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I pause on that word. He’s called me that a few times,when we’ve been out with a group of friends, which happens not by choice but by default because of our friends in common. But maybe it’s a good sign. It’s not the worst nickname. “Good then. You’ll know what to expect. Just think of this good-guy boot camp as a movie makeover,” I say, then stop and consider that, holding up a finger. “But not one of the sexist ones.”
“The sexist ones? Which ones are those?”
I screw up the corner of my lips, thinking. “Actually, most movie makeovers are because they show the woman being transformed from having braces and baggy clothes to a brand-new hairstyle and tight top—no glasses, naturally—so she looks sufficiently hot for the male gaze. To which I say fuck off.”
That earns me the very first hint of a smile. “They can fuck off then too,” he says, then strokes his beard. “But don’t get any ideas about new hairstyles. The beard stays.” Then he shakes his messy mane. “Same for the hair.”
“Aww, I guess I am a makeup artist.”
He crosses his arms and stares me down.
I roll my eyes. “Fine, the hair and beard stay. But the bad attitude? It goes.” I hook my thumb toward the door.
He gives a small nod, then looks away. When he glances back at me, there’s a hint of some new emotion in those ice blue eyes. A flicker of sadness? Of hurt? I’m not sure. And I honestly don’t know what got him here besides a very bad breakup that he handled badly. But be that as it may, no one likes to be told they aren’t good enough. I certainly didn’t like it when my dad said that to me as a kid, so I try to both give Max the benefit of the doubt and also offer him a ray of hope. “Max, I know you don’t want this, but I’m going to do my best to make this work for both of us. I’ll devise a plan and then text youabout a time to meet. You have my word that I’ll give this everything I have.” I meet his gaze, hoping he believes my sincerity, especially when I add, “Trust me.”
He scoffs. “That’s not my style, sunshine.”
I bite down a slew of comebacks, pasting on a smile I don’t feel as I head to the door.
Then I leave, knowing it’ll take more than movie magic to transform this beast.
8
TELL ME YOUR FORTUNE
Everly
“Pretty Woman. Hands down the best movie makeover out there.”
That’s Josie’s declaration that night as we dine on the salted caramel flight at Elodie’s Chocolates, since what’s a get-together with friends without chocolate? I’m here at the artisanal shop in the heart of Hayes Valley with Josie, Maeve, and Fable, who have become—it’s still strange to say—my new crew. And we’re debating the best movie makeovers of all time post Max run-in.
“And why’s that retro flick the best?” Maeve asks as she absently shuffles her deck of tarot cards. She’s been learning tarot and wants to practice on us soon, she’s said. Which I’ve learned is very,veryMaeve.
I jump on her question. “Because the Julia Roberts character isn’t doing it to be hotter for the guy but rather to fit into his world. He’s already attracted to her, after all. And the best part is she gets revenge in the end when shegoes back to the snooty store with the clerk who put her down,” I explain, then pop a salted caramel into my mouth.
Maeve seems to give that some thought as she shuffles once again. “I do love a revenge tale. But hey…what about dude movie makeovers? Are there even any?”
Fable flicks a strand of auburn hair off her cheek as she chimes in, “Of course. Hollywood loves its men. But, with the exception ofCan’t Buy Me Love, where he pays her to date him and she gives him a zero-to-hero makeover that comes rudely crashing down on him, those flicks are almost always about the man transforming into a badass superhero, the world’s best spy, or the universe’s greatest hitman. Or he goes from nerd to a super jock. Or realizes he has some awesome new power, like he can fly. Seriously.” She shakes her head, clearly annoyed with Hollywood. “It’s never—oh, I’m suddenly pretty without my glasses,” she adds in a faux feminine voice.
Josie pointedly removes her glasses, setting a hand under her pale chin. “Look at me, friends. Am I not super hot now?” She offers up an over-the-top smile, batting her lashes.
I laugh, and it feels good to laugh with friends again. I missed this so much for the first couple years after Marie died, when I mostly kept to myself. When friendship was simply too painful to try. Like swimming after a boating accident, I couldn’t go near the water for a long time. Friendship was its own form of PTSD for a while there. “You are the hottest, Josie,” I tell my librarian friend. “You’re now a gorgeous duckling.”
She blows a kiss my way, but her expression turns serious as she slides her glasses back on. “Why can’t we have a movie makeover where the heroine’s fairygodmother transforms the heroine into a badass assassin?” She points at me. “You’re kind of like an image assassin, aren’t you? You’re going to rid the world of his rough edges as you shine him up.”
I didn’t tell them the details of what I’d be up to with Max Lambert, but since the grumpy goalie and I will likely be doing more public events soon, it won’t be a state secret that he’s getting a makeover, so I’ve told them the basic plan—put him out there more. “Just call me Everly Rosewood, Bad Image Assassin and Head Drill Instructor at Good Guy Boot Camp.” I wince, though, as the words make landfall. “That’s a mouthful.”
“That’s what she said,” Maeve mutters under her breath, then looks up from beneath a swoop of light brown hair streaked with blonde. The smile coasting across her fair skin is downright devilish.
Fable stares at Maeve, unblinking. “You couldn’t resist that, could you?”
“As if you could either,” Maeve retorts.
“Of course I could not,” Fable says.
“Then you get me,” Maeve says.
“We all get you,” Josie puts in, then reaches for the final piece of chocolate on the tray, asking with her eyes if she can take it. We nodgo for itthen she plucks it, her nails painted with decals of the titular character fromFleabagon them, and the hot priest she bangs, which is giving me all sorts of forbidden thoughts I should not be having about men in hockey uniforms—not men of the cloth.
