Chapter 20
Micah
Harper is already waiting outside LensCrafters when I pull into the parking lot.
She’s changed into jeans and a cream-colored sweater, her hair now dry and falling in loose waves around her shoulders. She’s scrolling through her phone, and when she spots my truck, she waves.
I take a steadying breath before getting out.
Just act normal. This is normal. Two friends getting glasses fixed. Completely normal.
“Hey,” she says as I approach. “Ready to fix the damage I caused?”
“It’s really not a big deal.”
“Micah, they’re held together with tape. It’s a big deal.” She walks toward the door. “Come on. Let’s get you sorted out.”
The store is bright and modern, with rows and rows of frames displayed on sleek white shelving. A cheerful employee—name tag reading Mary—greets us immediately.
“Hi! How can I help you today?”
I pull out the taped-up glasses from their case, and her eyes widen slightly.
“Oh. Wow. Those are... um...”
“A disaster,” Harper supplies. “Total disaster. My fault. Can they be fixed?”
Mary takes the glasses carefully, examining them from multiple angles. She pokes at the tape, tests the bent frame, and her expression grows increasingly sympathetic.
“I’m really sorry,” she says finally. “But these are beyond repair. The frame is completely warped. You’d need a whole new pair.”
Harper’s face falls. “Oh no.”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “I have contacts.”
“But you need backup glasses,” Harper insists. “What if you run out of contacts? What if your eyes get irritated? What if—”
“Harper—”
She turns to Mary. “He needs new glasses. What do you have?”
Mary perks up immediately. “Well, we have a great selection! What kind of frames do you prefer?”
“Clear,” I say. “Just... basic clear frames like the ones I had before.”
“Boring,” Harper mutters.
“Practical,” I correct. “They match everything.”
Mary smiles diplomatically. “Why don’t we look at a few options? We can start with something similar to what you had and branch out from there.”
She leads us over to the men’s section, and suddenly I’m surrounded by hundreds of frames in every shape, size, and color imaginable.
“Okay,” Mary says, pulling down a pair of clear plastic frames. “These are close to your original style. Want to try them?”
I slip them on and look in the mirror.
They’re fine. Perfectly adequate. Exactly like my old ones.
“What do you think?” Mary asks.
“They’re good—”
“Next,” Harper says immediately.
I turn to her. “What’s wrong with these?”
“Nothing’s wrong with them. They’re just... boring. You can do better.”
“I don’t need better. I need functional.”
“You need both.” She’s already scanning the wall, her eyes lighting up when she spots something. “Ooh, try these.”
She hands me a pair of tortoiseshell frames—rounded, slightly vintage-looking.
I put them on skeptically.
“Oh no,” Harper says, wrinkling her nose. “You look like a hipster English professor.”
“Is that bad?”
“Do you want to look like you spend your weekends at poetry readings talking about Kerouac?”
“I don’t even know who that is.”
“Exactly. Next.”
Mary is clearly enjoying this, pulling down pair after pair while Harper provides running commentary.
Wire frames. “Too serious. You look like you’re about to audit someone’s taxes.”
Bright blue frames. “Too much. You’re a children’s pastor, not a rapper.”
Square gray frames. “Getting warmer, but still not quite right.”
After the tenth pair, I’m losing patience.
“Harper, can we just pick something? They’re glasses. They all help me see.”
“But they also frame your face, Dimples. First impressions matter.” She’s studying the wall again, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “We need something that says ‘approachable but confident.’ ‘Friendly but put-together.’”
“That’s a lot to ask from glasses.”
“Fashion is communication.”
“Since when do you care about my fashion?”
She pauses, and something flickers across her face. “I don’t. I just...I broke your glasses. The least I can do is help you find a suitable replacement.”
Before I can respond, Mary returns with another pair.
“These just came in,” she says. “They’re really popular right now.”
They’re dark-rimmed glasses. Thick, bold frames in matte black. Nothing like what I usually wear.
I shake my head immediately. “Those aren’t really my style.”
“Just try them,” Mary encourages.
“I don’t think—”
“Micah.” Harper crosses her arms. “Try them.”
“They’re too much.”
“You don’t know that until you try them.”
“I know my own taste—”
“Humor me.”
She’s got that stubborn expression I’m recognizing. The one that means she’s not backing down.
“Fine,” I mutter, taking the glasses from Mary.
I slip them on and turn toward the mirror.
And—oh. Wow.
They’re actually really nice.
The thick frames make my face look more defined somehow. More mature. And the dark color contrasts with my hair in a way the clear frames never did.
I look like a different person.
Not boring, put-together Micah who blends into the background.
Someone who might actually belong on Harper Mitchell’s arm.
“Oh my,” Harper breathes.
I glance at her reflection in the mirror.
She’s staring at me, her lips slightly parted, and I swear her cheeks are flushed.
And…did she just bite her lip?
“What?” I ask.
“Those are—” She clears her throat. “Those are the ones.”
“You think?”
“I know.” She steps closer, studying my face. “They’re perfect. Like, really perfect. You look...”
“I look what?”
She meets my eyes in the mirror, and something passes between us. Something that makes the air feel thicker.
“You look really good, Dimples,” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She’s still looking at me, and I can’t read her expression. “Like, dangerously good.”
“Dangerous?”
A smile tugs at her lips. “You’re already hard enough to ignore without looking like that.”
The words hang between us, and I’m not sure if she meant to say them out loud.
Her eyes widen slightly, like she’s just realizing what she said.
“I mean—” She steps back quickly. “I mean, you know. For the fake dating thing. When we have to convince people. You’ll be very convincing. Looking like that.”
“Right,” I say, even though my brain is currently unable to think. “The fake dating thing.”
“Exactly.”
Mary, who has been watching this entire exchange with barely concealed amusement, jumps in. “So we’re going with these?”
I look at myself one more time.
The glasses do look good. Really good.
And the way Harper’s looking at me...
“Yeah,” I say. “We’ll go with these.”
“Perfect!” Mary beams. “I’ll just need to get your prescription information, and we can have these ready in about an hour.”
I take off the glasses and hand them back to her as she walks away to grab paperwork, catching Harper’s eye.
She’s biting her lip again, looking anywhere but at me.
“Thanks,” I mumble. “For helping me pick them out.”
“It’s the least I could do.” She’s still not looking at me. “Since I destroyed your old ones.”
“Harper.”
She finally meets my gaze, and there’s something vulnerable in her expression.
“You didn’t have to come with me,” I continue. “But I’m glad you did.”
A small smile. “Yeah, well. Somebody has to make sure you don’t walk around looking like a tax auditor.”
And just like that, the moment breaks.
But as Mary returns with forms for me to fill out, and Harper wanders off to look at sunglasses, I can’t stop replaying what she said.
You’re already hard enough to ignore.
I fill out the paperwork, trying to focus on the words instead of the hope blooming in my chest.
Because I’m already in too deep.
And if I’m not careful, I’m going to drown.
An hour later, I’m walking out of LensCrafters with new glasses and a receipt I didn’t pay for.
We’d argued about it. I insisted it wasn’t necessary, that accidents happen, that I could handle it.
Harper crossed her arms and gave me that look.
And once again, I can’t say no to Harper.
So now I’m wearing glasses I didn’t pay for, and I have absolutely no idea what happens next.
Do I just leave? Say thanks and drive away?
Do I ask if she wants to grab lunch?
“Well,” Harper says, breaking the silence. “Mission accomplished. You have glasses again.”
“Thanks to you.”
“Thanks to my clumsiness, you needed them in the first place.”
“Harper—”
“I know, I know. Accidents happen.” She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You should probably get going. I’m sure you have church stuff to prep for tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
Sunday.
Church.
Right.
“Actually,” I hear myself say, “I was wondering if you’d want to... I don’t know. Grab lunch or something?”
Her eyes widen slightly. “Lunch?”
“Yeah. If you’re not busy. We could—” I stop myself before I say something stupid like keep hanging out or pretend this morning isn’t ending. “We could debrief. About the gala. Make sure we’re on the same page for... whatever comes next.”
It’s a terrible excuse.
But she doesn’t call me on it.
Instead, she just looks at me, her expression unreadable. The silence stretches between us, and I can feel my heart hammering against my ribs.
Say something, Harper.
Please.