my New York job had reached nightmare levels and I missed Frankie, my sister (and New York roommate) who’d moved back here to our hometown to be with her girlfriend,Morgan. And honestly, I felt a little lost. Not that I’d admit that to anyone, not even my sister. So, last year when I returned for the holidays and saw the magic of the snow, trees, and holiday lights, a stirring started deep in my core and I thought,This is it. My calling.
Must. Buy. Tree. Farm.
I tug my robe over me, unravel the diffuser, and tip my hair to the side.
Was getting out of New York the right decision? Definitely. When I moved back to Minnesota, I told myself I would not give another thought to my old job. That place stripped me of a decade. Constantly being told I was being dramatic, or had misunderstood instructions, or was too sensitive (I assure you, I’m not) killed bits of my soul. For years I put up with a boss who wouldn’t show up for a meeting and then blamed me for getting the times wrong on his calendar or berated me in front of an audience and an hour later convinced me he never screamed or… Nope. See? I’m doing it again.
I willnotthink about what happened at my former job.
After my curls reach the appropriate bounce level, I cross the hall into my bedroom of the house that I share with Frankie and Morgan. Besides the job, so many things have changed from my New York days. I inherited a house with my sister (thank you, Grandma Peaches), that has agarageand ashedand alawn. A freaking lawn. In New York, Frankie and I had a seven-hundred-square-foot two-bedroom apartment with a barely functioning elevator.
Not only do we have a lawn, though, we also have matching furniture and nice pictures on the wall, and Frankie has an actual bedroom furniture set. Of course, courtesy of Morgan, who’s the type of woman that always has her shit together. Morgan keeps things around the house tidy, fresh smelling, and homey.
Me… Well, I contribute by taking off my shoes at the door, and keeping my bedroom door closed so she doesn’t have a heart attack when she passes by.
A muffled phone buzzes from somewhere. I dig under the pile of clean laundry in the corner, the pile of dirty laundry in the other corner, and finally grab it from the pocket of the jean shorts I wore yesterday. “What?”
“You don’t live in New York anymore,” Frankie says. “When someone calls you, it’s customary to say hello.”
“Customary, my ass.” I tap my phone onto speaker and open the closet. “I’ve never said hello to you before, and I’m not starting now.” I slide over a box with the side of my foot, step on my tiptoes to look on the shelf, then kick over a pile of jackets.Seriously, where are my Converse?“And I’m not changing the way I talk just because I moved from the city.”
“People around here are different. I have to deprogram you before you assimilate too much into Spring Harbors’ society. You can’t be all direct and in their face like on the East Coast,” Frankie says. “Here, there’s like…conversational foreplay. You have to ease into it.”
Frankie acts like I’ve never lived here before. We grew up here, not more than ten miles from the house we now own. But it’s different, being here as a thirty-two-year-old than as a child. “Being direct is not rude. It’s efficient.” In New York, people value directness. Back there, everything is on a clock. The quicker you get your point across, the quicker you can move on. It’s a societal norm cherished by everyone, from the servers to the executives.
But here in the beautiful, lush, sleepy town of Spring Harbors, instead of saying, “I’ll have an Americano, little cream, thanks,” I need to flash a toothy smile, and say things like, “Good morning! Beautiful day. Can you believe this weather? I’ll havean Americano with just a splash of cream. Thank you so much,” or people will think I’m a snob.
So annoying. Who’s got time for that? Not me.
“Speaking of being direct, what do you need? I’m just about to leave.”Oh, there are my shoes!Buried under my pile of sweatshirts. Sure, it’s been over half a year since I’ve been back, but I haven’t had a chance to fully unpack. Who knew revamping a failing Christmas tree farm business would take so much time?
“Don’t kill me,” Frankie says.
Oh no. I freeze at the tone. “This means I’m going to actually kill you. What did you do?”
A sharp inhale comes through the speaker. “I can’t fly back tonight anymore.”
