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I don’t care.
I’m a homebody at heart. And I’m falling in love with the Village. I’m excited to experience this place that so few people will ever get to step foot in. I’m happy to spend every minute here during my forced confinement.
The next morning, he wakes me with kisses, telling me today is pampering day. There’s a party at the family’s rooftop bar tonight. Knowing I’ll be nervous, he wants me feeling my best.
The family opened a new spa in the Village a few weeks ago, and I'm going to be one of the first to step inside. The building looks crisp and clean, the white structure bright against the darkening sky. It looks like a European hotel from a movie with its clean lines and large green glass door.
I stare up at the beautiful building, hardly believing I'm going to be allowed inside, much less be pampered like one of the elegant women they call the Beauties.
White marble steps lead up to the double doors. From the reflection in the green glass I see my own nervous, hopeful face looking back at me.
The doorwoman’s tanned hand rests on the massive silver handle. She holds the door open for me, gently gesturing for me to enter as if she'd been waiting for me to arrive.
As I enter the foyer, I feel all eyes on me.
The room is softly illuminated by candlelight, and a hush fills the air. The walls are painted a soft lavender. The warm light from the candles dances across the floor and walls, giving the room a dreamlike atmosphere.
In front of me, there's an opulent lounge area with comfortable looking velvet couches and chairs in pastel blues and greens, scattered around low tables made from polished wood.
I step forward and feel a wave of relaxation wash over me as I inhale the scent of lavender and rose petals.
At the center of the room, a wide fountain cascades down into a pool of blue water. The trickling of water is the only sound in the room. It's soothing, but the quiet staff members surrounding me are starting to make me a little nervous.
I stand there, unsure how to proceed. I've never been to a spa before, much less been inside a building this nice. I wait for someone, anyone, to address me.
A woman wearing a white lab coat stands behind a marble countertop, a clipboard held firmly in one hand as she surveys me with an air of importance. She gestures to me with glossy red nails. "Come in. Come in!"
Her words give me the confidence to move closer. As I approach her, she smiles politely and warmly welcomes me. She then asks me a few questions about my visit before guiding me to a private treatment room just down the hall.
We settle on starting the day off with a massage. I’ve never had a massage before. Not even from a boyfriend.
The room is like something taken out of a magazine: lush carpeting beneath my feet; calming music playing softly in the background; scented candles burning on either side of a cushy white massage table; and sheets of crisp linen draped across it.
Two women help me undress, wrapping me in a soft robe for modesty, then help me take my place on the table, my face downward in a cushioned pillow, round like a doughnut with a hole in the center to rest my face.
I close my eyes as fragrant, warmed oil is poured onto my skin. A woman with strong hands kneads the oil into my muscles, massaging me into relaxation. Every inch of my skin that she touches is left feeling tingly and rejuvenated. Afterward, I feel lighter than air and completely relaxed.
The woman with the clipboard returns. She offers me a facial to remove impurities, a paraffin wax manicure and pedicure, and a full-body seaweed wrap to soften my skin.
With a little—okay, a lot of—encouragement from the sweet staff members, I say yes to it all.
The women are mystified by the fact that I've never been to a spa before. With my newly flawless face, smooth skin, and shiny mint-green mani-pedi, they insist on getting me ready for the party tonight by doing my hair and makeup as well.
And I let them.
As they playfully fight over the best shadow for my skin tone, they tell me how sweet I am, how beautiful I am, how naturally full of grace my movements are. These women are pumping me up so much, I'm not sure if the front doors are big enough for my ego to fit through when I leave here.
When I see my reflection in the mirror, I can't believe it's me. My face literally shines like a star. My skin is luminous. My lashes are thick and dark, my lids shadowed with a sparkly, tawny brown. My lips look fuller, painted a shimmering rose. My hair falls down in waves over my shoulders, glossed and toned with a semi-permanent chocolate brown.
It feels almost sacrilegious to put my jeans and hoodie back on while looking this good, but I only have the clothes I arrived in.
As I return to the foyer after my appointment, I say goodbye to everyone who welcomed me so warmly, pampered me so fully. As they bid me farewell, I feel like maybe this was not only going to be one luxurious day at a spa—perhaps it’s the start of many more to come?
Don't get crazy, Rhett.
This wonderful slice of heaven? It's only temporary.
Beckett is not your man, the Village is not your home, and you, my girl, might feel more beautiful in this moment than you ever have before, but you are not a Bachman Beauty.
