Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
QUINN
Glue is a spectacular substance. It can hold so many things together, from paper, to wood, to stones.
And skin. Ugh. I worked until the last minute trying to put together a Santa this way wooden sign with an arrow, and right now, I’m pretty sure I got more glue on me than the actual wood.
As my conditioner sets, I’m scrubbing my fingers in the shower like I’m performing an exorcism, and finally, the last of it balls off my skin and runs down the drain.
A heavy knock sounds outside of the door. I already know who it is based on the annoyed fists. “Dude. I just got done with a workout and need a shower,” Frankie yells through the door. “If you use up all the hot water, I’m going to wipe my sweat all over your pillow.”
“You are so disgusting,” I yell out while rinsing my hair. We seriously need to invest in a bigger hot-water heater. “Okay, okay, just one more minute!”
I hop out of the shower, stub my toe, and knock over the hair dryer with a crack. Shit. I attach the pieces back together, gather my stuff to get ready in my bedroom, and try to breathe out the nerves.
Nerves. Okay, fine. I’ll admit it to myself—but absolutely no one else, no matter how many times Morgan and Frankie ask.
Yes, I’m nervous for tonight. It’s not a date.
My mind knows it’s not a date, but fails to send this message to the rest of me.
This evening, I ransacked my closet for an hour and must’ve tried on twenty different outfits, swung by the drugstore for new makeup, and could barely choke down dinner because my belly is all twisted. Even my limbs are shaky.
However, the limbs shaking might very well be because of everything I’ve done this week.
The less than a month countdown until the shop opens the day after Thanksgiving ticks away like a time bomb.
Between keeping up on posting about the farm activities on social media, and unpacking merch, and overseeing the crew working the grounds, building racks, and shelves, I am tired.
After Zoey and I assembled the third artificial Christmas tree today to decorate inside the barn, my skin was raw and beat-up from all the scratches.
I’ve checked and rechecked the list my aunt and uncle left me, but I just know I’m missing something.
And if I don’t figure it out, I’ll ruin the opening day.
For more than a decade, they failed to capture the Christmas spirit the way the community wanted.
So, who knows if the list they left is everything I need to do.
And what if no one comes? What if the entire community has already purchased their artificial tree, or still drives a few hours away to the nearest tree farm, or they hate it and everything fails?
I plant my hands on the counter, take a deep breath, and try to reassure myself everything will be fine.
A ping pops up on my screen and my belly does a flip at Zoey’s name.
Not a date. Not a date.
I have something to tell you when you get here.
Ummmm. How should I read into that? It sounds so ominous, like when a boss says, “Can you come into my office.” Before I figure out a response, another message pops up.
Oh! That sounded so suspicious. It’s good (I think!)
And it’s like she knows me already. I send her a raised-eyebrow emoji response and pull out an arsenal of hair products to tame my mane.
Knowing I will be here forever trying to get my curls to pop, I put in my AirPods and turn on the Love ’Em or Leave ’Em podcast to be entertained by Ruby Reanne’s relationship wisdom.
“Hello, all my friends. A listener wrote this question last week and I knew it was perfect to spark some conversation with my audience. Sometimes I thank my lucky stars that me and my wife, Amelia, have been together for so long, because diving into the dating pool with all that uncertainty and angst and hesitations… Yikes. I’m not sure I’m cut out for that. I digress. Here we go—”
I flip my hair to the other side to diffuse. Dang it. The AirPod slipped out. I adjust it and hit play.
“‘Hi, Ruby. There’s a woman in my graduate school night class who I’ve grown close to this entire semester.
She’s smart and funny, and after one minor hiccup, we hit it off.
We study together, have done two group projects together, and we’ve found ourselves more often than not sharing a pizza in the corridor and talking about personal stuff instead of schoolwork.
“‘I’ll be honest. I was a bit of a loner in high school, and have only dated maybe a handful of people. So, I cannot tell if she likes me as a fellow student, as a friend, or as more. I want to ask her out, but am as equally scared of the rejection as I am of losing our fun time together. My question is: How can I tell if someone likes me as more than a friend?’”
The blow dryer is too loud. I click it off, lean against the counter, and listen for the response.
“This is tricky. Like, hello, vulnerability! Right? It’s scary when you don’t know where you stand.
But I can help give you some clues,” Ruby says.
“When you walk into the classroom, does she consistently seek you out? After class, does it look like she’s lingering or maybe making an excuse to talk?
That might be one indicator. Another one is physical touch or at least sending some body cues.
Does she touch your arm, or back, or hand, and has it happened a few times?
She might be just a super friendly person, or it may be just for you.
Pay attention if she does that with everyone, or if it seems like she’s singling you out. ”
Physical touch. I do this with Zoey, and she does this with me. Does that mean… I shake my head and turn back to the mirror to put on some makeup. I’ll diffuse after this segment.
“And this might be super hard, but you could just ask her. If that is too intimidating, you could say something like, ‘I always wanted a girlfriend with your sense of humor,’ and see what she says. If she says something like, ‘Oh God, no, you’d never want to date someone like me,’ as opposed to ‘And I’ve always wanted a boyfriend like you,’ then this may open the door for more conversation.
Good luck to you! Please write back in and let me know how it goes. ”
I shut the podcast off. Ms. Ruby Reanne is making me think too hard right now, and I don’t want to think.
I go back to prepping. An hour later, after I’ve scrunched my hair until it reaches the stars, I tug on my shoes and run out to the car.
Frankie and Morgan are in the front seat, I’m in the back, and I’m trying to settle my insides as we roll down Main Street to Zoey’s.
Not a date, not a date.
All of this would be so much easier if Zoey wasn’t as smart, kind, sweet, or beautiful. Like if any of those could fall off the list, I’m sure my brain would interpret this message and shoot it to my cells in a way more efficient manner.
Frankie pulls down the alleyway and puts the car in park. “Do you want to call Zoey and let her know we’re here?”
My hand is already on the door. “Nah. I’ll just run up and get her.” I don’t know why I feel like I need this bit of alone time with her, but I do. Even though I was with her all day, I can’t get enough.
I run up the stairs and knock on the door, shifting my weight between my feet. A moment passes and when it cracks open, my breath stops.
Oh, dear Christ.
In front of me stands Zoey, in an off-the-shoulder loose white top, her beautiful, bare midriff peeking out with a very surprising navel ring, and a ruffled skirt grazing her upper thigh.
Chestnut waves cascade from her shoulders to her mid-back, and it takes all my strength in me not to fist those locks in my hand.
Underneath the dipping magenta-and-golden horizon, her aquamarine blue eyes sparkle and… Shit. She is so goddamn beautiful.
“Oh my God, you look amazing!” she says, breaking me from my trance.
Me? Did I take extra care in my ripped jeans and tank with a chunky knit sweater and the best bra I own?
Yes. And applying makeup and making my hair bounce as high as my boobs?
Yes, I did. But I’m not even holding a candle to Zoey.
Everything in me springs to life, but I’m quieting this.
I refuse to let my momentary dry spell and raging hormones ruin what Zoey and I have.
“What? Get out. You look beautiful! Look at us scrubbing the farm off us and showing up like ladies,” I joke. “Ready?”
Zoey bobs down the stairs with me. Do I open the door? Is that weird? I don’t want her to think of this as a date, even though it feels like it. And she looks so womanly and beautiful… I’m overthinking this. She crosses the car to the other side and slides in.
“Hey!” Zoey says as she fastens her seat belt. “Thanks for picking me up.”
“Of course,” Frankie says as she pulls out of the alley and turns right. “Thanks for coming with.”
“Morgan,” Zoey says, leaning forward in her seat. “I chatted with Angie yesterday about the wedding cake. She changed the colors from pale pink to lavender.”
Morgan turns in her seat, a frown line popping up between her brows. “Again? Does that mean she’s going to call next week needing a new flower arrangement? We’re so close to the wedding date. I don’t think we can pull that off…”
As Morgan and Zoey chat about the upcoming wedding they’re both hired for, I can’t help but sit back in the seat and absorb this moment.
Zoey’s bare leg is close to mine, she’s grinning, and oh my God, she smells so good.
Some sort of warm amber and jasmine. I’m so glad we are in a closed car because maybe the scent will seep into my clothes and I can sniff it tonight in the privacy of my room.
Once we head on the highway toward Duluth, Zoey turns to me with a grin. “So, I talked with my mom today and she gave me some more craft items we can use for your shop.”
Seriously, this woman is a personal Michaels store. “I don’t even understand how she has so much… stuff.”
“Trust me. It’s like she grew up in the Depression, but not really.
Scarcity mentality. She throws nothing away.
But… that’s not what I was going to tell you,” Zoey says, tugging at the seat belt strap.
“She has an idea, but I’m only going to tell you if you promise to be totally honest with me if this is overbearing, or not what you want, or is just… too much.”
Well, now I’m so intrigued that I’ll say just about anything. “I promise to tell you the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me Santa Claus, okay? Lesbian Scout’s Honor.”
Zoey’s chest lifts in an inhale. “My mom made a bunch of calls today. Church group. Parents of the kids in her class. Other teachers. And, um… how do you feel about having forty or so people out to your place on Sunday?”
My mouth drops. Morgan turns to stare at me, Frankie eyes me in the rearview mirror. I move my gaze back to Zoey. “Um, what? For, what? I’m not even open for business. I don’t even have signs made.”
Zoey grabs my hand, and I’m immediately disarmed.
Her skin is soft, smooth, and her grip firm.
“No, no, not to buy anything. They want to make Christmas crafts. For free. Volunteer. Once my mom made a few calls, more people made more calls, and well, now we have all those people who want to come out. I can bring cookies, and the church ladies mentioned doing a potluck. Honestly, I think all you’d have to provide is bottled water and chairs. ”
As Zoey continues, she says how her mom’s students are so excited and the church ladies are always looking for a place to get together and chat outside of the church basement.
Everyone’s giddy at the idea of spending an afternoon at a real Christmas tree farm making ornaments and trinkets for my shop.
I don’t know what to say. I’m stunned quiet, my heart filling, expanding, overflowing. “But why? No one knows me. Your mom doesn’t even know me… They just want to come make stuff that I can sell in my shop? I don’t understand.”
Zoey’s hand is still holding mine, sending a warm current through my veins, and I hope she never drops it.
“People around here love helping each other,” Zoey says, giving my hand a squeeze, then pulling back. “Truly. If you’re good with it, I’ll let my mom know.”
Good with it? I’m overwhelmed by the generosity. My anxiety is melting. It still seems surreal. Like a ball will drop, or there’s a catch, or something will happen. But with Zoey’s grin, knowing she will be there, my insides warm.
This might be a magical Christmas after all.