She beamed. “No prob. I’m Brie, by the way. C’mon, I’ll hook you up. You are gorgeous, by the way.”
There was nothing quite like the ritual humiliation of small-town self-care. Brie took me into a private room and told meto strip off my leggings and panties and then lie on the waxing table. There was a large warm towel to cover myself with. I suddenly knew why Maddie had that conspiratorial look on her face when she told me to get waxed. Brie matter-of-factly asked me if I wanted a Brazilian, which was apparently removing every bit of hair down there. Or if I wanted a landing strip or a triangle.
I generally kept things tidy down there but certainly not shaved clean. Brie casually removed the towel. She didn’t flinch when she saw my soft belly and thick thighs. I’d opted to leave a nice small triangle of hair there. She slathered an area with something that smelled like honey, placed a strip of soft cotton over it, and, with zero warning, yanked the strip off with a sound like ripping denim. Holy shit! I grit my teeth. My skin flared, then settled into a low tingle. She repeated this process until all was clean. Then she did my brows.
She didn’t let me up. “Your lips are, like, naturally perfect, but lemme just get this little fuzz—” More wax, more burning, but at least it was quick. She let me up to get my panties and leggings back on. The area still tingled, but she’d slathered on some gel that cooled it all down so it was bearable. Next came the hair. Brie spritzed, massaged, and applied a minty scalp treatment that made my whole head feel like a chilled limeade.
“So, you nervous about tonight?” she asked, gently detangling my hair with her fingers.
“A little. I’ve never been to a bar before. I’m sure it’s obvious, but unless I’m baking and sharing pastries, I’m a tad bit awkward.” I tried to laugh, but it came out small.
She winked at me in the mirror. “Just follow Maddie’s lead. That girl could talk a priest into buying her a shot.” She blew my hair out straight, then curled the ends with a round brush so they bounced in perfect, glossy waves.
Brie finished up by adding a powdered foundation to my face. Then she grabbed an eyeliner pencil and expertly lined myeyes with a slight cat-eye look, followed by a coat of mascara. With a touch of pink lip gloss, she was done. She angled the mirror. “What do you think?”
I almost didn’t recognize myself. My eyebrows were sharp as a knife, my hair shining, my lips glossy. My cheeks were red but in a cute, blushing way, not in the usual “flustered at being alive” way.
“It’s perfect,” I said, amazed. “Thank you.”
She grinned. “You’ll knock ‘em dead.”
I paid, left a tip that I hoped would convey my appreciation, and scurried out into the cold. The sun had fully set, leaving the square cast in deep blue shadows and the bright yellow glow of streetlamps. The awning of the bakery emitted an aura of joy, but the empty square felt less peaceful than usual. Every sound echoed a little too long; every movement, even the wind, seemed suspicious.
I unlocked the door, shouldered inside, and double-checked the deadbolt behind me. I flipped on the back lights, then went room to room, checking every nook and pantry just in case someone had slipped in. It was ridiculous. But the feeling from earlier, that cold-eyed man and his silent scrutiny, still clung to me like static.
Only after making a full sweep did I allow myself to breathe.
Upstairs, my little apartment felt like a greenhouse in winter: tight, safe, and almost too warm after the chill outside. I hung my coat, glanced at the clock, and realized I had less than an hour before Maddie showed up. My stomach twisted.
The first thing I did was check the window in my bedroom. I distinctly remembered locking it this morning; I always did. But when I got there, the sash was cracked open three inches; the curtains fluttering in a draft so cold it stung my skin. I froze, staring at the window, then peered out at the blackness beyond.
Nothing. No movement, no footprints in the new snow on the roof below. Still, the hair on my neck stood at attention. I closed and latched the window tight, pulled the curtains, and retreated to the safety of the bathroom.
I stared at my reflection, half expecting to see someone standing behind me. But it was just me, pink-faced and wild-eyed, hair still smooth and shiny from the salon. I ran cold water over my wrists, willing my pulse to settle.
“I wish you’d taught me a protection spell, Mama,” I whispered. “Or at least how not to be a damn chicken.”
I wiped my hands, then made straight for my secret spot. The beadboard wall behind the head of my bed looked normal, but if you slid out the second slat, there was a hollow just big enough to stash something important. I knelt and reached in, feeling for the leather edge of the grimoire. It was still there, heavy and warm, the cover as stubborn as ever.
I breathed easier, replaced the slat, and let myself believe, for a moment, that I’d done something right.
I texted Maddie and told her I didn’t need help finding an outfit. I had it under control. She texted back a kissy-face emoji. Getting dressed felt different tonight. For once, I wasn’t trying to hide. I pulled on the black and white plaid skirt. The black v-neck sweater I’d ordered the other day fit my curves perfectly. I liked how it fit loose at the bottom so it slid over my ass and hit a few inches above the hem of the skirt. I threw the wide black belt on over the sweater so it cinched my waist just right. The neckline of my top dipped low enough that my cleavage had no choice but to say hello to the world, but with the tights and boots it felt more badass than desperate.
I turned, checked the back. The skirt flared out at my hips but didn’t ride up, and the boots made my legs look longer than usual. I ran a hand over my hair—still soft, the scent of salon shampoo lingering like a promise.
I dug out my jewelry box, found a pair of silver hoops, and put them on. Then I dabbed a touch of pink gloss on my lips, just like Brie had, and tried not to think about who might be watching from the darkness outside.
For the first time in my life, I thought I looked more than cute. I looked pretty. Sexy, actually. My curves were on full display, my hair was glossy, and my eyes had a spark I didn’t recognize.
I looked like a girl with a future, not an escapee.
Oscar was waiting on the couch when I came out of my bedroom. He was enjoying a cinnamon scone and had crumbs in his whiskers.
“Miss, you look quite lovely this evening. Would you like me to accompany you on your night out?”
“That’s very sweet of you, Oscar, but I’d really like you to keep an eye on the bakery and apartment tonight, if you would.”
He sat up as tall as possible.
