Before I can slip into a full-blown panic spiral, a voice behind me says, “I love your hair.” I whirl around. It’s the girl from the bar, the one who worked with Ford yesterday. She has an entire garden in her tousled strawberry blonde strands. In her violet sundress patterned with honeybees, she looks like summer come to life. I touch my hair, suddenly self-conscious. “Thank you.” “Don’t worry,” she says. Her blue eyes sparkle. “We won’t tell anyone you’re here.”
