Page 130 of Practice Makes Perfect
Sometimes, I want to hug my mind, because right now it’s conjuring up anincrediblysatisfying image of Linc being launched into actual space without a helmet.
My grandmother would tell me that’s not productive. She’s probably right, but right now, the fantasy is keeping me from screaming with rage and heartbreak at 3:19 in the morning, so I’m counting it as a win.
I roll onto my side, wincing as my hip bone makes contact with the floor. Part of me recognizes that I could just go back to bed, or at least move to the couch that’s three feet away, but there’s something righteous about this discomfort.
Like I’m punishing my body for being so stupid.
For wanting him.
Forstillwanting him despite the fact that he broke my heart.
My phone lights up on the coffee table. For one wild, pathetic second, my heart leaps, thinking it might be him. But it’s just Louis, sending me a TikTok at an ungodly hour. I don’t bother looking at it. I don’t want to laugh right now. I want to marinate in my anger because it’s the only thing keeping the tears at bay.
What’s infuriating—truly, deeply infuriating—is that as hurt and angry as I am, I’m also… okay?
Notokayokay. I’m not about to skip down the street singing about rainbows. But I’m not destroyed either. After Derek, I wasa wreck for months. My grades tanked, and I couldn’t even look at guys without feeling sick. I truly believed I was broken in some fundamental way that could never be fixed.
It took me years to recover from that, including changing high schools, a gap year and swearing off boys for a long time. But now, lying here on my uncomfortable floor at 3:21 a.m., I’m sad and I’m furious, but I’m not broken. And somehow, that makes me even angrier.
Because the most infuriating part of all this? Linc helped me find that strength. Our relationship—the one he tossed away like it meant nothing—taught me that I could be vulnerable again. That I could enjoy physical intimacy. That I could open myself up to another person. That I was worth being loved.
And I am. Regardless of what Linc Garcia thinks or feels, I’m worth being loved.
“Fuck,” I whisper to my empty dorm, pushing myself back up to sitting, my back protesting after hours on the hard floor.
Sleep isn’t happening tonight. My brain is too busy crafting elaborate scenarios where Linc realizes what an idiot he’s been and comes crawling back, only for me to deliver some devastating one-liner that leaves him shattered while I saunter away, my hair somehow blowing in the wind even though we’re indoors.
It’s a nice fantasy, but I know myself too well. If he showed up right now with an apology and those stupidly gorgeous eyes of his, I’d probably forgive him immediately because apparently my bar for men is so low it’s practically a tavern in hell.
The longer I sit on the floor feeling sorry for myself, the more I realize one thing: I refuse to spend the next decade of my life afraid to date again because of Linc Garcia. I’ve been there, done that, got the emotional trauma T-shirt, and I’m not going back to that place.
I won’t become the cat lady my cousins joke about at family gatherings—though to be fair, cats are loyal, which puts them leagues ahead of certain hockey players. I’m hurt, yes—devastated, even—but not broken, and the heat of the anger I’m feeling is helping to weld together the cracks in my heart.
This pep talk I’m giving myself might be more convincing if I wasn’t still sitting on the floor of my dorm at 3:30 in the morning, but hey, baby steps. At least my internal monologue has graduated from murder fantasies to something vaguely resembling self-respect.
The sound of a key in the lock makes me freeze. Lea left around two-thirty, claiming we needed “provisions” if we were going to properly process my emotional trauma. Judging by the time she’s been gone, I assume those provisions include a freshly slaughtered cow and a small vineyard.
“I come bearing the necessities of emotional support!” Lea announces as she kicks the door open, her arms loaded with plastic bags. “Although the only store still open within fifteen miles was that sketchy gas station by the highway, so our options were limited.”
She stops short when she sees me still on the floor, exactly where she left me. “Em, have you moved at all?”
“I shifted from my back to my side at one point,” I say. “You should have seen it. It was very dramatic.”
Lea dumps her bags on our tiny kitchen counter. “Well, I got chips. Three different kinds because I wasn’t sure what kind of breakdown we’re having. Salt and vinegar if we’re angry, barbecue if we’re sad, and sour cream and onion if we’re in that middle zone where we hate everyone but also want to cry.”
“I’ll take all three,” I laugh for the first time since Linc dumped me, then start to sit up. “My emotional damage hasdepthanddimensions.”
“And…” She pulls out two massive Slurpees with a triumphant flourish. “Ta-da! One cherry for me, one blue raspberry for you?—”
The sight of that bright blue frozen drink hits me like a sucker punch. I collapse back onto the floor with a groan, covering my face with my hands.
“What?” Lea asks, then her face falls as she realizes. “Oh shit. His post-game Slurpee thing. The blue… I’m so sorry, Em, I wasn’t thinking?—”
“It’s fine,” I say, even though it’s clearly not. I uncover my face and force myself to sit up. “Hand it over, consider it the potion I need to reclaim my control.”
“I can dump it. We can just have chips?—”
“No.” I reach up with more determination than I’ve felt all night. “I refuse to let Linc Garcia ruin Slurpees for me on top of everything else he’s taken.”
