Page 8 of Any Girl But You
“Four.”
“Whatever. Doesn’t mean the rest of us rock that lesbian chastity belt, you know?” I put Frankie on speaker and review the profile of the woman who pinged. “I’m only young once. I’m not looking for anything, and I need to work off this energy. You prefer the gym. I prefer banging it out with some hot woman.”
“I’m serious. You really freak me out sometimes. I need to make sure you’re safe.”
“Yes, yes, I’m safe. Stop worrying.” Sometimes I wonder if this is what a healthy relationship looks like for people who have caring moms. Chatting about safety, making sure that I’m not getting harmed, physically or mentally. Although I’ve accepted our parents are who they are, I can’t help my mind flutteringto what a supportive upbringing might have felt like. “Just so you know, I chat with all potential dates to confirm there are no serial killer vibes, then usually meet in a public place to really confirm they’re not a serial killer, andthenI go back to their place, so they’ll never know where I live. Besides, I hardly ever use my real name.”
“Are you kidding?” Frankie spits out. “You’re never going to connect to anyone if you don’t use your real name or go on an actual date where you engage in a healthy conversation.”
“Are you slut shaming me? Have you ever thought maybe this is what I want?”
“God, you’re exhausting,” Frankie says. “No, of course I’m not slut shaming.”
I know Frankie doesn’t get it. Truly. She’s with Morgan, her first love, the love of her life. They met as kids. Stayed together throughout high school and then reunited last year for life. Frankie and Morgan are like these weird emperor penguins who mate once, and it’s for life.
Me, I’m like a big, hyper cat that hates being caged, and Frankie just doesn’t understand that what she and Morgan have, I don’t want. Ultimately, Frankie isn’t wrong or right. Iamhappy. After leaving New York, the stress of this last decade is already lifting. Is there a part of me that maybe deep down wants to be in a relationship? I’ve thought about it, and the truth is…no. Relationships suck. I will always choose beer over wine, chips over chocolate, horror over rom-com. That love stuff is meant for someone else.
Besides, I’m not cut out for it, obviously. I’ve dated (if you can call it that) probably a hundred women since I turned eighteen, and never once felt a connection. I even went down a long internet search to see if I had a personality disorder or was missing a sensitivity chip orsomething, and finally concluded, I just don’t do the lovey shit. And that’s okay.
“I just want you to be happy,” Frankie says, “and I’m not sure if meeting for hookups is it.”
“I promise you, tongue blasting a hot blonde makes me happy.”
“God, you’re insufferable, truly.”
I tuck my feet under my legs and go back to scrolling on my phone. “You worry more than Mom.”
“Mom doesn’t worry.”
“Fair point.” I laugh, but is it actually funny? Probably not. My and Frankie’s childhood was unique. Our parents were never fans of family dinners, steady jobs, or providing that emotionally healthy balanced upbringing that every podcast in the world seems to drone on about. But we were fed, clothed, had beds, and were safe. A lot of people had it much worse.
But did I use Frankie as a crutch? Did I want to make her proud the way some people want to make their mom proud? Did I move to New York the day after I graduated high school to follow Frankie, and move back home to Minnesota a few months after she moved back? Sure did. She’s my emotional support person.
Frankie’s phone beeps through the speaker. “Just got a notification that the salt delivery is coming tomorrow morning. If they haven’t arrived before you and Morgan go to the vendor event, just leave the back door open.”
Adding this to my long list of Minnesota things that I still need to get used to—softening water with salt and leaving the freaking door open so random people can traipse through our house. “Listen.” I sigh into the phone. “I’m sorry about my first impression with Zoey. It really wasn’t my intention to be such an asshole.”
“Ah, don’t sweat it. Zoey is the nicest human in the world,” Frankie says. “I’m sure she’s forgotten all about it by now.”
FIVE
ZOEY
What in the actual heck?The pink-and-gold-glittered wall clock shows just after 1:00 p.m., and I still,still, cannot shake my interaction with the rudest of the rude Quinn Lee. How is her sister, Frankie, as cool as a banana smoothie, but Quinn is definitely not?
I’ve worked in the service industry in some capacity for almost twenty years, starting at fourteen in a local grocery store, and have dealt with some real jerks. My former bosses at the grocery store, the husband-and-wife duo, were some of those. But I can normally shake it off. Or at least not dwell on it the way I am now.
Because four hours later, I’m still dwelling. Hard.
The front bell jingles and I walk out from the back. Oh, thank gosh. I smile at one of my regulars, Colby—the woman is around my age or maybe a little older, and she’s come in here every Saturday since I opened with her sweet golden retriever, Kona. Colby’s smile always hints at sadness, a quiet look of missing something, but other than that I know nothing about her. “Hey,” I say and shuffle to the front, my walking boot scraping against the floor.
“Hey, Zoey,” she says and pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head.
I swing around to dig a doggie treat from my jar, and crouch down to give it to Kona. I pet her behind the ear as she gobbles it from my palm. Gosh darn Mrs. Pinkerton pushing me to implement a potential no-dog policy because of her snappy Pomeranian. Doing that, I’d miss out on times like this with the sweet ones.
“No crutches, huh?” she says as she looks into the display. “That’s got to feel good.”
“So good. I feel like my arms can breathe again. For whatever mush happened with my leg muscles, I made up for it in my biceps.” I grin and move back behind the case. “You want your usual?”
