Chapter 2
TWO
ZOEY
For the past six years, every time the little silver bell on the door to my bakery rings announcing a new customer, a jolt of dopamine rushes through me.
I’m not immune to how very lucky I am that I live out my dream every day.
After living in Spring Harbors, Minnesota, my entire life—the best town in America, mind you—and opening my dream bakery, I usually need to pinch myself.
Today, sadly, is not one of those days. It’s not quite as bad as the day six weeks ago, when I recreated every cartoon-banana-slipping scene from my childhood.
But instead of a banana peel, it was loose flour on the kitchen floor.
And instead of doing the splits and having stars and birds flutter above my head, my glasses flew off my face and skidded across the floor, I landed on my butt with one leg sky-high, and the other leg going exactly where it shouldn’t.
Caleb, the flour culprit and my part-time employee, felt so terrible I was sure he was going to cry into a rack of fresh pistachio macaroons.
After some uncharacteristic swear words (including the f-bomb which I never, ever use) had slipped from my mouth, I hobbled up on my fractured foot and assured him it was okay.
It wasn’t okay, of course. I had reminded him several times that morning to sweep up the floor and he hadn’t. But making him feel bad would not fuse my bone back together, so I sent him funny GIFs from the ER, and the next day brought him a coffee so he knew I wasn’t mad.
So today is not quite as bad as that. As I pull on gloves and start carefully packaging up the eight-dozen red and blue cookies for Quinn Lee, the sister of one of my regulars, Frankie, I try to focus on the methodical boxing, and not the poop-tastic morning I’ve had so far.
It began with Mrs. Pinkerton. She’s very sweet, but her snappy Pomeranian is not, and it got loose once again and tore around my shop.
I’d promised myself if it ever happened again, I’d enforce a service-animal-only rule.
Instead, I sent her home with a free cupcake.
And then my sister called, needing my help with babysitting my nephew, Noah, this weekend.
Yes, I love Noah more than almost any human in the world, and yes, my sister is a single mom who works hard and needs a break, and yes, my mom helps a lot and wasn’t free on Sunday.
But this is the last weekend of the summer.
After having a cast on since mid-June, it finally got removed yesterday and I really wanted to take a proper day off.
So, what did I do? I offered for Noah to not only hang out with me but sleep overnight.
My former therapist would be very, very disappointed in me. I hate disappointing people.
“Hey, I just double-checked the delivery, and it looks like the driver left a five-pound bag of hazelnuts off the order,” Luna, my part-time employee, says as she bounces into the back room.
She reminds me of what a little sister would be like if I had a little sister, although we look almost completely different.
Her short pink pixie cut, facial piercings, and full sleeve tattoos are almost my alter ego.
However, if I ever attempted any of those things, I’d look like I was dressing up for Halloween as someone way cooler than me.
“Do you want to talk to him?” Luna asks.
Ugh. I really need to be firmer. The delivery guy, George, is the nicest man, but he often forgets things, and the following week, when he remembers what he forgot the previous week, he forgets something else.
I take a tentative step with my new walking boot, pull my shoulders back, and lift my chin.
Be strong, be firm, set boundaries. George will still like me even if I make him go back and get the order. Be strong, be firm, set boundaries…
“Hey there, Zoey!” George says. “So sorry, looks like I forgot the hazelnuts. I’m going to be making a run back through town later this week, on Wednesday. Is it okay if I swing by then and drop it off?”
I swallow a way too big of a lump in my throat and thumb my glasses back up my nose. “Oh yikes. Gosh. Um, you know I really need those. They are, well, a key ingredient to so many of my items. And tomorrow is a heavy baking day,” I lie. Every day is a heavy baking day.
His mouth twists, and I see it in his eyes.
He’s disappointed. In the situation, in me.
And then he won’t like me. And if he won’t like me, his deliveries might get worse, and people will think I’m terrible.
Word will spread around town that I’m unreasonable, that this guy made one mistake, and I’m forcing him to work extra hours.
George taps his clipboard against his leg. “They’re all the way back in Duluth, and it’s the end of my shift. To go there, back here, and back… we’re looking at ninety minutes, easy.”
Don’t do it. Stay strong. He is the one that messed up the order, not me.
“Oh yes, of course. Next week is totally fine! I’ll just scoot right over to the grocery store and pick up what I need in the interim.
” Ugh. Now I’m so disappointed in myself I might deny myself dessert tonight.
My old therapist would officially fire me as a client.
Two years ago, after Josie and I broke up after a decade together, I started therapy.
Sure, I learned some communication skills, fleshed out some things that led to our breakup, and tried to build empathy for myself for having a failed relationship.
The therapist guided me in discovering why I have this deep, intrinsic need for people to like me, why I avoid hard conversations, and encouraged me to take the lessons I learned from my last relationship into any new relationships.
So, what lessons did I learn? For that first year, the one I held on to most was that I will never, ever open myself up the way that I did with Josie. That the pain was so deep, so profound, and that singlehood was a blessing from the gods.
But this last year, I spent my downtime really evaluating what I want and need and concluded that as painful as Josie’s and my breakup was, I’m not giving up my fairy-tale dream.
Some people are meant to travel this world alone, and some are not.
I’m one of those not slated for singlehood.
I want to fulfill my life partner, rescue dog, picket fence dreams. My soulmate is out there. I just need to find her.
I blink away those thoughts and focus on George.
“You’re the best, Zoey!” he says, tucking the clipboard under his arm. “I promise I’ll bring it on Wednesday.”
“Sure thing. Have a great weekend.” I smile brightly and wave. When I turn back, I shake my head. I might not be in therapy anymore, but I know I’ve got to do better. Starting now, I’m not taking any more poop from anyone today, no matter how hard it may be.
I hobble behind the counter to help with customers but wish I could bake bread.
A perfect creative outlet is when I work with our custom cupcakes, cookies, and cakes.
Adding edible glitter edging on my cookies and designing chocolate stilettos with gold bow tops fills that need in me.
But working with dough, flexing my fingers, kneading out my frustrations into a ball of gluteny goodness is heaven.
The door rings and a couple of giggling teens pop in with beach bags stuffed with towels and hats. After they order cake pops and a cupcake, one girl leans towards me. “You’re Zoey? The owner?”
“Sure am,” I say with a proud smile.
She plants her hands on top of the display case with a soft smack.
“Oh my God, has anyone told you that you look like Zooey Deschanel? It’s so crazy.
Like, you really, really look like her. I know the show is super old, but I am obsessed with New Girl.
The Jess and Nick story… I mean, classic, right? ”
Have I heard before that I look like this actress? Maybe only a hundred times. I’m not sure if it’s because I have long brown hair with bangs and glasses, or the blue eyes, or the fact that my name is actually Zoey, but it’s a compliment, so I’ll take it.
Once I send the teens on their way, I return to the kitchen, grab my Sharpie, and scribble Quinn Lee on top of the four oversized cookie boxes.
Quinn Lee… I’m actually pretty excited about meeting her.
I’ve known Morgan Rose for years. She owns a wedding and event planning business in town and is one of my top customers for her clients.
And when she reconnected with her high school girlfriend, Frankie, last year, I met her, too.
Within a short while, they both started chatting to me about Quinn. A lot.
Spring Harbors is a small-enough town. Everyone heard about Pete and Patty’s Christmas tree farm getting sold to Quinn Lee.
For so many years, that farm had served this town.
But, from what I understand, it went downhill fast. Josie and I went there maybe five or six years ago to pick out a tree.
But it was so depressing, like the place where Christmas dreams go to die, that we never returned.
So yes, I know about Quinn Lee. But every time Frankie and Morgan chat with me about her, I get this underlying impression that they’re trying to set me up.
“You two have so much in common,” “Can’t wait for you guys to meet each other,” and “We should all hang out some time,” are common themes through our conversations.
Last year, when they started talking about Quinn, I thought the Josie scars on my heart would never heal and would forever taint any potential relationship.
So, for my safety and sanity—and any potential mate’s—it was simply best not to engage.
As politely as I could so they didn’t get mad at me, I told them all my time goes into my shop, and I have zero social life. Which was not a lie.
However, now that I’m in a better place emotionally, and those scars have mostly faded, maybe a new…
friend… is exactly what the doctor ordered.
Things have slowly settled around my shop, and fall—my favorite season—is right around the corner.
Walking hand in hand with mitts on and a shared pumpkin latte while watching the leaves change colors sounds wonderful.
Besides, I just got off crutches and cannot wait to do something outside.
Speaking of my foot, my gosh, this walking boot is not comfortable. I sit in a chair by the prep stand and elevate until the throbbing stops.
A moment later, Caleb pops into the kitchen through the swinging door. “Hey, Zoey? Quinn Lee is here to grab her items. Need some help carrying them up front?”
I could probably manage, but I’m getting used to the new boot, and the last thing I need is to trip and spill the contents of these pink boxes. “Yes, that’d be great.”
When I step out to the front, I take all of five seconds to scan the small crowd in front of the large display case and pick out the woman I’ve never seen before.
Because had she ever been in my shop, I definitely would’ve noticed.
Wow. Red curly hair that reaches just below her shoulders with coils that seem to spring with reckless abandon.
Freckles that I can see all the way from across the room.
Short, ripped denim shorts and an off-the-shoulder summer knit sweater holds in curves that I’d give just about anything for.
Quinn Lee is beautiful.