Jessica parks me in front of the mirror. The girls unload a small Sephora on the table—tubes and bottles everywhere.
“Game plan,” Jessica says. “Natural makeup, like you woke up fabulous and lied about it.”
“I don’t really do makeup,” I warn.
“Which is why we’re here,” Sophie says. “Foolproof. And we’re leaving you the products so you can repeat it.”
“I can’t take your?—”
“They’re gifts,” Erin says, decisive. “Say thank you, girlie. Also, he won’t know what hit him.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Jessica dots on a sheer base. “Tinted moisturizer, breath of concealer. See? Barely there.” She taps under my eyes. “You slept three hours; no one needs to know.”
Sophie adds cream blush high on my cheeks. “This is ‘someone just kissed me behind a pine tree’ placement.”
“Stop,” I mutter, flaming.
“Never,” Erin laughs. “And I expect a field report.”
Giggles burst—pink and sparkly.
It’s quick and efficient: mascara that lifts without clumps, tinted balm that looks like my lips on their best behavior, a swipe of highlighter on the cheekbones. Clean. Easy. Me, but upgraded.
“Now hair,” Jessica announces. “What do you normally do?”
“Ponytail. Braid. Nothing.”
“We’re teaching you waves and a low bun. Both easy, both gorgeous.”
Sophie plugs in the curling iron while Jessica parts my hair. “For waves, you just wrap sections around the barrel—not too perfect, kind of messy. Like this.”
She demonstrates, her hands quick and sure. When my mother used to get ready for concerts, I’d watch her do this—the ritual of transformation, making art of the everyday. Violet music would fill the room, her fingers moving through her hair like conducting.
I blink away the sudden sting behind my eyes.
Sophie catches it. Her hand settles gently on my shoulder. “You okay?”
“My mom used to do her hair before concerts. I’d watch her get ready.” The words come out quiet. “She had this whole routine. I never— After she died, my aunt wasn’t really?—”
“Hey.” Sophie’s reflection meets mine in the mirror. “This is exactly what moms and aunts and big sisters are for. Teaching you the little things that make you feel good.”
Eden squeezes my other shoulder. “You’re not alone, okay? We’ve got you.”
The ache in my chest softens.
They teach me both styles—loose waves for casual, alow messy bun for dressier. They make me practice the bun twice until I can do it myself.
“Here.” Jessica produces a sage-green top from her bag. “This color is perfect on you.”
“I can’t?—”
“Yes, you can,” Erin says. “Every girl needs a date-night top.”
“We’re not?—”
“Just in case,” Sophie says, eyes twinkling. “You never know what might happen.”
