We finish the beautification ritual by tweezing each other’s eyebrows-the ultimate trust exercise.Īt about four o’clock, our dad comes out of his room. We put cucumber slices on our eyes and oatmeal masks on our faces-all with a VH1 The Big ’80s: The Big Movies marathon playing in the background-Ghostbusters, St. We rub a mixture of olive oil and raw eggs through our hair, then wrap our heads in plastic wrap, a verrry attractive look-if only Instagram could see us now. We glob Vaseline on our hands and put them in thick cotton socks, to moisturize. We soak our feet, loofah our heels, and paint each other’s nails. “Did he say he was going to? That he’s coming back?” This possibility seems to excite her more than a million social media likes.Īnd electricity races up my spine, because I want him to.Įllie and I use the rare day off as a do-it-ourselves spa day. “He won’t come back if you post that, Ellie.” And yet, selling him out, using him to bring in business, telling the world where he might show up next, feels like…a betrayal. I’m still not entirely sure Nicholas isn’t the dickhead he acted like the other night.
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