Page 5 of Comin' in Hot
There’s not. I know that, but…
I shake my head. Nope. I can’t do this.Even I’m being dramatic. Or am I? I squint, trying to force my eyes to focus more sharply.
I should’ve bought some Nair. Because I only have one razor, and from the feel of it, I’m going to need like ten.
My eyes grow wide as I suddenly think about razor burn.
“Good god,” I rush out, turning away from the sight of my fuzzy peach, and start toward my suitcase to grab the other suit I brought with me. A much more sensible, albeit navy-striped, one-piece.
But I don’t get far because it’s like Moon can sense my mutiny. My cell rings.
I swipe my phone off the bed. “Perfect timing, Houston—”
She cuts me off. “Houston? Like Whitney? What are you talking about?”
“No. You know, because of the moon landing… ‘Houston, we have a problem.’” I chuckle. “But not with that moon, with mine.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I’m Moon. Why are we having trouble?”
I rub my forehead. “Jesus Christ. Notyou, Moon. Me.Mymoon.”
“Margot…” she says with force. “I am your Moon? Did you fall and hit your head? I’m so confused.”
I’m smiling as I put myself in front of the mirror again. I love her, but she’s never been good at sarcasm. Something that’s literally the air I breathe.
“I’m saying there’s a problem with my ass—”
“Oh.”
“Somoonas a metaphor.”
She sighs. “Margot, what did I tell you at the store? You’re hot. You just need to believe it. Confidence is the sexiest thing a woman wears. Put the suit on and rock it.”
I roll my eyes, not at her, but at the ridiculousness of this situation. This conversation is insane. We’ve gone from moon landings to mistaken identity to self-esteem. And now we’re about to venture into hairy asses and the pitfalls of beauty standards.
“I don’t have low self-esteem,” I say, mixed with a laugh. “I like my body just fine. I already feel super confident. It’s just—”
She cuts me off.
“That being outside your comfort zone feels scary? Yeah, it’s supposed to. Comfort zoning your life left you miserable. So why repeat the process? This is more than a bikini, Margot…this is you taking yourself back.”
Oh my god. I’m in self-help hell.
“Moon,” I rush out. “This is less serious than a therapy session. I appreciate the hang-in-there, kitten-poster sentiment, but my problem isn’t me. It’s my actual kitty and its friend, ass hair.”
I know she’s not hearing me because she answers with, “Stop deflecting. You’re looking for an escape from trying on a version of yourself that feels scary.”
My head falls back as I look at the ceiling. “Or the idea of being some hairy-ass girl on the beach is fucking embarrassing.”
There’s a sudden beat of silence before she says, “Wait, what?” followed by a giggle of recognition.Nowshe hears me. “Ohhhh,” she breathes out. “Got it. You know what? Who cares. Body hair is natural.”
“No. I was born in the eighties. I’m too traumatized byCosmopolitanmagazine for that kind of self-acceptance.”
She laughs. “Well, as the saying goes, ‘your feelings are valid.’ Want me to send up some wax strips or some hair removal cream? I have both.”
The embarrassed smile grows on my face as I turn toward a window next to the mirror, staring out as I speak, the sunset capturing my attention.
“You’re a lifesaver. Thank you. Oh, PS, why’d you call?”
