Harper stood in front of her mirror for what felt like the tenth time that evening, tilting her head left, then right. She smoothed her palms down her sweatpants, frowned, then tugged the hem of her crop jersey again. She wasn't glamorous by any means—just a baggy crop jersey top and loose brown sweats—but at least it was comfortable. Her hair was half-up, half-down, the strands framing her face soft enough to pass as casual effort. She'd dabbed the barest touch of concealer under her eyes, brushed a tint over her lips, then immediately regretted caring this much.
Tyla still wasn't back. No one was there to give her a brutally honest review of whether she looked fine, cute, or completely hopeless. Harper sighed. "Good enough," she muttered to her reflection, though her heart pounded so fast she wasn't sure she believed herself.
