Page 132 of Practice Makes Perfect
“I’m not crying,” I point out, although my voice wavers dangerously. “Yet, anyway.”
“Give the vodka time to work.”
I laugh despite myself and take another sip. The blue raspberry is starting to taste more like pure vodka—oops, forgot to stir it—and my head is pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. Combined with the lack of sleep and heightened emotions, we’re both definitely tipsy at this point.
“So what now?” Lea asks after a comfortable silence.
“Maybe I’ll get a cat. Just one, though. A small one, to spite my cousins.”
Lea snickers. “Very reasonable.”
I smirk. “I’m a reasonable person. Except when I fall in love with guys who?—”
“Who what?”
The voice doesn’t come from Lea. It comes from behind us, from the direction of our front door, which we apparently forgot to lock. It’s a voice I’d recognize anywhere, a voice I never expected to hear again in my dorm room.
My heart stops.
I turn my head slowly, my entire body tense, and see Linc standing in our doorway. His hair is a mess, his eyes are bloodshot, and he’s still wearing his uniform from the game.
“What,” I say with deadly calm that belies the storm raging inside me, “are you doing in my apartment?”
Before I can respond further, Lea launches to her feet and physically plants herself between me and Linc, arms spread like she’s guarding the goal at the World Cup… or whatever the hockey equivalent of a World Cup is, if there is one.
“Breaking and entering is a crime in all fifty states,” she says, voice sharp enough to slice through steel. “Get out before I call campus security.”
Linc’s gaze shifts from me to Lea, his expression unreadable. “Your door was unlocked.”
“It was—” Lea falters for a split second, glancing back at the entrance. “That doesn’t matter! You can’t just walk into someone’s apartment unannounced!”
“Lea—” he starts.
“No.” She advances toward him. “You don’t get to ‘Lea’ me. You lost all ‘Lea-ing’ privileges when you crushed my friend’s heart into powder.”
She places both hands against his chest and pushes. Linc, who outweighs her by at least seventy pounds of solid muscle, doesn’t budge an inch. It would be comical if I wasn’t busy trying to process the fact that he’s actually here.
Lea’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be?”
She pivots, marches to our study desk, and grabs her massive art history textbook. She brandishes it like a medieval weapon, and at this very moment I know who my money would be on in this engagement…
“I will concuss you with Renaissance masterpieces,” she threatens, raising the book above her head. “And if that fails, I have a collection of Exacto knives…”
Amusement flickers across Linc’s face before disappearing beneath a more somber expression. “Would it change anything if you knew I came to apologize?”
The words hang in the air, even as Lea pauses, the textbook still held aloft, and turns to look at me with raised eyebrows. The silent question is clear:What do you want me to do here?
My mind races in five different directions at once. Part of me wants to tell Lea to go ahead, give him a concussion, see how he likes unexpected pain. Another part—the part I’m less proud of—wants to throw myself into his arms and pretend the last twelve hours never happened.
But mostly, I need to know why.
Why he said he loved me and then walked away. Why he thought it was okay to break my heart in a hallway. Why he’s here now. I deserve an explanation, at the very least. And maybe hearing it will kill that stubborn flicker of hope that refuses to die.
“It’s okay,” I tell Lea, my voice steadier than I expected. “You can give us some space.”
“Are you sure?” Lea lowers the book, looking unconvinced. “Because I’m happy to test if a detailed examination of Michelangelo’s work can cause brain damage.”
Despite everything, that pulls a small laugh from me. “I’m sure.”
