Chapter 14 #2
When I roll Truck Norris up the gravel road, I hop out, zip up my light fall sweatshirt, and roam the grounds.
Sometimes I still can’t believe that this property is mine.
There’s a stillness here as I walk the property—stepping on twigs, the grass mushing beneath my work boots, the smell of pine and cedar filling my nose.
In New York, there was no stillness. I was in a constant state of hyper-hustle.
But out here, as I stroll the lush grounds and check the irrigation systems, I imagine the kids on the back of a tractor trailer sitting on hay, couples strolling through the property that sparkles with white lights and colorful wreaths, and a giant bonfire in the corner.
A noise catches my attention, and a deer skitters across the field.
I take a moment to just breathe. Let so much go. Appreciate.
I can see the Santa and the hayrides. The hot cocoa and the gift shop. I want it magical, sparkly, joyful. And that feeling washes over me before the tension rises. Less than two months away, and I’m still so far behind.
A car rolls to a stop and Zoey pops out, her long hair in a loose ponytail, her bangs swiping her forehead.
She’s in ripped jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt.
And I hate, hate, hate that my breath hitches.
I need to sit with these feelings for a bit because the very last thing I want to do is hurt someone like Zoey.
To use her because I’m lonely, to lose this friendship because I’ll do something dumb.
“I have the best surprise for you!” Zoey says as she bends over into her backseat. I also hate that my gaze dips to her ass. I shouldn’t be sexualizing her at all. But she has a really, really nice ass, and even though I try not to look, I do.
I shouldn’t.
“Did you put Jodie Foster in the back seat for me? Honey,” I say. “This is really too much.”
“Sorry, no Jodie Foster, and sadly, Sarah Paulson and Kristen Stewart were also booked.” Zoey hands me a coffee. “But I do have a box of Christmas craft items we can look at. My mom said we could take anything we wanted.”
“Oh…” I reach over and help her lift out a huge tote.
“I love inspiration.” And I need as much as I can get.
There’s a fine balance between filling a store with functional and decorative, affordable and high-end, store-bought and handmade items. Right now, I have plenty of store-bought stuff, but need to up the handmade.
Besides, I have nearly depleted my funds.
Not that I want to think about that now.
We lug the tote inside and line things up on the table.
My heartbeat kicks up a notch as I check out everything from glitter to paints, blank canvas ornaments, unpainted snowmen, and snowflakes.
We organize all the products on the workstation, and step back to look at the inventory.
“Are you sure you want to stay and help me? You probably have way better things to do.” Please say you’ll stay.
“Are you kidding? I live for arts and crafts,” Zoey says, then takes a sip of her coffee. “Besides, I think you might be stuck with me a little longer. If you’ll have me.”
My heart nearly skyrockets. I try not to smile. “I’ll always have you.” I hope that didn’t come out as desperate as it sounded. “But why? What’s up?”
“Electrician called,” she says, stuffing paint brushes into a mason jar. “It’s going to be at least two more weeks before I can open back up.”
Two more weeks? I get to spend the next two weeks with Zoey? My belly certifiably flips. I feel terrible for her, but so happy for me. I really need to wipe my smile off my face, but I can’t. “Oh shit. That sucks. Did they say why?”
“I don’t know.” She unwraps the plastic wrap from around the acrylic paints. “Something about when it’s rodent related, the state needs to send in additional health inspections, and there’s a backlog. I tried to pay attention but zoned out on the terminology.”
Zoey smiles. I swear the more I learn about her, the less I know.
She’s so very nice, probably the nicest person I’ve ever met.
But I realize she never wants anyone to feel bad.
This is maybe an admirable trait, maybe not, but it makes it tricky to determine if she’s choking back sobs, or if she’s genuinely okay.
“Damn. That’s a blow, huh? I’m so sorry. ”
The wind picks up, gusting into the space from the cracked window, and a lock of hair swipes across her cheeks.
I want to tuck it for her, let my fingertips linger just a moment on that soft-looking skin, but she reaches out and tucks it behind her ear.
“It really is okay. I didn’t realize how much I needed a break.
Running my own business for all these years, I never stepped away.
Even when Josie and I split, I didn’t take a day off.
For the first time in six years, I’m taking some downtime, and it’s giving me the opportunity to, I guess, re-evaluate a lot of things. ”
She peeks at me from those huge blue eyes behind her glasses, and I want to dig more. Re-evaluate her business? Her former relationship? I swallow… Me? No. I internally shake my head. This whole close-proximity thing is messing with my brain cells. “And then you use your downtime to help me out.”
“But I love this stuff.” She waves to the workbench. “This feels like a vacation.”
I want to hug her, but I keep my hands to myself.
We roll up our sleeves, literally, and get to work.
We crank Alexa high, open water bottles, and dig into the cases of plain ornaments, stencils, glitter spray paint, and acrylic.
Will these items turn into a huge moneymaker?
Most likely not. But for each Christmas tree ornament I paint, my gut unclenches a little.
Not surprisingly, Zoey is an incredible artist. Where I’m using stencils to work out the details, she freehand draws trees and stars.
I take things outside to spray-paint, she adds glitter details to globes, we brainstorm what to do with the cases and cases of mason jars I found in a shed.
Hours pass, and we go back and forth between chatting like we’ve been pent-up for years, and having long bouts of comfortable silence.
What does she do when she goes home at night?
Does she have women she chats with? Based on the conversation that we had about Josie, I assume she’s not really dating, but is there someone else?
I haven’t chatted with anyone on the apps since I met Zoey.
Something about it doesn’t feel right. That chase I looked for before, that need to get laid and temporarily filling something inside me, disappeared after I met Zoey.
Maybe this is what it’s like having a real, true friend.
In between adding another snowflake to the outside of a mason jar, she glances at me. Dammit. She totally caught me staring.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I don’t know why I’m nervous. We’re friends.
Friends go out and do things all the time.
Zoey is the first friend I have made in years, and I don’t want to screw it up.
I don’t want to keep watching the way her mouth twists as she concentrates, or the way her glasses slip and she pushes them up with the back of her hand, or the way the slope of her pale neck looks as soft as an angel-wing feather.
My hands are so clammy, I’m in danger of the paintbrush slipping right through them to the floor.
“Yep, I’m good,” I say. Come on. Just ask her. Worst-case scenario she’ll say no. I swallow. “Actually… do you have plans next Friday night?”