Page 32 of Practice Makes Perfect
All I’d wantedtonightwas some snacks!
“I’m just really invested in these chips,” I mutter, finally standing up and clutching the bag to my chest like a shield.
“Clearly.” His lips twitch. “Though I’m not sure they’re worth the level of commitment you’re showing.”
I take a step back. “Well, this has been super fun, but I should?—”
“Em.” He steps into my retreat path. “You don’t have to run away from me.”
“I’m not running,” I protest automatically. “I’m strategically relocating.”
“Look,” he says softly, “I won’t even look at you if that helps.”
True to his word, he turns his attention to the Slurpee machine behind and begins filling his cup. With his gaze averted, I permit myself a proper look at him. His profile is unfairly perfect—strong jaw, straight nose, and those stupidly long eyelashes that boys always seem to get without even trying.
His black hair is still damp from what I assume was a post-game shower, and a slight flush lingers on his cheekbones. He looks good. Too good. But there’s a tiredness in his posture that wasn’t there that night at his apartment, a subtle slump to his shoulders that speaks of exhaustion.
When he finishes filling his cup—it’s genuinely the size of a small bucket—he glances back at me and catches me staring. I quickly pretend to be fascinated by the nutrition facts on my chip bag.
“You know those have enough salt to preserve a body, right?” he says, nodding at my chips.
“Says the guy drinking sugar with food coloring,” I counter, gesturing at his Blue Raspberry monstrosity.
He grins, and I hate how it makes my stomach flip. “We won tonight. I’ve earned this.”
“So have I. I worked a double shift, saved a friend in need, and dealt with Malia breaking up with Kent, which sucked all the salty tears out of me…”
His eyes narrow. “What?”
“I should punch you for that stick-tapping stunt, by the way,” I say, ignoring his question. “The entire arena was staring at me.”
Something changes in his expression—a lightening, a relaxing of tension I hadn’t fully registered until it disappeared. “But you’re not actually mad.”
It’s not a question, and I’m irritated that he can read me so easily. “I didn’t say that.”
“Your face did.” He takes a long sip of his Slurpee. “Besides, if you were really mad, you wouldn’t be talking to me right now.”
“Bold of you to assume I’m talking to you by choice. This could just be a survival tactic in response to being cornered in the snack aisle.”
He laughs, a sound that makes my treacherous pulse quicken. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, but you wouldn’t answer my texts, so…”
“It was actually kind of cute,” I admit, then immediately regret it when his smile widens. “In acompletelymortifying way.”
“I’ll take cute-but-mortifying.” He gestures toward the counter. “Can I buy your chips? As a peace offering?”
“Fine,” I say. “But this doesn’t mean I forgive you for the public humiliation.”
“Noted.”
We walk to the register together, and I’m acutely aware of how close he is—close enough that I can smell his cologne mixing with the scent of soap. It’s distracting. A minute later, after we’ve completed the purchase, we exit into the chilly night air together.
We linger awkwardly on the sidewalk, the neon 7-Eleven sign casting everything in a weird blue-pink glow. Linc takes another long drink of his Slurpee, and I can’t help remembering how it felt when he pressed those lips against my mouth two weeks ago.
“So,” he says, “are you heading back to your dorm?”
“Yeah.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Thrilling Friday night plans: salt and vinegar chips and texting my grandmother about reality TV.”
The silence stretches between us, filled with everything we’re not saying. Linc shifts his Slurpee to his other hand.
