I’m sweating.
Not, like, cute glowy sweating. No. This is full-blown, upper-lip, stress-sweat while holding a mini steamer and trying not to melt Emily’s dress.
It’s 2 p.m., and we’ve already screamed twice, once because Emily couldn’t find the eyelash glue, and once because I sat on a sketchbook she swears could be worth a fortune one day.
Callie’s curling Emily’s hair in two-inch sections like she’s prepping her for the Met Gala. Emily is pacing in leggings and a bralette, already whispering that maybe she should just cancel the whole thing and flee the country.
Honestly? Same.
Not because I’m debuting a collection of heartbreaking, soul-baring art in front of an elite crowd of critics, exes, and trust fund demons. But because my brain won’t shut up.
Like no matter how many times I
