Page 37 of Any Girl But You
My breath catches in my throat, and I try to grasp at nonexistent air. She is delivering the message as kind as she can, but it still hurts. Quinn bravely just drew a boundary line, even though I can tell it’s tearing her up. The last thing I want to do is to make her feel bad about herself, just because we have different views.
So I rush to her, drop to my knees, and pull Quinn in for a hug. A deep hug, full from my soul, and she presses against me, gripping me, relaxing against me. “Thank you so much for being so honest with me.” I hate that my voice verges on cracking. “I’m so happy we’re friends.”
This is what I say. And it’s not untrue. But a minute later, I excuse myself to use the bathroom, and cry into my hands.
NINETEEN
QUINN
A car door slams and my heartbeat kicks up. I take one last quick look at the inside of the barn. It’s not opening day, far from it, but having fifty people out here for the first time pushes my need for perfection to the top.
Newspaper and disposable tablecloths cover long banquet tables, folding chairs scatter the room, a station of wood pallets and signs rests in the corner. Every single craft item I own fills the tables—mason jars with paintbrushes, water, paper towels, glue, glitter, and everything in between. Zoey said the church ladies were bringing items with them, too, thank God, because I don’t think I have enough supplies to keep them all occupied.
Even though I set everything up last night, I got here by seven this morning. Honestly, I should’ve brought a sleeping bag and pillow here yesterday, because it was useless going home and staring at my ceiling until I returned. Which is exactly what I did—stared at that yellowed spot on my ceiling, replaying the conversation with Zoey from yesterday, until my heavy eyelids finally closed.
After Zoey prepped the cookies yesterday, she made a really terrible excuse about needing to leave early to bake and run errands. It was painfully obvious after our chat that she forcedherself to stay as long as she could, which was half the time as usual.
I saw her tear-streaked face after we talked, but didn’t say anything. What could I say? She knows who I am. I told her in the beginning. But yesterday, I had to hammer in the message. She needs to know what will happen if we take this any further. It wouldn’t be fair, otherwise. Inside, I held a sliver of hope that she’d tell me to shut up, that she didn’t care, that she was ready to try because I was worth it, and we’d figure it out together.
But she didn’t. And although she hugged me, and thanked me for opening up, the sting of rejection still burrowed deep. But also, I can’t blame her. Not only are we fundamentally different, but she’s also still so hurt over her ex that she’s rightfully cautious.
And Zoey still hasn’t told me that she read Josie’s letters. Not that she’s obligated to, but I want her to. I want her to open up to me, to share everything in her head, to let me in more. These thoughts torment me, poke me at night, poison me through the day.
But why do I want her to do that? Because I think, for her, I can change. I already have changed so many parts of myself this last year. I’ve discovered a new piece of myself, one that wants cuddles on the couch and to laugh about music, and sample cookies before moving into a bedroom. But can I sustain that? Can I really be the exclusive, committed person she wants?
Even if I can, am I assuming that Zoey is thinking the same thing as me with just one kiss? She knows I’m open and free, and maybe she was using the opportunity to test out a kiss on someone who told her physical things mean nothing. I probably would’ve done the same thing. So, what if I just sat down, communicated all of this, and she said, “I want to be with you.” And then, per every single encounter I’ve ever had with awoman, I clam up, shut down, and can’t do it. Then, friendship gone.
God, I’m overthinking all of this.
The sound of gravel crunching beneath tires breaks my thoughts—thank Christ. I rewrap my hair on top of my head and run to the door.
“Hey!” Zoey waves from her car with a box tucked in her arm, the wisps from her ponytail flying in the breeze. A woman, maybe mid-fifties or so, steps out of the passenger seat with an arsenal of canvas bags, as a cute little blond boy leaps from the back seat.
This must be Zoey’s mom and Noah. I scoot over to them, smiling. Yes, I’m glad they’re here, but I’m really glad Zoey is here. After the conversation yesterday, I couldn’t help but think she’d bail on me. “Hey, let me help. What can I grab?”
Zoey hands me a grocery bag, then points to her family. “Zoey, meet Debbie, my mom, and Noah, the best kid in the entire world. And I know a lot of kids.” She gives Noah a tousle on the hair, and he buries his head into her hip.
“Oh, Quinn.” Debbie drops the bags to the ground, opens her arms up wide, and rushes to me like I’m a child returning from deployment. “Finally, we get to meet! I’ve heard so much about you and this place. I cannot wait to see everything you’ve done.”
The warmth already fills me. Zoey gets her hugging skills from her mother, clearly. Frankie hugs me all the time, but I don’t remember the last time my mother hugged me. Years, probably?
I squeeze Debbie back and release, and chuckle at Zoey’s cringing face. “Same. I’m so happy you all are here. Thank you so much for helping me… I’m still overwhelmed by everyone’s generosity.”
Debbie shoos away the comment. “Spending a fall day on this gorgeous property making crafts with my friends. I need tobe thanking you.” Debbie picks up her canvas bags and scans the property. “Quinn, this property is absolutely beautiful. These trees, this land… Stunning, really.”
Yep. I am beaming. Wide and bright, and I don’t even care. “Thank you. It was a ton of effort, lots of scratches and bruises, and even more tears, but everything is finally coming together.” I glance at Noah, who is still snuggled into Zoey’s side. “And, Noah. Do you have any idea how much your auntie Zoey talks about you?” I ask, lowering myself to meet him closer to eye level. “She says you are the best artist in the whole family.”
“Yep, I am!” He lifts his head, his smile spreading across his chubby cheeks. “Zoey said Santa is coming here. Is he here today?”
I peek at Zoey, who just shrugs, but there’s a soft twinkle in her eyes. She’s watching me, watching this interaction, and she looks a bit nervous. Not sure if it’s because she thinks her family will do something embarrassing—which wouldn’t bother me anyway—or if this is something more. Nope…doing it again.Overthinking.If I keep doing this, I’m checking myself in for a lobotomy.
“No Santa today,” I say to Noah. “But we’re trying to make this place really special for him so he’ll visit.”
Noah moves his body away from Zoey’s hip, and is nowreallygrinning. “I know Santa likes milk and cookies and reindeer and presents, so I’m going to paint all those things for him.”
If I could just bottle up this child’s wonder in one of my mason jars and release it on Christmas, my heart would be full. “I think that is a perfect plan.”
Zoey taps the bag in her arm. “This is getting heavy. I’m going to head inside. Noah, grab that plate of cookies and come with me. Quinn, can you help my mom bring in the crockpots and show her where the plug-ins are?”
