Page 191 of Wild Then Wed
“I see, like, four sponges,” I say, holding one up between two fingers. “Is this the one?”
“Yep. That’s your girl.”
I stare at it for a second. “Okay…now what?”
“Go wet it,” she says. “Just run it under the sink and squeeze it out. Then we’ll start with concealer.”
I sigh and glance at the clock. A little over an hour and a half until we have to be downstairs. I have no idea how I’m supposed to go from this to gala-ready. But Lark’s waiting, her face steady in the frame, like she’s got all the faith in the world that I can pull it off.
For the next forty minutes, she walks me through everything like she’s coaching me through a bomb defusal. Only instead of wires, it’s palettes. Instead of pliers, a tiny damp sponge.
“Dab, Wren. Don’t drag,” she says when I start smearing something called bronzer into my cheek like it’s face paint.
I groan and do it again. “This feels like art class in fourth grade.”
“Yeah, well, maybe if you didn’t skip every homecoming your junior and senior year, you’d know all of this already.”
I flip her off, and she grins.
But slowly—somehow—it starts to come together. Concealer under my eyes and on my forehead. A bit of bronzer along the edges of my face. Highlighter—even though I’m still not sure why—is on the tops of my cheeks and the bridge of my nose. She walks me through a basic eyeshadow routine that doesn’t make me look like I got punched in the face, and when I swipe on mascara, even I have to admit my eyes look…a little nice.
“Your lashes are too long for your own good,” Lark mutters, filing her nails.
I blink at her. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you’re ungrateful and I’m jealous,” she says as she makes me curl them.
I’m lining my lips with a color that looks like the inside of a plum when I catch Lark’s reflection in the mirror, one eyebrow arched. “You must really like Sawyer.”
I flick my gaze toward her on the screen. “Why are you saying that?”
She scoffs. “Wren. Come on. When have you ever voluntarily gotten this dressed up for anything?”
“It’s a gala,” I say, reaching for the lipstick to blend out the liner. “I can’t exactly go looking like a rabid animal.”
“You couldn’t look like a rabid animal on your worst day.”
“Sure,” I mumble, not sure what else to say to that.
“It’s true,” she says, a little softer this time. “I just wish you saw what the rest of us see. You’re so damn pretty, Wren. Anddon’t even get me started on your freckles—I’dkillfor freckles like yours.”
I laugh under my breath, glancing at my reflection as I finish pressing my lips together. “Freckles just make me look twelve.”
“They make you look like sunshine.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself.
“And your face,” she adds, already ramping back up, “is stupidly symmetrical. Like, it’s rude how symmetrical it is. You were genetically engineered to be hot.”
I arch a brow. “Thank you?”
She grins. “You’re welcome.”
I glance back at my reflection, and for a second, I let myself actually look. Not critically. Not like I’m searching for something to fix. And I realize, she’s not entirely wrong. I do look good. Better than good. Still me, just a little bolder. A little more certain in my own skin.
“So youdolike him?” Lark presses.
I don’t answer right away. Mostly because I can feel the heat climbing up my neck, and I know she can see it. Which is annoying. Because it’s not like I haven’t already admitted it to myself or him. Of course I like him. Honestly, I don’t know how anyone couldn’t.
