“I wouldn’t recommend it, actually,” says my torturer. “Waxing that area isn’t great to do right before—uh—intercourse. It can make the skin red and irritable and leave tiny microscopic tears, which could lead to an infection if you . . . you know.”

“Well, that would have been helpful to know about a half hour ago,” I say.

“It’s in the fine print.” She rips off another strip.

“Okay, so no crotch waxing, then,” I say, blinking away tears. I don’t want to risk an infection. “Just do the bikini line.”

My skin feels hot and tight all over, like a sunburn, as I hobble out of the waxing area. The same woman—Malia, I remember—is still at the front counter. She smiles when she sees me.

“I hear you have a big night planned,” she says.

Heat rushes to my face. Or maybe that was just from where I’ve had my upper lip waxed. “I think that classifies as a violation of my patient-waxer confidentiality,” I gasp, outraged.

“In Hawaii, we have a saying,” she says. “A’a i ka hula, waiho i ka maka’u i ka hale. It means, ‘dare to dance, leave shame at home.’”

“Okay. Thanks, I guess?”

“Just make sure he’s a good boy. Respectful, yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say, calling up the image of Nick at the coffee plantation, being so understanding, giving my little sister a granola bar, making us laugh. “I think he is.”

“Good.” Malia taps her pencil against her scheduling book. “What else?”

I glance up at her. “I don’t think I have much hair left on my body.”

“No, we could work on the rest, give you a makeover.” She thrusts the brochure at me again. She’s already circled a bunch of things in pink pen: a haircut and styling, deep-conditioning treatment, a pedicure, manicure, facial, and a makeup consultation.

I do some quick ballpark math and realize that all of the things she’s circled add up to more than three hundred dollars.

“We have another saying,” Malia adds. “Kahuna nui hale kealohalani makua. It means, ‘Love all you see, including yourself.’”

My jaw tightens. What the hell, I think. Malia is right. Tonight is going to be about sex, but it’s also going to be about doing something for myself.

“Okay,” I say breathlessly. “I’ll do all of it.”

“Wonderful,” Malia says, beaming, but then she, too, seems to realize how much it’s going to cost. “Are you sure you want to do all of it? Maybe just pick one or two? Otherwise it will be a lot—”

I’m two steps ahead of her this time. “I’ll charge it to the room,” I say.

She looks hesitant. It’s a normal thing for people my age to charge things to our parents’ rooms, but she must need some sort of permission.