Zara clears a vanity with a sweep of her arm. Missy drags a chair into the window light. Zoe disappears and reappears, plugging in a curling iron.
Suddenly I’m sitting.
Zoe sections my hair with quick, practised fingers. Zara brushes primer along my cheekbones, and Missy grabs my hand and starts painting my fingernails a dark grey.
“We’ve watched the two of you attempt to be subtle.” Jaclyn rummages through a bag of makeup. “You both failed spectacularly.” She holds a color palette to my face. “Close your eyes. Perfect.”
“You didn’t even try,” Nettie mutters, knitting away in the corner.
Zoe wraps a curl around the barrel. “And the way he keeps touching you.”
She counts under her breath, then releases it. The curl springs warm against my cheek.
I wince. “I feel like I hijacked your weekend by...sleeping with the host.”
Then Jaclyn snorts. “Oh, sweetie. Weloveit.”
They do?
“This is the happiest we’ve seen Cash in years.” Zoe twists another section of hair.
“He’s lighter. Close your eyes.” Jaclyn dusts a shimmer across my eyelid. “His laugh and the way he looks at you aren’t guarded as they’ve been.”
“Hereallylooks at you.” Zara pumps a dollop of foundation on a brush and blends it into my skin. “Like he’s falling for you.”
I scoff. “He’s not falling for me.”
“He’s never looked at a woman the way he looks at you.” Jaclyn taps my chin. “Close this eye.”
I close the other eye, and she matches the smoky eye.
I wasn’t fishing for evidence of him falling for me, but they offer it all. It’s overwhelming. As overwhelming as this makeover is.
After the finishing touches, I meet my eyes in the mirror, and my stomach flips.
But because of how absolutely stunning I look—and I do—but because I’m pretty sure I’m falling for him too.
They finally step back like artists admiring a finished painting.
Glitter hugs every curve. My hair falls into loose waves. My face is porcelain beauty.
“Thisis how you get his attention.” Jaclyn squeezes my arms and peers at my reflection over my shoulder. “If you want his attention.”
I do, and they all know it.
Done with me, they scatter. No one sticks to their own room. Everyone pops in and out with dresses, shoes, and jewelry, like we’re swapping costumes backstage.
Zara pads past barefoot, with rollers clipped crooked through her hair. Jaclyn hops into the bathroom, shimmying into shapewear and muttering threats at it.
“I don’t know what the fuss is.” Nettie loops her tan yarn around the needle, her gaze fixed on the television. “It’s just us women. What does it matter if your hair is styled?”
Jaclyn pokes her head out of the bathroom, hair pinned up. “Ma, you're wearing your black nylons.”
Nettie drops the needles onto her lap, annoyed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Black is too harsh for my pink lace dress.”
She grabs her cane, plants it hard, and pushes herself upright. The chair sighs. She smoothes her cardigan and shuffle-steps toward the closet.
Sunlight spills through the windows as she lifts the lace dress out of the closet.
