Page 24 of Any Girl But You
She giggles, but her eyes drop, just for the briefest of moments, to my mouth and the movement halts me.
Nope. I am not doing this. I’m not ruining the first friendship I’ve made in Minnesota, the first friendship I’ve made in forever, by messing it up with sex. I’ve never mixed the two and don’t plan to start now. Sure, I tried to date. But either the dates were so conversationally stimulating that the sex was boring, or the sex was so hot that I didn’t care about the conversation. It probably makes me sound like a terrible person, but I can’t help it. Closeness, intimacy, all of that makes me queasy. Not queasy in some melodramatic way, but genuinely physically ill. I don’t know how to act around a woman that I both really like and am sexually attracted to. Do I flirt? Be myself? By the time the evening ends, I’ve worked myself into a total tizzy.
It’s not that I don’t like the women I sleep with. Mostly, I do. I just don’t want to combine emotional and physical intimacy.It’s one or the other and never both. I’ve never had what Morgan and Frankie have. I’ve never been so in love that it took years to get over, or so in love with a past partner that I reconnected as an adult like Frankie and Morgan. I’ve never had that “person,” the one that I want to walk down the sidewalk with and hold hands with and snuggle up with a cat on a couch and watch movie marathons. That type of love is not in the cards for someone like me.
I’m a little fucked-up. I know this. So no, I’m not giving Zoey the same whisper of gaze she just gave me. Zoey’s an innocent. Someone too pure for this world. And I’m not.
“How about this,” I say and cross my legs. “We’ll get anchovies on the side, and you try one little bite. And if you hate it, I’ll do something.”
Her mouth twists. “Hmm. You’ll dosomething? I mean, we’re talking about fish. On perfectly good pepperoni. I think I need you to be more specific.”
Ugh. If that cute little teasing tone doesn’t do the tiniest thing to my insides. “Specific? I’m fresh out of ideas.”
Several long moments pass before the corner of her lips tugs into a playful grin. “You have to Cusack me outside my window.”
I have less than zero idea what she is talking about. “Cusackyou? What does that mean?”
She pushes herself back from the table and crosses her arms. Her blue eyes are dancing underneath the light in the office, sparkles of cobalt and aqua mixing in a beautiful hue. “You’re telling me you call your vehicle ‘Truck Norris,’ but don’t know the Cusack reference?” She laughs, a pretty, airy laugh. “So there’s that movieSay Anything…from the eighties, right? And John Cusack holds the boom box high above his head and blasts ‘In Your Eyes’ outside of Ione Skye’s window, and it’s like the most romantic movie scene of all time.”
This is all vaguely familiar, probably off some social media reel I saw, but based on Zoey’s grin, I’m sure as hell going to google this later.
“So,” she says, crossing her arms in a solid, definitive motion, “if the anchovies are terrible, you have to Cusack me.”
I love everything about this. Even if I don’t know what it is exactly. But right now, to keep that smile going, I might agree to just about anything. “I don’t even know where I would find a boom box.”
Zoey rolls her eyes. “We don’t have to get super technical. You can use your cellphone.”
I reach over to shake her hand. “Deal.” And if I am not mistaken, she holds on a moment longer than I do.
“Okay, I’m going to go grab my phone up front and order.” She lifts herself and limps towards the door.
Ugh, I should have noticed that today’s activities pushed her too hard. I would’ve delivered the treats on my own and let her rest if I had noticed. From here on out, until I leave tonight, I’m making it my mission to get Zoey to relax as much as possible. “I’m going to jot down some notes. Do you have a few extra pens?”
She steps outside of the room and points at the desk. “Yep, in the drawer. I think I have an extra notebook in one of the drawers, too.”
After she leaves, I roll the chair to her desk and dig through a few drawers looking for pens and a notebook. When I reach the bottom drawer, my breath catches in my throat. In front of me lie unopened, soft yellow and blue envelopes with Zoey’s name written across in beautiful penmanship. The return address saysJosie Bakersfield. I don’t know who that is, but the loopy letters, the heart in the corner, the way the envelopes are all resting in the drawer like a memory box, makes me feel like I stumbled upon an underwear drawer. But not in a good way. I’m invadingsomething, and I’m way too curious, and I should not be this curious for a friend.
Footsteps approach. I grab the notebook and slam the door.
“They’ll be here in about twenty minutes,” Zoey says and grabs her keys from the desk. “Want to go to my place?”
I do. Too much. Which is a problem I’ll deal with on my own. But something about seeing those envelopes is so unsettling that I almost don’t want to go anymore. I swallow back my thoughts and hold out my arm. “Yep… After you.”
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 theonlyexplanation 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 meannothing, 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, evenSeattle 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.
