Not that anyone’s around besides Sophia and me. And hey, maybe if they eventually surpass the depths of my humiliation, I won’t have any bashfulness left to shed, so win?
Sophia shoves her glasses up the bridge of her nose, placing them over her sunglasses to scowl down at the screen. She swipes her thumb across the glass and frowns, her movements growing more exaggerated each time. “None of you are helping, and being on the phone is too complicated with big emotions.”
She’s just summed up my entire existence. I can’t watch her struggle to work her phone anymore, so I finally reach out and tap the red button for her, hollering out a goodbye to soften hanging up on them.
“Forget all that,” Sophia says, as if I haven’t tried that method repeatedly. “This team, they’re pros at drawing out your sensual side.”
She tucks in loose ribbons and garter belts, not relieving me of the bundle of lingerie but cupping my cheek and pouring assurance into me. “That’s what we all want for you. You’ll see.”
I appreciate their conviction and enthusiasm on the subject, I do. But as much as I missed the intimacy of sex, it’d never been a big part of my life. Without the flirting, validation, and cuddling I craved, sex often felt like just another item on my to-do list.
Eniola returns with Jade, the makeup artist, their totes, tools, and boxes causing a surge in blood pressure and a dart of excitement. I tell myself it’s at least less scary than when Wanda, Rita, and Grandma Helen wielded their brushes and applicators at me, then basically close my eyes and let them have at it.
Halfway through, Sophia announces she’s leaving me in capable hands and will swing around at the end of the session to pick me up.
I’m honestly scared to ask if it’s seriously going to take three whole hours, still debating whether I even want to know, when the nonna of the group drapes an arm around my shoulders, minding the clips pinning up my curls and addressing me via the vanity mirror. “Just remember, nothing disarms the world like a confident woman.”
“Are you talking dating, or preparing for war?”
Sophia and my beautification team share an amused glance that only instills more fear in me. “Both, darling. Both.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
A light sheen of sweat causes a different type of glow than the dewy makeup that seemed to photoshop the pores right off my face.
I shimmy and crane my arm to fasten the strappy contraption with boning and crisscrossing ribbon, experiencing a pinch of regret I didn’t take Sophia up on her offer to stay and assist. I thought an audience would make it more difficult but hadn’t realized getting dressed could be such a workout.
Or that I’d ever consider this “dressed.”
Snagging tissues from a box on the changing room counter, I place one under each armpit, clamping them there as I dab my forehead like a flustered T-rex.
Shit, I betthat’s what happened to my sexy side—I crammed it too full of nerdy jokes, random factoids, and a wide array of obsessions and crazes.
Once the zipper on the side of the blush-colored bustier slides home, I reluctantly spin to inspect my reflection. I sway closer, basking in the soft, nonfluorescent lighting, and everything feels less drastic. I haven’t ruined the makeup artist’s work, which is the best descriptor of my transformation.
Not because it doesn’t look like me, but because it’s me on my best days, with eight hours of sleep under my belt, my unwieldy to-do list under control, and the self-assuredness of Queen Bey and her gold microphone.
No wonder celebrities pay professionals to do their makeup. With glued-on lashes and rich espresso eyeliner, slightly smudged, what I dub smoky-cappuccino-eye brings out the green in my hazel irises. Jade enhanced the sun-kissed glow I earned myself by the pool with a glimmery bronze highlighter, and it makes all the difference between frail street urchin and bombshell librarian.
There’s an air of mystery to the woman peering back at me.
A smile curves lips that’ve been painted maroon. Not only do the pin curls pump up the volume, they create an ombre effect of the fading cinnamon tint and my lackluster brown. For as small as the garment is, the crisscrossing ribbon cinches my waist and shoves every extra inch upward, creating the optical illusion of ample cleavage.
Barely pink stockings are clipped to my garter belt, and tiny bows add delicate touches between my breasts and the top of my cheeky lace panties.
I shrug on a sheer robe with fluffy edging that makes me look like a widow in an old P.I. flick whose rich husband just died under mysterious circumstances.
A squee escapes as I step into peachy-pink heels with feathers on the toes.
I feel instantly sexier, no question. Call me Margot Robbie in Barbie.
But the idea of stepping out of the dressing room just makes me feel naked.
Eniola calls my name, softly rapping her knuckles on the partition. “Mia, sweetheart? Everything okay in there? No rush, but I’m an expert fastener and lacer-upper if you need any assistance.”
My knees threaten to buckle as I reach a trembling hand toward the sleek knob. From there I go on autopilot, flinging open the door and charging out of it like I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date.
I wish for a frazzled white rabbit in a waistcoat to follow down a hole—anything to avoid the part where Eniola starts taking pictures. There’s no hole, but a squat, dimly lit hallway that opens up to a well-lit room with hardwood floors, exposed brick, and tall, paned windows with gauzy white curtains that flutter in the breeze.
