“Because I haven’t had time. You know how I feel about shaving.”
The next gob of wax that she swipes over my armpit is only hot for a second before it starts to cool, and she sets the popsicle stick onto the countertop.
“So, you’re rocking a full bush?”
I roll my eyes. “No. I get laser for that the same way you do.”
“Do you ever regret it? Sometimes, I wonder if rocking a bush would help me realize which of the men I take home are worth the energy.”
“Are you expecting it to talk to you?”
“No. But I’ve learned that all of the small-pricked losers don’t like pubic hair on a woman. Personally, I think that if they have a jungle down there, we should be able to have one, too. Gettingrid of our bushes feels pretty anti-feminist, the more I think about it.”
I choke on a laugh before she rips the wax off, and I start hissing instead.
“Okay, that arm’s done. Switch for me.”
The sensitive skin burns enough that I keep my arm up for a bit longer while baring the other side for her. She doesn’t look twice at the long hair before twirling more wax around a new stick.
“I don’t disagree with you,” I say, watching her work. “Men always hold our bodies to a higher standard than their own. We preen ourselves for their benefit all the time.”
“We should just marry each other. I wouldn’t judge you about your bush if you didn’t judge me for mine.”
“Think everyone would buy it?”
Waving her hand in front of the cooling wax, she smirks at me. “Totally. We’re both hot as fuck, and every queer couple is, too. I don’t make the rules.”
“That’s some genius thinking right there.”
“Yeah, I know. So, are you still single, or has Finn stolen you from me?Officially.”
My smile drops. Suddenly, sitting in silence feels like a much more intriguing way to spend my afternoon.
Brielle pulls the wax strip away, and I cry out this time when the hair gets yanked out. “Sorry. Consider that encouragement to get talking.”
“I don’t know how to answer that question right now,” I admit stiffly.
She arches her perfectly tweezed brows, hesitating to grab more wax from the melting pot set up on the vanity. “What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t know.”
“Yikes. That’s not what I was hoping for.”
Closing my eyes for a few seconds, I blow a piece of hair out of my face. When I open them again, Brielle’s still staring at me, but without all the judgment this time. I lower my first arm and grip the edge of my vanity stool.
“I think I fucked things up,” I mutter, looking past her at my reflection in the mirror.
“What happened?”
That’s a great question. I’ve been trying to pinpoint the exact moment I shoved my foot so far down my throat
that I’ve been tasting leather for the last three days, but there are too many careless words and statements to choose from.
Finn hasn’t texted me since he asked if I made it home safe after our fight Tuesday night. I’ve kept to myself the rest of the week, unable to forget the betrayal in his eyes that came after I told him that he couldn’t be my date. Over and over again since then, I’ve wished that I hadn’t said anything at all.
I’ve been put into a position multiple times in my life where I had to choose between my work and something or someone else. If I chose wrong, I was selfish, and if I chose right, I spent my time away worrying about how far behind I’m going to get. That comes from the trauma of listening to my mother guilt me for not texting and calling enough after I got my job at the firm that had me immediately on the defensive, but it was also fear. Plain and simple.
Because I know that despite how much I love my job, I’d give it up for Finn, and that isn’t just a scary thought. It’s paralyzing.
