Chapter 9
NINE
QUINN
A knock outside my door snaps my attention away from the book about surviving workplace trauma I’ve been devouring for the past few days. “You may enter at your own risk. I will take no shit about the state of my room.”
I dogear the page, and stuff it under my pillow.
Seven weeks ago, at the Christmas in August event in Duluth, Morgan mentioned PTSD, and I thought in true Morgan fashion, she was over-the-top.
I’d seen movies on this, but it was all about soldiers who saw combat, or people who’d been in terrible accidents, or really heavy things that I frankly don’t want to think about.
I genuinely didn’t know that PTSD existed on different levels.
That, like everything in the world, a spectrum exists, and my New York experience qualifies.
After I berated Zoey at her shop, something clicked in me, and I knew I had to kick my ass into high gear and start getting over what happened.
But I’m not quite ready to share the rabbit hole of research I’ve gone down on the effects of a toxic workplace on mental health.
I love my sister, but she’s so up in my business, and the last thing I need is her worrying more than she already does.
The other thing that happened since the vendor pavilion?
I’ve thought of Zoey almost every day. So far, I haven’t had the courage to do anything more than visit her store a few times a week for some dessert and a quick chat.
Her shop is always busy, which honestly is a blessing in disguise, because the thoughts I’m having about her aren’t good.
And Zoey made it clear—she’s different than me. She’s not interested in a hookup-only-type situation, and I will never have a solid, steady relationship. So yeah, these thoughts are making me frustrated in all the ways, and none of them pleasant.
“Christ, it’s messy in here,” Frankie says as she opens the door and kicks at a pile of bags in the corner.
“Nope. I already said I would take no shit from anyone. You may kindly see yourself out, fuck you very much.” I stuff the pillow behind my back and scoot up higher on the bed. “What do you want?”
“I was going to head down to Zoey’s and grab some dessert for tonight. Want to come with?” Frankie leans against the door frame and runs her fingers through her dark cropped hair.
The whole cool and casual vibe is not working.
I know what Frankie’s doing. I’m staying away from Zoey as much for her protection as my own.
Zoey has this sweetness, almost a naivete, to her that’s rare.
Someone who substitutes swear words with other words because her ears are too delicate to handle cussing.
The last time I saw her, she even said, “Shut the front door!” with her soft, doe-eyed wonderment, when we realized we have the same cross-body purse in canary yellow.
She’s gentle, and kind, and caring. I’m saving her from me, even if she doesn’t know it.
Zoey’s not my type. Like, at all. She’s too pure for this world, probably the type of woman who likes gentle sex on a bed with roses sprinkling the ground after having a picnic in the park.
I like quick and dirty orgasms, names optional, and moving straight on with my life.
Messy and fun. And Zoey is clean and stable. We’re built completely different.
So, yes, the thoughts I’m having about her are irrational. But the better I get to know her, the more I think we could be friends. And friends are good. Even though I grew up in this town, there’s a reason why I cut ties with everyone and bolted out of here as quickly as I could at eighteen.
Growing up, I never had genuine friendships with anyone, not in the way Frankie did, or I saw in the movies.
While Frankie was a sports star, going to state in basketball and brutally taking names in hockey, I was out in a corn field getting wasted with my classmates on cheap 40s and hooking up in cars.
During my entire high school experience, I don’t think I had a single genuine conversation with anyone.
I never talked about feelings or fears or the deep rejection I felt from my parents.
But at the vendor fair, Zoey was like this gentle nymph, coaxing my thoughts from me with her warmth. And I’m not sure I’m ready for someone like her to see all the ugliness inside me.
“So?” Frankie says, tapping the door frame. “Zoey’s. Now. Whaddya think?”
“Where’s your girlfriend? Go bother her,” I say to Frankie. “I don’t want to go to Zoey’s.”
This is such a lie, and Frankie’s going to take one look at my face and call me out.
I always want to go to Zoey’s. I think I’ve hit her place at least a dozen times since we’ve met.
When I see her, something inside me lifts.
And every time that happens, I feel a little bit of the old me—the starry-eyed one who fourteen years ago marched to New York with two suitcases filled with hopes and dreams—return.
Frankie crosses her arms and gives me that look. The same look she used to give me when I’d dry my tears on the subway and drag myself into our apartment telling her my day was “just fine.” Ugh. No one can read me the way my sister can.
“First, Morgan has a client meeting so she can’t go with.
Second, I’m calling massive bullshit on you that you don’t want to go to Zoey’s.
It’s like a kid saying they don’t want to go to Disneyland, or anyone in the world saying they don’t want to go to a Taylor Swift concert, or a pit bull saying they don’t want that piece of bacon or—”
“Got it. Christ, okay.” I throw my blankets down and knock over the pillow. I scramble to cover it up, but not before Frankie sees the book. I love my sister. More than anyone in this world. But some things I’m not ready to share.
Her brow furrows as she scans the cover. “You doing okay?”
No. I’m not. I’m lost, and don’t know if I made the right decision in buying this Christmas tree farm.
I’m scared and maybe a little lonely, and desperate to prove to everyone that I can do this.
“Yes, I’m fine, you overbearing mother hen.
Come on. Cupcakes are waiting.” I toss the blanket back over the pillow, trip over a box of craft items I need to bring to the farm, and stuff my feet into sandals.
“Hey…” Frankie’s voice goes soft.
Nope, this is exactly what I don’t want.
Since I was little, Frankie’s always been my protector.
Strong, quick, will stand up to literally anyone on my behalf, no matter who they are or their size.
I loved it back then and still love it now.
But some things I need to do on my own. Navigating my deprogramming and relearning my worth is step one.
A hand reaches and grips me, then pulls me into a tight hug.
Frankie and I are huggers. It’s who we are, how we show affection, and we probably hug every day. But this one is different. She’s trying to transfer a message, and a sliver of me is so close to accepting it.
“Listen to me, okay?” Frankie whispers into the top of my head. “You are amazing, and deserved nothing that happened to you. Got it? I need you to hear me.”
I want to bury my head in her shoulder and cry.
I want to tell her about how I felt so worthless for so many years that a part of me detached from reality, made me build up a protective persona, and that seeped into everything else in my life.
And how stupid it is that some rich old white guy in Manhattan still holds so much power over me.
I want to say that combining our upbringing with its underlying message that we were simply tolerated but not celebrated or affirmed, seeped so far into my bones I think it’s part of my DNA.
And if I don’t make the Christmas tree farm work, it will prove all these messages I’ve received my whole life are true, and I am, in fact, not worth it.
But instead of slicing myself open and throwing my emotional guts on the table for Frankie to coddle me anymore, I squeeze her back, then release. “Come on, cookies are waiting. We’re taking Truck Norris, not the motorcycle.”
Frankie grins, and thankfully I can tell she won’t push me any further. “How can I get Morgan—who never even has a wrinkle—on the back of my bike, but not you?”
“’Cause you do things to Morgan that I don’t even want to think about.” I shudder with a very dramatic flair. “Gross.”
Frankie laughs. “Fair point.”
In Truck Norris, Frankie pulls up our favorite podcast, Love ’Em or Leave ’Em with Ruby Reanne, as we back out of the driveway and drive down the road to Zoey’s Bakery.
“Hey, everyone, welcome to the Love ’Em or Leave ’Em podcast, where we do a deep dive into all things relationships.
Let’s kick this off with an email I received over the weekend.
This comes from Maren, who says, ‘Hi, Ruby. Last year I left an exhausting and emotionally abusive partner who made it their personal mission to belittle me every day, and I’m finally ready to get back on the dating horse.
However, on the few dates I’ve gone on, I analyze the men in an almost CIA-level of detail, latching on to anything I see as a red flag.
Last week I went out for dinner with a really nice man.
Everything was great until we looked over the dessert menu.
I suggested German chocolate cake and he said he thought coconut was disgusting and was there something else I’d be willing to share.
I immediately closed up and still haven’t returned his calls. What is wrong with me?’
“First of all, that’s just plain good judgment because coconut is delicious and a gift from the gods, and clearly he is totally wrong,” Ruby Reanne says with a smile in her voice.
“Jokes aside, this will take a lot more than what I can offer on this show. Throughout my career, I’ve seen various levels of emotional abuse and gaslighting.
Often it breaks us to a point that we question everything—if we loaded the dishwasher right, if we’re as terrible of a driver as they say we are, if we added too much salt to the dinner.
These types of put-downs are often what abusers start with, and then it escalates to where we question everything we do, our motivations, our sanity… ”
As Ruby continues to talk, I focus on the trees outside flashing by the window, the beginning hues of orange and amber spreading across green leaves.
I can’t help but relive what happened in the office.
Did my boss make me this paranoid, or was that demon always lurking inside of me, hidden, waiting to rise to the surface?
I’m buried in this coffin of terror, where every decision I make with my new business might be the one that breaks me.
Thank God my aunt and uncle’s crew remained at the farm after I took over.
But I’m pouring everything I have into creating this gift shop and Christmas experience, and what if it fails?
What if I don’t do it right and the community hates it, and I ruin this chance for an entirely new life?
By the time we bump down Main Street, I’ve wound myself tighter than the curls on my head.
Frankie pulls over a block away from Zoey’s Bakery and pushes the truck into park. She taps her fingers against the steering wheel and peeks at me through her peripherals. “Talk to me.”
I don’t want to. Not now, not yet. I’m still processing. And until I figure out all of this on my own, I can’t loop in Frankie. “I’m good. I’m good.” When she gives me the look, I wrinkle my nose and shoo her away. “Calm your tits, all right? I promise I’m good.”
A quick exhale escapes before she nods and opens the door. I step onto the cracked sidewalk, shield my eyes against the bright sun, and take a full cleansing breath, pushing away any bad thoughts. I’m about to see Zoey and I refuse to bring this negative energy into her space.
We cross the street and look up at Zoey’s Bakery. What the…? Frankie tosses me the same concerned look and we both kick up the pace, speed walking. My gut sinks as we get closer. When I jog to reach the front of the store, and peek through the window, it sinks all the way to my toes.
Oh no…