Page 73 of Savage Lover

“Does he taste like cherry pie?”

“No,” I laugh. “He smells amazing though . . .”

“God, I know . . .” Patricia groans. “I tried his jacket on once in high school. I wanted to live inside it forever . . .”

“His sweat is like catnip. It makes my head spin.”

It feels good to admit this to someone.

Patricia is loving it—discovering that I do have feelings after all. Every once in a while.

“That’s it,” she says. “We’re going all the way tonight. You’re going to look fucking gorgeous.”

I let her pull me into the bathroom. She spends almost an hour on my hair and face.

The hair is the trickiest bit.

“Do you use a pre-shampoo treatment?” Patricia asks me.

“Like . . . brushing it?” I say.

“Sweet baby Jesus, please tell me you don’t brush your hair.”

“I mean . . . I kinda have to.”

“Oh my god. A wide-tooth comb, woman, never a brush. What about your deep conditioner? And do you use a satin-wrap at night?”

“I use Suave shampoo . . .”

Patricia gasps like I’ve shot her.

“You’re KILLING me,” she hisses.

With a lot of leave-in conditioner, and an infinite amount of patience, Patricia manages to tame my mane and turn it into something that actually looks intentional—or at least, less electrocuted.

She spends a long time on my face, too, moisturizing my skin and shaping my brows before she even starts applying makeup.

As she rubs the moisturizer under my eyes and across my cheeks with smooth, steady strokes of her thumb, I could almost cry. I’ve never been taken care of like this. It’s so gentle, and so loving.

“What’s wrong?” Patricia says.

“Sorry,” I sniff. “I just . . . uh . . . my mom never showed me how to do my hair and all this stuff.”

Patricia puts down the bottle of moisturizer and hugs me.

“Sorry,” I say again. “I know this is stupid. I’m an adult, I could have learned it myself . . .”

“It’s seriously no problem,” Patricia says. “Just please, show me how to change the oil in my car, because I haven’t done it since I bought it.”

“Deal,” I say, hugging her back a little too hard.

“Alright,” Patricia says finally, when she’s finished working on my face. “Take a look.”

She turns me around to face the mirror.

It’s funny, because I don’t look so different—it’s still me. Just a version of me that glows like a fucking angel. A hint of shine on the lips and cheeks, a little swipe of eyeliner, and a mane of soft, spiraling curls, dark at the roots, fading down to a sun-kissed caramel at the ends.

Even the romper looks pretty damn cute. It hangs off my shoulders, leaving them bare, with patterned bands of green, blue, and cream that look pretty and summery, without being too bright.

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