Page 17 of Practice Makes Perfect
“What, did you forget how your dick works?” Mike asks, his lips twitching with the closest thing to humor I’ve seen from him in weeks.
“Worse,” I snort. “A girl just ran out of here like I suggested we murder puppies for fun.”
“Wait, someone was actually here? I thought you were—” He gestures vaguely at my crotch.
“No, Em Dubois was here. And things were going great until… suddenly… they weren’t.”
“Em?” Mike frowns. “Lea’s roommate?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh.” He gives me a strange look. “Didn’t know you two were a thing.”
“We’re not,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “I mean, we just…”
What exactly were we doing? Hooking up? Starting something? I have no idea, and now I probably never will. But, for a moment, it felt like something. Usually, if a hookup gets weird or a girl isn’t interested, I move on. No harm, no foul. But this feels different. I feel like I’ve lost more than just my hard-won reputation.
The thought of just shrugging and forgetting about Em bothers me.
five
EM
The ten-dollar billdisappears into my apron pocket, joining the other bills I’ve collected during lunch service. A flush of satisfaction warms me as I calculate the total in my head—over 150 dollars in tips for a four-hour shift. Not bad. Better than the usual Sunday.
“All right, kid.” Harold materializes beside me, his perpetually wrinkled uniform stretched across his belly. “Your shift ended thirty minutes ago.”
I wipe my hands on my apron and gesture to tables twelve and fourteen. “But I’ve already got drinks started for those two tables, and the dinner rush will start soon…”
Harold’s bushy eyebrows merge into a single fuzzy caterpillar above his eyes. “What’s this? Volunteering for a double? Normally, you race out of here.”
“I just thought?—”
“Nope.” He shoves a cloth into his back pocket. “Rachel’s coming in at four. I’ve got it covered.”
“But—”
“No buts.” He plants his hands on his hips. “Go home. Rest. Don’t you have classes starting tomorrow?”
I do have classes tomorrow. At 9 a.m., in fact. And I’m desperately hoping Linc isn’t in any of them. Because, if he is, I’d have to sit there, pretending I didn’t bolt from his apartment like it was on fire and pretending my heart doesn’t race every time I think about how his lips felt against my skin.
“I can handle work and school,” I insist. “Rachel can take the booking for twenty, and I’ll stay in the weeds.”
Harold narrows his eyes, studying me with the perspicacity of someone who’s managed waitstaff for thirty years. “You can’t hide from your life here, kid.”
My mouth falls open. For a man whose idea of a bold move is adding both saltandpepper to his food, Harold can be perceptive. “Just need the money,” I lie.
“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t even pretend to believe me. “Hide elsewhere. Or, better yet, confront whoever or whatever it is. But get out of here.”
I sigh, knowing when I’m beaten. Untying my apron, I head to the back to collect my things, dragging my feet the entire way. My car keys feel unusually heavy in my hand as I step outside into the January chill. The diner’s neon sign casts a pink glow across the parking lot, illuminating my old Honda Civic.
I slide into the driver’s seat and sit there, not turning the key. Going back to the dorm means potentially facing Lea, and I’m not ready for her questions. The memory of her face when I left O’Neil’s with Linc flashes through my mind—eyebrows raised, lips pursed in a silent “well, well, well.”
She’s definitely going to want details, and I can’t even process them myself yet.
I rest my forehead against the steering wheel, groaning. I made such a fool of myself. One minute I was all over him—and he was all over me, more to the point—and the next I was sprinting for the elevator like I was being chased by a chainsaw-wielding maniac. He must think I’m insane.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a message from Lea:
