“Who the hell are you texting?” Erin dropped her phone. She managed to kick it—with her shin, not her foot—before it landed in the tub, and it clattered across the floor instead, chased by a wave of water. The nail tech sighed. “Sorry!” Erin winced. “Sorry.” He handed her the phone before reaching for a towel. “I’d like to amend my question,” Rachel said. “Who the fuck are you texting?” Erin’s face was probably the color of the nail polish she’d picked out. “My hairdresser texted to wish me a happy birthday.” “I’m sorry, do you want to fuck your hairdresser?”
