All right.Fine.Maybe I was too quick to judge.Maybe I’ve been missing out on the upside of a trip to the spa.But I’m still not looking forward to wearing that dress.
The assistant massages my feet with cream and then returns them to the bubbling hot water.
My mind wanders back to the dress.I’ve worn dresses at weddings, sure, but only because I was threatened.I’ve learned that the bridesmaid racket is no joke.It’s exactly like how organized crime is portrayed in the movies—once you’re selected and agree to be one of the gang, your life is no longer your own.Before you know it, you’re wearing peach chiffon and being told to like it.
Alma moves to my other hand and starts the process all over again.At the same time, the assistant uses some sort of battery-operated callous-remover device on my feet, and it tickles.More cream gets slapped on my feet and the nail trimming and polishing begins.It tickles a little, but it’s weirdly relaxing.
Up until this moment, I’ve never gone for the dreadedmakeover.I’ve never wanted or needed one.In my experience, the dress code for shoveling out horse stalls is pretty lax.Horses and cows don’t care what I wear, and no one else at a working ranch does, either.
I think of what Declan said to me on the sidewalk—you look just fine in what you’re wearing.Is that really what he thinks?That I look fine?Or does he assume he can’t expect much more out of me?Or maybe it’s that he doesn’twantto see me dressed better.
Oh, well.We’re going to find out.And I take comfort in knowing that I’ll be running this experiment here in Las Vegas where no one I know can see what’s been done to me.
Except for Declan.
I’m terrified that he’ll laugh at me.But for some reason, I think I need to know if he will.If he laughs, it’ll mean I’ll never be gorgeous in his eyes.
Which will be valuable information for me to have.Maybe knowing that will snap me out of all the stupid things I’ve been fantasizing about lately.
And if hedoesn'tlaugh?If he notices and appreciates the glow-up?Then I’ll be in deep shit.
What am I doing?
What do I want?
And if I figure out what I want and then I try to get it, will I lose all the happiness I’ve worked so hard to find and keep?
I think about what Declan said to me on our walk.He told me that I need to start speaking up about what it is I truly desire.I’m not sure that’s smart.Once I start, what if I can’t stop?
I’m so busy fighting with myself that I lose track of what’s happening.I get escorted from the pedicure chair and delivered to Bruno.Soon I’m sucked into an ongoing cyclone of scissors, tweezers, nail polish, and so many toxic chemicals that I worry I’ll be radioactive when this ordeal is over.
But I go with it.I let Bruno do his worst, and when he’s done, he says I can’t look in any mirrors.“We’ll see you back here in a bit to do your makeup,” he says.
I may not be able to see it, but I can already feel that my hair has never been this soft.I usually tie it up when I’m working and then forget about it when I’m not.But I feel how it floats down my back in a thick wave, satiny to the touch.I stare at my hands.They’re dewy soft with pale pink, shiny nails.I’ve never had pink shiny nails and never in a million years thought I’d like it if I did.
But I do.
Bryttni takes my dewy, pink hand and walks me toward the back of the salon to what she’s just referred to as “a treatment room,” a term that belongs in a horror movie.I hear the sound of Tibetan singing meditation bowls as we get near, and I think it’s supposed to help customers relax.It’s not working on me, that’s for damn sure.
“Don’t be afraid, Summer,” Bryttni says reassuringly.“Don’t sell yourself short.This is a wham, bam sort of thing, but when it’s done, you’ll be a new woman.”
“What’s wrong with the current woman?Who I truly am?”
“Nothing!”she screeches.“But believe me—before we go and share our true selves with anyone, it’s wise to have professional help.A little buffing, scraping, peeling, and plucking will reveal the true you to the whole world.Don’t you want that, Summer?To show off the real you?”
Bryttni shoves me into the room where a woman with muscular forearms is stirring the hot wax pot.“I don’t know,” I mutter.
“Don’t wimp out.If you do, I’ll tell Declan you turned chicken and ran.”
She says this, eyeing me in such a way that I regret thinking she was dumb.She ain’t dumb.This girl knows exactly what she’s doing.
I’m suddenly concerned for Declan’s welfare.
“Okay, Bryttni,” I say.
“Good girl.”She heads to the door.
“Wait!You’re not gonna stay with me?”
