CHAPTER 1
Isabel
Am I the only one that gets high anxiety over a mani-pedi?
I chew on my bottom lip as I look over the rack of shiny little bottles, then finally settle on a deep shimmery purple, the color of juicy blackberries. Clutching the glass bottle in my palm, I make my way back to the massaging foot-soak chairs, take off my foamy complimentary flip-flops, and totter awkwardly up the rubbery steps.
On the massage chair next to mine sits my best friend, Elana. We met at orientation, both of us in different programs, at Cranbrook Academy of Art graduate program. She’s perched elegantly and comfortably, multi-tasking with a brilliantly-pink hibiscus lemonade in one hand and her cell phone in the other.
She’s good at this, all this pampering and self-care. With her easy confidence, olive skin, and fierce winged eyeliner, she’s got a very Gen-Z Cleopatra thing going on. If Cleopatra wore floral leggings and thumbhole-hoodies, that is.
Not me.
I’m feeling as awkward as always here at our weekly Friday afternoon appointment at Nailed It. A glance across at the wall of mirrors facing us is enough to reinforce the reason why. Elana is lean and lithe, statuesque and gorgeous, whereas I’m just…well, me. I suck in my tummy a little, lift my chin to give myself some sharper angles, but who am I kidding? It makes no difference. No matter what I do or what I eat, I’m just me.
Curvy and creamy and soft.
Although, I will say, going platinum-blonde last year when I got accepted into the graduate program at Cranbrook was a good move. It suits me way better than I ever imagined and I’m not even mad when I have to order the Oribi Bright Blonde shampoo and conditioner at $46 a bottle.
Every week we have a mani-pedi date, but it never gets less awkward for me. I never feel beautiful looking at myself here. And it feels so strange, having the ladies who work here massage my feet, buff my nails, and thread my brows.
All this for the sake of the clients. All this for the sake of the men.
But it’s not what you’re thinking. I promise.
I manage to get up the steps without slipping—for once—and get somewhat comfortable in the massage chair. But right now it’s set on some diabolical vibrate sequence, which makes me feel like I am riding over really bad washboard roads like back in Wheeling where I grew up.
Elana takes a sip of her hibiscus lemonade, puckering her luscious Angelina-Jolie lips.
“That’ll look good with your dress.” She lifts a perfectly-bladed eyebrow, glancing at the purple bottle.
I nod with a happy grin, starting to relax finally, and punch the button to stop the chair from jostling me around. I hold the bottle up to the light, admiring its plummy undertones. Picking out the color is the one thing I do like about all this nail salon pampering. Because I might not be very good at enjoying paraffin dips and cuticle oil treatments, but I am definitely good with color. I’m not going to art school for nothing.
“Tonight’s dress is crimson velvet. So I thought this would really pop,” I say as I set the bottle down for the young woman who will be tending to my toes.
“Mmmhmm,” Elana hums into her straw with another pucker. “I’ll tell you what else those guys would like to pop…”
I let out a groan. “You know that is not why I am doing this.”
She makes a sassy little sound, never looking away from her Tik-Tok feed. On the screen, I watch a poodle in a tutu do a twirl in time with a Dua Lipa song. “It’s all fun and games until someone pulls their dick out.”
I swallow hard, choking back a snort. “I’m serious. It’s not why I’m doing this. I’m putting myself through grad school, not getting myself knocked up before I can get my degree. I’m already in deep with my student loans.”
“Pshaw. Who said anything about getting knocked up?”
I let out a grumble of indignant protest, but deep down in my caramel center, I do know what she means. Because by some unbelievable accident of the universe, I have not just one but two gorgeous men buying my time lately.
And both of them are responsible for an uptick in my need to purchase new panties—because they are destroying them in record numbers.
The older one is named Hale—a little less than twice my age, businessman, salt and pepper in the temples, strong and confident. Thick, not fat by any means, just like a solid wall of man. His face is hard, angled, but so beautiful I want to reach out and touch him to be sure he’s real. He’s also a protector. He calls me “Baby,” and says he’d do anything for me. He’s my date for the event tonight. The only information I was given was it is formal dress for a charity and to wear my hair down.