Page 122 of Fangirl
She keeps going, soft and sweet now. “Idowant Jake to be happy. That’s why I’m here. I’m trying to help. To make sure—for one night—you look like someone who belongs in his world.”
I bite my lip until I taste blood. I don’t trust her kindness. Never did. And sitting across from Jake these past few days, ordering lasagna while he sticks to grilled chicken and brown rice, it only drives her point home.
Or the way he disappears for three hours every day to train, chasing perfection while all I want is to curl up next to him… so instead, I open my laptop and start working on that damn book.
By the time we reach the spa, it feels like I’m being delivered for execution. High walls. Cameras. Armed guards.
I swallow hard. “Are you sure this is… a spa?”
She chuckles. “It’s many things, dear. But mostly? It’s private.” She traces the perfect line of her nose. “They work miracles here. You’ll need one.”
I don’t reply as the car stops. Four women wait outside, no smiles, just clinical efficiency.
“She’s got a premiere,” Mariana says, bored. “She needs… everything.”
The women eye me like a problem. A before photo. And then they’re pulling me away.
For five hours, I’m scrubbed, poked, waxed, and reshaped. My hair is washed, glossed, and straightened until it falls mid-back, gleaming with honey highlights I never asked for. My nails? Long, fake, polished to a rich neutral pink that screams expensive.
And my face… god. Layers of makeup until I barely recognize myself. My skin is flawless, my cheekbones sharp, and my eyes wide and hollow.
They shove me into a glass-walled room where Mariana waits, drink in hand. Another woman stands beside her, clipboard tucked under her arm, her eyes like knives.
“This is Sam,” Mariana says. “One of the best personal stylists in LA. We need to… fix this. She’s Jake’s girlfriend.”
Sam’s eyes narrow. “Hollander?”
Mariana sighs. “I can’t explain it either. Just—fix it.”
“I’m right here,” I snap.
Neither of them blinks.
Sam circles me like she’s sizing up livestock. “Breasts are decent. Waist… hips… thighs… we’ll need control. Shape it. Contain it.”
Control it? Jesus.
She clicks her tongue. “I’ve got a few pieces for… plus-size.”
The word hits like a slap. My stomach twists, and my breath hitches so hard it feels like my ribs might crack. My throat burns, but I force the words out, small and shaky. “I’m a US twelve.”
Mariana grins, swirling her drink lazily. “By Hollywood standards, darling, anything over a six is plus-size.” Her gaze drags down my body slowly. “Clearly.”
Bitch.
I bite down hard, but I don’t flinch. Not in front of her.
Sam snaps her fingers. “We’re going pin-up. Classy. Sexy. Timeless. Something that commands attention.”
Mariana smirks. “At least it’ll keep the curves in check.”
I bite my tongue so hard it bleeds.
An assistant wheels in a dress bag. Sam unzips it like it’s a weapon, revealing deep crimson satin that glows under the lights.
“Your armor,” Sam says simply.
Off-the-shoulder. Sweetheart neckline. Bodice tight and full swing skirt. A goddamn vintage dream.
