I'm sweating.

Not, like, cute glowy sweating. No. This is full-blown, upper-lip, stress-sweat while holding a mini steamer and trying not to melt Emily's dress.

It's 2 p.m., and we've already screamed twice, once because Emily couldn't find the eyelash glue, and once because I sat on a sketchbook she swears could be worth a fortune one day.

Callie's curling Emily's hair in two-inch sections like she's prepping her for the Met Gala. Emily is pacing in leggings and a bralette, already whispering that maybe she should just cancel the whole thing and flee the country.

Honestly? Same.

Not because I'm debuting a collection of heartbreaking, soul-baring art in front...