through my bedroom curtains found me already awake, my eyes gritty from a night spent alternating between tears and methodical planning.
My phone displayed seventeen missed calls and twenty-three text messages—most from Amber, growing increasingly frantic as the night progressed.
Mom, the planner needs to confirm your hair appointment time.
Mom, are you seriously not answering?
The rehearsal isn’t even over.
Mother, this is ridiculous. Call me now.
And finally, sent at 2:17 a.m.
Fine, be that way. But you better be at the venue by 10:00
