Page 60 of Any Girl But You
ZOEY
Holy bananas. Quinn was not exaggerating. This place is destroyed. The phrase “it looks like a cyclone hit this place” has never rung truer than now. Blankets cover two of the windows, broken outdoor signs lie across one of the tables, the tree is knocked over and ornaments litter the floor. Pine needles, towels, and embroidered items scatter the entire place, and broken lights dangle from the ceiling. And this isafterQuinn spent hours cleaning. Yikes.
The display is… Oh boy. I swallow back a bit of a panic but soften my face when I look at Quinn. “Okay. Wow. Okay.” Well, these are not the helpful or comforting words I intended. I shrug off my jacket and snow pants and take a deep breath. “We absolutely got this. What’s first?”
Quinn shifts into her executive assistant mode and starts directing like a champ. Morgan and Frankie move to pick up all items on the floor, my mom creates an ornament triage space to scour what items are fixable or should be tossed, Quinn and my dad leave to get plywood from the supply shed to board up the broken windows, and I’m going to sweep, vacuum, and then mop to make sure we have all the glass shards picked up so no one cuts themselves.
I take a quick moment to check in on Luna, who assures me she has everything under control at the shop. I’d packed all the pies before I left, so she only has to ring up customers. I even told her that she could just take everything in the display case back to her house for Thanksgiving, so she didn’t have to worry about selling and boxing those items. I felt terrible leaving her there alone to handle the customers, but I needed to be with Quinn. My shop is important. But Quinn is my everything. The choice was easy.
A few hours into working, my mom brings out PB&Js and potato chips and makes everyone sit and take a break—which is good. It’s past dinnertime and we haven’t slowed. I gulp back nearly a bottle of water and wipe my mouth with my sleeve. My gosh, this is a ton of work. And there’s still so much to do. But we’re making progress.
Morgan steps over to me and Quinn and takes a seat in a folding chair. “How do you feel if I start fixing up some of the merchandise that we think is salvageable?”
“Perfect,” Quinn says and twists off the water bottle cap. “Frankie and I can put the tree back up. Zoey, do you think you and your mom can make sure all the price tags and things are on the unbroken products?”
“Definitely.” I crunch into the sandwich and swallow. “Do you have another string of lights? After that, me and my dad can replace the broken one hanging from the beams.”
We finish our food, and then we move. Besides the distinct sounds of metal scraping pavement from the snowplows clearing the county roads outside the shop, we work in almost complete silence. There is no laughter, no joking around, just six people on a mission to save a dream. Once the cleanup is over, we sit assembly-line style and start fixing all the merchandise we can. Hot glue guns and paint are spread across the table. While Morgan, Quinn, my mom, and I work on the artistry, Frankieand my dad go to the machine shed to fire up the Bobcats to clear out the winding drive. When Quinn told Frankie she could drive one of the Bobcats, Frankie nearly sprinted across the room to throw on her snowsuit.
It’s 2:00 a.m. before we finish everything, and Quinn finally calls it. The exhaustion in her is so deep I can see it across the room—red eyes, yawns, sluggish movements. But underneath all of that, there’s hope. She smiles at me as she tugs on her coat and grabs her keys. Everyone else piles into the Jeep for the ride back home, but Quinn and I walk down to the edge of the property, arms linked, to grab her truck.
The damage was terrible. Really. But also, more salvageable than we all thought. After working for hours, we saved nearly seventy-five percent of the items. The night is quiet, the moon bright overhead as we walk down the path to the truck. Quinn tucks herself into me and nestles against my shoulder like I’m the fuel she needs to move along. And I love it. Together, we make a great team.
Tonight, all of us were part of something bigger than ourselves. We helped save Christmas for the tree farm.
THIRTY-TWO
QUINN
I can’t breathe. I want to breathe. Air right now would be good, welcome, exciting even, and yet, I cannot breathe.
“You need to breathe,” Zoey says as she steps up behind me and nuzzles her head into my neck.
“Is it that obvious?” I ask, kissing her on the forehead.
“Your face turning blue is a dead giveaway.” She steps back and grabs my hand. “You got this. Everything is going to be great.”
I have all of my fingers and toes crossed that she’s right. After the storm two days ago and working yesterday into the wee hours of the morning, I’ve officially done everything I can do. My shop, although not perfect, is pretty darn good. The plywood across the windows was not giving off the comfortable homey vibe I wanted, so this morning I stapled bows across all of it to cover.
But really, it’s not about the plywood. It’s about wondering if my yearlong effort to transform the farm, the advertising, social media, and hand making all these items will pay off. If people will love this place the same as I do, if my tree farm will generate some beautiful memories, if kids will have a good time.
The creak of the barn doors opening sounds behind me and a slight breeze whooshes in. “Ho, ho, ho!” a loud voice booms.
If I knew Zoey’s dad just a little bit better, I’d run over there and give him a big hug. After the Santa I’d originally hired called me last night to cancel because of a terrible case of food poisoning, I nearly panicked that I’d have to get into the suit myself or bribe Morgan to do it. But within five minutes of telling Zoey what happened, her dad stepped up to the plate. And not only that, but Debbie also begged to play Mrs. Claus. Problem solved.
“Red really suits you,” I say. “I think you should take Debbie out for a night on the town wearing this.”
He pats his round, jolly belly. “I think that’s a good idea. Maybe I’ll see if we can squeeze in the back seat of my car?—”
“Dad, nope. Please for the love of everything, do not finish that sentence,” Zoey says with her hands up. “My stomach is already fragile enough from the pizza last night. I can’t take much more.”
The pizza. I felt terrible that I ruined Thanksgiving for Zoey’s family. After not returning home until close to 3:00 a.m., it didn’t surprise me that everyone was too exhausted to make a feast later that day. Debbie cheerfully claimed that Sunday was as good of a day as any to celebrate Thanksgiving, and it was all about being with loved ones, not which day the date fell on the calendar.
If it wouldn’t make Zoey and me sisters, I swear I’d ask them to adopt me.
“Quinn, come take some test shots,” Frankie calls from the photo shoot area. “Zoey, I’d love to get a few of you in here as well.”
Zoey and I cross the room to the “Santa Station.” I sit on the large red chair and pat my thighs. Zoey grins, slides onto my lap, and wraps her arm around me.
