Chapter 4
FOUR
QUINN
From the less-than-fifteen minutes I was inside Zoey’s bakery, the late August summer sun heated the inside of the truck so much it smells like burning vinyl. I cautiously set the boxes of the definitely wrong cookies on the seat and roll down the windows to let out the trapped air.
I jump into the front seat, and fire up Truck Norris—the family truck with a very long history, starting with my grandma Peaches, who gave it to Frankie, who then gave it to my dad, who then, after a bunch of negotiation and some cash, gave it back to me so that I can use it for work.
My knuckles turn white from vise gripping the steering wheel.
How did I make that mistake? How, how, how?
I know I asked for green and red cookies.
I can’t believe I signed that order without validating the details.
For the last decade, I’ve double, then triple-checked everything, partly for fear of my boss laying into me, partly because it was my job to make sure everything ran efficiently, partly because even if the state of my bedroom and house shows the Queen Chaos side of my personality, my business side is type A to the extreme.
Tears spring to my eyes. This is exactly what happened in New York—the VP yelling at me because I made careless mistakes like this, even though I swore I didn’t.
When I was in Zoey’s a few days ago putting in this order, it was so hectic.
Customers packed the shop like the A train during commuting hours, kids were running around, some dog got loose and terrorized the ankles of everyone, including me.
I frantically signed the order slip just to get the hell out of there.
I push my palm into my forehead and squeeze my eyelids to contain the tears.
So stupid. I’m smarter than this. I’m a business owner now, and should never, ever sign a contract without rereading the fine print.
If I’m making these kinds of careless mistakes when I order cookies, where else am I going to fail?
But Zoey told me I should get my cookies elsewhere? I mean… what? Really? Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have said that her employee effed up. That wasn’t nice, but everything was accurate, direct, and to the point.
Whatever. I can get my cookies from anywhere…
like the only other two options that exist. Shit.
And really, is this anger about the cookies?
No, it’s not. I’ve been in a constant state of freak-out mode since moving here, and this, coming before the big event tomorrow, was the final nail in the coffin.
I ease out onto the road, hands clutching a firm ten and two, keenly aware that I’ve splashed my door with the logo Lee’s Christmas Tree Farm and Event Center.
No matter how gratifying it’d be to rev the engine and peel out of here, I can’t.
Thankfully, I had the foresight when I showed up earlier to not parallel park this beast. After taking the New York City public transportation for the last fifteen years, I probably couldn’t even park a Fiat right now.
The cranked-up air-conditioning is barely making a dent in the heat.
I roll to a stop in front of a crosswalk, and peek at the half dozen or so people walking on the sidewalk on Main Street.
Half dozen. Not hundreds. Not the sardine-packed sidewalks in the Financial District where I could feel people’s breath on me and smell the coffee in their hands when I hustled from the subway to my office building.
A woman scurrying across the crosswalk waves to me.
I squint out the windshield. Do I know her?
Ah… the thank-you wave—for doing the bare minimum as a driver and not plowing her down in the middle of a crosswalk.
I wave back and smile. Driving is taking me a little bit to get used to.
But the thank-you waves will take even longer.
The fresh, heated Minnesota air streams through the windows as I bump down Main Street and wait for the air-conditioning to kick in.
Another thing I’m getting used to, being back in Spring Harbors?
The air. New York has a different smell than Minnesota.
Exhaust, the savory smoke from restaurants and vendors, some days the tangy garbage smell of too many people occupying a space until the sanitation workers clear the streets.
Here it’s clean. Pure. Like freshwater, pine trees, and freshly mowed lawn.
“I can’t believe that happened,” I mutter. I can’t blame my actions on New York directness, either. My stomach knots. I pop open the cookie box and sink my teeth into the blue and red cookies.
And, of course. Sigh. They’re freaking delicious. I polish off one in three bites and before I reach the end of the block, I’m going in for a second. I cannot make enemies of someone who can bake like this.
Or… who looks like that. For God’s sake.
At the red light, I push my thumbs into my forehead and pull in a heavy breath.
Sure, Frankie and Morgan made an offhand comment about Zoey being cute if you’re into the nerdy-sexy librarian vibe (which I absolutely am).
But they failed to mention that Zoey was gorgeous.
Messy bun, bangs sweeping to her crystal-blue eyes, chunky black eyeglasses, gorgeous.
At the house, I kick off my shoes at the mat and slump on the couch. I have a million things I need to do, but right now I’m itchy, restless, and feeling pretty shitty about the whole Zoey situation. Maybe I should apologize?
Or maybe she shouldn’t have blamed me for something her staff screwed up. At least, I think they screwed up. Ugh.
When I left the city, I thought the whole blame thing was done. Clearly, I was wrong.
God, this sucks. I rub the corner of my shoulder with a thumb and try some deep breathing exercises, but it’s useless.
Before I meet hundreds of strangers tomorrow at the Christmas event, I need to release this pent-up tension.
I grab my phone and start swiping through a dating app, going directly to the “looking to keep it light” and “casual vibes only” posts.
I drop a couple of “hey, love your profile, you around tonight?”-type messages and wait for a few bites.
It’s Saturday after all. Someone within a sixty-mile radius must be looking to let off some steam.
The phone buzzes against my palm. Yes! That was quick.
Grrr. Buzzkill. My sister.
Did you meet Zoey?
She follows with a raised eyebrow emoji message. Did I meet Zoey? Yes. Did the woman with the softest, sweetest voice and eyes as big as sugar cookies essentially kick me out? Also, yes.
Sure did. Not great. Probably won’t go back.
The phone rings immediately. “What do you mean it didn’t go great? How can it not go great? She’s literally one of the nicest human beings in the world.”
I punch the pillow behind my head and lower myself into the couch. “Really? That wasn’t my experience. She told me from now on I should get my cookies from someplace else.”
“What… Oh no. What did you do?”
Heat flashes across my chest. “Really? How about defending me for once? Maybe she did something. I swear to God, I am always the one taking the blame for everything.” Silence meets me and my snarky tone. I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. “I told her that her employee effed up my order.”
“You didn’t. Did you actually use the f-word?” It’s like I can hear Frankie clench her jaw through the phone. “I don’t even think I’ve heard Zoey say anything stronger than ‘gosh darn.’ Seriously, Quinn? Come on. You’ve got to control that temper.”
“Control my temper? Are you serious right now? It’s not like I threw punches or anything.” But maybe I went a tad too far. I retell Frankie the chaotic story of ordering on Wednesday and everything that happened when I stepped in there today.
I leave out, however, how this Zoey person my sister keeps talking about not only surpassed my expectations but flew to the freaking moon.
Reading energy of others is a lifetime survival skill, and I instantly saw she’s a good person.
And still, I stomped out of there like a toddler not getting their prized Christmas present. Ugh. I’m such a dick.
“You’re still letting your old boss win. This isn’t you, Quinn. At all,” Frankie says. “Yes, you’re a massive pain in the ass, but you’re not someone who says that to people, especially when you first meet.”
Frankie’s words hit me, hard. I want to say that it’s not true, that deep down I’m heartless and don’t care about people, and it’s not my responsibility to coddle those around me, but Frankie’s right.
This isn’t me. I didn’t recognize myself in that shop.
When Zoey said I made a mistake, that the order was my fault, I saw red.
Actually, I saw the former VP’s face, saying this in front of a crowd of peers and leaders, then messaging me late at night retelling me what I did wrong.
The amount of times he did that has blurred, but the humiliation still stings.
Frankie takes a long breath. “I’m sure things will get smoothed over. I know you’re under a ton of stress with the farm and everything. Hopefully, you both can let this go,” she says. “What are you up to now?”
A notification pings me from the app and I swipe it open. “Currently, I’m fielding a message from the dating app about meeting up with someone tonight outside of Duluth.”
A judgmental sigh sounds over the phone. “Tell me you’re being safe.”
“Do I sanitize my strap-on after every session?” I say, wiggling back into the couch. “Sure do. I’m not a monster.”
“That is absolutely not what I meant.”
I know what she meant. But Frankie has played a surrogate mother role for me my entire life and sometimes forgets that I’m a sexually independent woman in my early thirties, not a dumb, horny teenager. “Just because you’ve been with like two people in your whole life—”
“Four.”
“Whatever. Doesn’t mean the rest of us rock that lesbian chastity belt, you know?
” I put Frankie on speaker and review the profile of the woman who pinged.
“I’m only young once. I’m not looking for anything, and I need to work off this energy.
You prefer the gym. I prefer banging it out with some hot woman. ”
“I’m serious. You really freak me out sometimes. I need to make sure you’re safe.”
“Yes, yes, I’m safe. Stop worrying.” Sometimes I wonder if this is what a healthy relationship looks like for people who have caring moms. Chatting about safety, making sure that I’m not getting harmed, physically or mentally.
Although I’ve accepted our parents are who they are, I can’t help my mind fluttering to what a supportive upbringing might have felt like.
“Just so you know, I chat with all potential dates to confirm there are no serial killer vibes, then usually meet in a public place to really confirm they’re not a serial killer, and then I go back to their place, so they’ll never know where I live.
Besides, I hardly ever use my real name. ”
“Are you kidding?” Frankie spits out. “You’re never going to connect to anyone if you don’t use your real name or go on an actual date where you engage in a healthy conversation.”
“Are you slut shaming me? Have you ever thought maybe this is what I want?”
“God, you’re exhausting,” Frankie says. “No, of course I’m not slut shaming.”
I know Frankie doesn’t get it. Truly. She’s with Morgan, her first love, the love of her life. They met as kids. Stayed together throughout high school and then reunited last year for life. Frankie and Morgan are like these weird emperor penguins who mate once, and it’s for life.
Me, I’m like a big, hyper cat that hates being caged, and Frankie just doesn’t understand that what she and Morgan have, I don’t want.
Ultimately, Frankie isn’t wrong or right.
I am happy. After leaving New York, the stress of this last decade is already lifting.
Is there a part of me that maybe deep down wants to be in a relationship?
I’ve thought about it, and the truth is…
no. Relationships suck. I will always choose beer over wine, chips over chocolate, horror over rom-com.
That love stuff is meant for someone else.
Besides, I’m not cut out for it, obviously.
I’ve dated (if you can call it that) probably a hundred women since I turned eighteen, and never once felt a connection.
I even went down a long internet search to see if I had a personality disorder or was missing a sensitivity chip or something, and finally concluded, I just don’t do the lovey shit. And that’s okay.
“I just want you to be happy,” Frankie says, “and I’m not sure if meeting for hookups is it.”
“I promise you, tongue blasting a hot blonde makes me happy.”
“God, you’re insufferable, truly.”
I tuck my feet under my legs and go back to scrolling on my phone. “You worry more than Mom.”
“Mom doesn’t worry.”
“Fair point.” I laugh, but is it actually funny?
Probably not. My and Frankie’s childhood was unique.
Our parents were never fans of family dinners, steady jobs, or providing that emotionally healthy balanced upbringing that every podcast in the world seems to drone on about.
But we were fed, clothed, had beds, and were safe. A lot of people had it much worse.
But did I use Frankie as a crutch? Did I want to make her proud the way some people want to make their mom proud?
Did I move to New York the day after I graduated high school to follow Frankie, and move back home to Minnesota a few months after she moved back?
Sure did. She’s my emotional support person.
Frankie’s phone beeps through the speaker. “Just got a notification that the salt delivery is coming tomorrow morning. If they haven’t arrived before you and Morgan go to the vendor event, just leave the back door open.”
Adding this to my long list of Minnesota things that I still need to get used to—softening water with salt and leaving the freaking door open so random people can traipse through our house.
“Listen.” I sigh into the phone. “I’m sorry about my first impression with Zoey.
It really wasn’t my intention to be such an asshole. ”
“Ah, don’t sweat it. Zoey is the nicest human in the world,” Frankie says. “I’m sure she’s forgotten all about it by now.”