“You’re still green,” I reply, forcing my gaze from his ridiculous body and back down to the phone in my hand. “I feel like it would be unfair if I celebrate too much.” He stops in the center of the room and rubs the towel on his face, pulling it away to examine the white fibers under the light. “But I scrubbed so hard.” “Maybe it really is permanent.” “Blackbird—” “It’s fine,” I say, lowering my phone. “You’re still pretty. You’ll always be pretty. Even if you look a bit like that nausea emoji.” “No. Noooo. I don’t want to look like that. I hate that emoji.”
