Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
ZOEY
I’ve had no one to my place—besides my mom and sister, who obviously do not count—since Josie.
Literally for two years, not a single person has entered my space.
And so that is clearly the only explanation as to why my hands tremble as I open the door to my apartment.
“Oh, thank God, the lights work,” I say.
“I was worried that the chipmunks destroyed the electrical to my apartment as well.”
Quinn follows behind me and pauses at the door, quiet.
I feel like I’ve gotten to know her, and quiet is not a typical baseline.
She’s looking at my place, scanning the open floor kitchen, the living room, the hardwood floors, and the hall.
“This is one hundred percent nothing, and I mean nothing, like what I was expecting.”
I grin at this. I’m not shocked by this reaction.
I’m Zoey, the bakery owner who loves pink, white, and gold, and pretty cupcakes.
But I’m also Zoey, who loves dark horror movies and will periodically slip into a serious grunge-era stage with my music, owns black skull underwear, and back in my twenties, lived for raves in Minneapolis and Chicago.
In fact, that was one thing Josie and I used to do when we were in our early twenties—save up money and drive to Chicago, the Twin Cities, even Seattle once on a road trip.
We’d visit all the underground raves we could squeeze into a weekend with thumping music, strobing lights, and bass that rattled our bones.
Quinn’s eyes continue to travel my entire space. Dark saturated colors fill every inch of this space—rich dark reds and forest greens, black leather furniture, plants, and deep cherry wood floors.
“This feels like a smoky whiskey bar in Lower Manhattan,” Quinn says as she closes the door.
“Is that a compliment?” It feels like a compliment.
Comparing anything of mine to anything in New York City feels like I upped my cool factor.
We both kick off our shoes at the door. I really need to sit before my foot swells from here to Jupiter.
I grab two sparkling sodas from the fridge and direct Quinn to the couch.
“Yes, it’s definitely a compliment.” Quinn sinks back and tucks a leg underneath her butt. “But I have so many questions.”
I love that she’s curious about me. After living here my whole life, everyone in this town already knows the full details of my life.
Even when Josie and I broke up, news traveled so fast that by the next day, fifty percent of my customers asked me if I was okay, and the other fifty percent gave me that sad droopy smile showing me they knew, but were too polite to say anything.
But there’s something liberating about Quinn not knowing everything about me. That—besides what Frankie and Morgan may tell her—is unfiltered. “What does your place look like?”
Quinn cracks open the soda and a mist sprays the air. “Well, the house was my grandma Peaches’s, but she left it to me and Frankie. Not sure if you knew that? It’s a rambler built in the seventies, huge yard, garage, shed, all the things. And we’re really lucky.”
This is a fact. Owning a home around this area is relatively affordable, at least compared to New York or some of the larger cities. Teachers, people who work at the hardware store, blue-collar workers, have home ownership in the realm of possibility.
“In New York, the home-ownership dream was shot,” Quinn continues. “The best we had was a rent-controlled apartment since we lived there for close to fifteen years. So, I totally get my privilege.”
I let out a quick snort. “Okay, it’s established that you are one lucky duck. So…”
“So, my bedroom has a faded yellow-and-orange carnation wallpaper border and mauve-colored walls. It’s so outdated,” Quinn says. “And honestly, if Morgan didn’t live with us, it’d probably still have the same original avocado carpet and orange countertops.”
I stuff a pillow under my leg on the coffee table. “Those colors are making a comeback.”
“Sure, but variations of them. Not straight-up pea green and puke orange. But before Morgan moved in, she ripped everything out and had hardwood floors installed and painted the walls in the kitchen and living room all eggshell and white. She likes super light colors. We have a ton of plants. Looks like we stepped into a Bombay or West Elm or something. It’s so completely different than my and Frankie’s apartment in New York, with our shitty couch and bean bags.
It’s like we could never quite move into adulting. ”
I like hearing about Quinn’s life. When Josie and I lived together, our place looked similar to what Quinn is describing—light colors, festive atmosphere, bright—which has its place of course.
That’s how Josie wanted it decorated, and I was fine with whatever, at least I thought I was.
But when she left, I needed to change everything, to gut my place, myself, remove the reminders of her.
I needed to be my own person and go back to who I was before I met her.
Sometimes I think I’m still trying to do that.
The desire to have people like me, the fear that people are mad at me, has been there since I was a kid.
I don’t know if that will ever go away. But with Josie, everything I did was to make her happy.
I went where she wanted to go, ate what she wanted, watched what she wanted.
For a decade I did this. To the point where I wasn’t sure if I liked the same things she liked, or if I just lost myself.
The breakup was so hard. But I think losing myself and relearning who I am is harder.
I shake out my ponytail, puff the bangs out of my face, then wrap it back up on top of my head. “Okay, I want to hear all about New York. Did you really work on Wall Street? Does it look like how the movies show it?”
“You’ve seen the movie Fargo, right? Like it’s so freakishly accurate to how Minnesotans are, but also not at all.
” Quinn slides lower into the couch. “It’s the same concept.
So, yes, I worked on ‘Wall Street,’ but technically it was just in the Financial District and not the physical Wall Street.
That’s just what people call it. But yeah, I’d work intense hours, wore a business suit every day, rode the subway, speed walked in my tennis shoes, and changed into dress shoes in the lobby. ”
This does sound like the movies. A high-powered career woman weaving her way through the city, making business calls.
I picture Quinn marching down the sidewalk among cab drivers honking and yelling, with headphones gripped to her ears, a cell phone in one hand, and a latte in the other hand. “What did you do there?”
Quinn flicks at the top of her sparkling water can. “I started as an assistant at an investment firm and then worked my way up to executive assistant. I did that for the last ten years.”
Raspberry bubbles flow down my throat. “Executive assistant? Honestly, I don’t even know what that means.” I really hope I’m not being too pushy, but I’m so curious. Who is Quinn? There’s something about her, beneath those sparkling jade eyes and pillowy soft lips, that I’m desperate to unravel.
She tucks a curl behind her ear. “Basically, I reviewed the VP’s emails, made sure he got to meetings on time, scheduled meetings and outings on his behalf, those kinds of things.”
The lightbulbs go off. Besides the fact that Quinn is not emotionally involved in my store, all day I couldn’t understand how she remained so calm and organized. “Ah. It’s all becoming very clear. That’s why you’re so good at organizing.”
Quinn pulls a coaster across the coffee table and sets down the can. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, I thought I was good at my job, but my boss thought I was terrible.”
A look passes on her face. Not quite sadness, not quite self-deprecation. I can’t place my finger on it, but I wish the look wasn’t there, and I want to take it away. “What do you mean? You said you worked with him for a decade but thought you weren’t good at your job?”
“Yep.” She tugs a pillow into her lap and wraps her arms around it.
“My boss was really, really hard on me. For years I thought he was pushing me to be better, which is why he was so tough. But I had so much anxiety, this constant cloud of fear that I was screwing up. And he raised his voice, a lot.”
I wince. Never, ever would I raise my voice to one of my employees unless I’m celebrating them.
“Oh gosh, that sucks. And the yelling? Sometimes I hear people talk about how females can’t be strong leaders because we’re too emotional.
But then there’s a man with no control over his temper, which they don’t see that as emotional. ”
“True,” Quinn says, and a long silence follows.
“But I did screw up a lot. Or maybe not. Honestly, I don’t know.
Like he’d tell me to schedule a meeting, and I would.
And then something would happen, and he’d yell at me, claiming he never wanted a meeting.
Or he’d give me an assignment, and I swear I’d take every instruction down almost verbatim, and then he’d say that he never said it.
I tried to get him to put things in writing, or send emails, but he’d just say that was why he hired me, so he didn’t have to do shit like that.
” Quinn tightens her hug around the pillow.
“It was constant. He wanted his calendar color-coded one way, and I’d do it, and he would freak out that he didn’t like it and say I’d wasted time.
Every day I’d walk in and brace myself.”
An environment like that would completely stress me out. I can’t imagine the anxiety I’d feel every day thinking the person I worked for hated me. I stuff the pillow under my leg to elevate it higher, then glance at her. “Why didn’t you quit?”