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Chapter Twenty-Five
Rachel
Openingthebathroomwindowhelps with the steamed-up mirror. After I get the first couple of streaks sectioned off and saturated with the dye, I could see what I was doing to place the rest evenly. It’s nowhere near as perfect as Carter would have gotten it, but I’m pretty pleased with how I’ve done without his help. I wanted this to be a surprise, and I think it will be.
I rinse the excess dye off my latex gloves before I peel them off carefully. Got to remember to put those back on when it’s time to condition and rinse. I paint my nails white while I give the color time to develop. It’s a big change from my usual dark sapphire blue shade, but I like it and I hope my mates do, too.
I give the mirror an excited smile as I wait for the polish to dry. As far as human holidays go, Christmas is and always has been my favorite. My parents pretended everything about it was silly when I was growing up, but they never failed to go through the entire rigamarole every single year. I know my father secretly enjoys festive movies, and decorating the tree is always something my mother seems to take real pleasure from.
I always woke up to a big pile of presents, and an even bigger breakfast. The gifts themselves were usually more practical than fun, but I loved to sit next to that big pile and try to guess what each one might be. My guesses were crazy, of course. No one wraps a live unicorn without putting holes in the box, as my dad was quick to point out. But the point was the interaction. It was the one time my parents seemed willing to spend time with me when I was a child who acted like a child.
It was the only day of the year where we felt like a real family. A happy one.
Goddess, that’s so fucking sad.
My heart hurts for that younger version of me. For the little girl who counted down the days to Christmas every year, because that’s when her mom and dad would actually pay attention to her. The rest of the time, she was the problem of whatever nanny their service sent over that week.
Is it any wonder that little girl grew into a teenager who threw herself at the first guy who showed her a hint of warmth? Even though he was twice her age, and clearly a creep.
I shudder when I remember how things were with Paul.
How could I think all the sneaking around was exciting?
How could I believe him when he said he loved me?
A guy who loves you doesn’t turn around and try to kill you if you break up with him. That kind of behavior is nothing less than psychotic.
Ugh. I don’t want to be thinking about Paul right now.
It’s kind of hard not to. That phone call from my mom really shook me up.
“Forget it,” I tell my reflection. “It’s Christmas eve. You have way better things to think about.”
Like finishing getting ready so I can surprise my mates with my new look.
I push all other thoughts from my head as I turn on the shower.
In my haste I forget about the latex gloves when I’m conditioning my red-streaked hair, and my choice of white nail polish was apparently my second mistake. The red dye turns my nails pink.
I don’t care enough to redo it. It’s a minor detail. I finish up in the bathroom, hiding my wet hair in a towel before I leave the room.
I find out I’ve got the bedroom to myself, so I close the door and start drying my hair. It’s been getting longer, which my mates seem to love, but it does make getting ready a bigger chore.
I probably spend close to thirty minutes making sure it’s totally dry. I know I could spell it dry, but considering how drained I was recently from using magic, I make the decision to do everything the long way.
I spend maybe another ten minutes applying makeup. My routine is basic, moisturiser, light foundation and black mascara. Tonight, I add a light pink lip-gloss and a hint of natural eyeshadow with sparkle of glitter in it.
I slip into the dress, and step into matching shiny red heels.
The completed look is very Christmas. It gives me back that spark of excitement I felt when I realized what day it was. I step out of the room and head to the stairs, quickly realizing I should have practiced walking in the heels. It’s been a while since I wore a pointed-toed stiletto.
They look hot, but they take a bit of getting used to, and I’m seriously out of that habit.
I hold onto the banister as I start my descent. By the time I get to the bottom of the staircase, I feel a little steadier. At least until I breathe in, and the mouth-watering aromas of dinner instantly flood my senses. I move forward without looking down and my heel catches on the strewn-out lace of one of Carter’s hastily deposited sneakers and I stumble slightly, issuing out a gasp as I find my balance.
I untangle my heel from the lace and push the sneaker under the lamp table by the front door, out of the way and next to its partner.
I walk confidently toward the kitchen.
