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Mariah holds the door open for me at the top of the stairs. “What are we going to do, though?”

I march to Mariah’s station, throw the flowers down in an open spot, and flop into the seat. Grabbing the box of remover wipes, I begin scrubbing at my face. “Making him smell bad didn’t work. I caught a whiff of him through the fence, and if anything, he smells better than before.”

Mariah takes the wipes from me and starts working, much more gently, at removing the makeup. “I’m not surprised by that. He has a good natural musk.”

“Agreed.” I roll my eyes. “Lucky bugger. My natural musk is like overripe parmesan.”

Mariah huffs her weird wheezy laugh. “No, it’s not.”

“And I was thinking,” I continue, ignoring her comment, “equipping him with a year’s supply of condoms and lube isn’t exactly teaching him anything.”

Mariah snorts another laugh. “You mean a month’s supply.”

“Right?”

“Let’s brainstorm tonight,” Mariah says, applying a moisturizerto my clean skin, which she’s never done before. “We’ll come up with a new plan. A better plan.”

“I like the way you think, but we can’t tonight.”

Taking a step back, she rubs the spare moisturizer into her hands while regarding me through the mirror. “Why?”

“We have dinner with your parents.”

Mariah pales. “Oh. Right. Well, this is more important, so we can cancel—”

“Nope,” I interrupt, standing. “You’ve put this off for far too long.”

Mariah seems to shrink in on herself.

I grab her shoulders and force her to make eye contact, leaning in close. “It’s going to be fine. I’ll be there with you, remember? I’m your buffer. You don’t even have to talk. I can talk enough for the both of us.”

“This is true.” Mariah relaxes under my touch.

“And you promised them you’d see them. How nice has it been not getting called by your mom every five minutes?”

She considers this. “It’s been nice.”

“Exactly. How much better will it feel knowing you’ve done your due diligence and visited your parents while you’re in town?”

“You’re right.” Mariah tenses once more. “But you don’t know what it’s like with them. Your family sounds great. And why isn’t your mom callingyouall the time?”

I release her. “I’m the middle child of eight siblings. She barely remembers I exist.”

“Ouch.”

I shrug. “Just facts. Now quit stalling, I have to go get ready to meet your parents!”

“Sit back down and I’ll do you up.”

I squeak, clenching my fists. “Really?”

“Of course,” she says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I take my seat once more, trying not to squirm in excitement. I love how Mariah does my makeup; it’s like she sees the real me and accentuates it rather than using my face as a blank canvas to turn into whatever she wants. She brings out the best in me, in all the features I’ve learned not to love over the years, all the parts I’ve deemed imperfect. She helps me see them the way she does.

No one has made me feel more beautiful, more myself, than Mariah.

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