Page 78 of Man Flu

Chapter Twenty-three

Maybe a little ice might help … Nope. No, it won’t

“WOMEN DO THIS EVERY day, Hannah. I think you’re overreacting,” Brielle has the nerve to tell me.

“I need ice,” I tell her.

“The burn will be gone by the time we get back to the office. Seriously, everything is going to be okay. You’ve been waxed before, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but for maintenance, not for a deep cleaning.”

Brielle leans back into her seat and focuses on driving through the wet snow. “At least she was fast, right? We’ve hardly been gone forty-five minutes.”

“True. If anyone asks, we were shipping a couple of boxes down to the expo, and I needed your help getting them into the mail center.”

“Did anyone see you walk out?” she asks.

“I doubt it.”

Stepping out of the car and into the snow proves to be far more painful than when I left the spa, despite Brielle telling me I’d feel better by time we got back. Umm … no, Brielle. You were wrong on this one.

“Are you feeling better?” she chirps as we cross the parking lot.

I must be walking like I have a pole up my ass, just to ensure none of my effected parts rub against each other, so I don’t think she needs to ask me. “No, Brielle. No, I’m not feeling better.”

“Really?”

I choose not to respond, and I also choose not to speak to her throughout the elevator ride. I’m not blaming Brielle for what happened since I intended to get waxed, but I never would have opted for the package deal I got if it wasn’t for her.

“Am I walking funny?” I finally speak just as we’re about to enter the office.

“Just a little, but I’m sure no one will notice.”

I do my best to fight the pain and scurry by Logan’s cube, in fear of him calling me in, since there’s no way I can stand right now.

Of course, I try to sit, but um, that’s not working either. I was able get into the car seat, but sitting down in a right angle is not working. The burn has subsided, but now I feel like I’m tearing open. This can’t be normal.

I sit sweating for more than a few minutes, kind of just waiting for the pain to go away or at least recede, but the tearing sensation continues to increase, and I don’t know what I can do for relief.

I need to get a closer look at this situation, so I rush through the office, walking like a penguin, and make it into the—thankfully—empty bathroom. I lock the stall and drop my jeans. I just had to wear jeans today. Of course.

I place my hands on my hips and twist as far as I can to see my back end, and now the ripping, pulling, and burning is all happening at the same moment. Are my ass cheeks glued together? That can’t happen. No. She’s a professional. She has to have a license—not that I looked, but she must, right?

I grab each cheek and slowly try to peel them apart, but um, yeah, that’s not working. Oh, dear. Oh no. Noooo. No, no, no.

My heart is beating in my throat, and I’m sweating through my shirt. I don’t know what I’m going to do, or what I can do, for that matter.

I don’t have my phone, and I can’t just start screaming in here. Dammit to hell. I pull my pants back up and waddle back through the office, stopping in Brielle’s cube. “I have a situation.”

“Are you okay?” she asks. She’s concerned this time. I can see it on her face, probably because she can see it all over mine.

“No, I need you to be quiet when I tell you this, but my ass cheeks are waxed together, like dried and stuck. I’m a human, freaking candle without a wick, Brielle.”

Her mouth drops open, and it looks like I may have to catch her eyeballs in a second too.  “What?”

“I’m not repeating it. You heard me,” I tell her. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Ladies, ladies, ladies,” Taylor says as he blocks the opening of Brielle’s cube, cornering us into six square feet of open space. “How is all the prep work going for the event?”