Page 51 of Practice Makes Perfect
“Jesus,” I mutter, setting down my knife, glad I’m not decorating the kitchen with a spray of blood. “Give a guy some warning.”
“We did.” Maine sets the pot down. “Called out your name three times. You were in the zone.”
Before I can respond, hurried footsteps pound down the hallway. Mike appears in the doorway, face contorted with irritation, hair sticking up like he’s been electrocuted. He’s wearing sweatpants and a Pine Barren Hockey t-shirt that looks like it hasn’t been washed in a week.
“What the fuck?” he demands. “I was meditating.”
We all freeze. The silence stretches for a beat too long.
“You werewhatnow?” Maine asks finally.
Mike’s scowl deepens. “Meditating. It’s a thing where you sit and?—”
“I know what meditation is,” Maine interrupts. “Since when do you do it?”
“Since my physiotherapist suggested it might help with the pain.” Mike’s tone dares us to comment. “And you assholes just ruined it.”
Declan, who’s never met tension he couldn’t defuse, leans against the counter. “Next you’ll tell us you like kombucha.”
“Fuck off,” Mike mutters, but there’s no real bite to it. He runs a hand over his face. “That was my first time trying it, and now I have to start over.”
“Did it help?” I ask, genuinely curious. “With the pain?”
Mike shrugs, avoiding my eyes. “I don’t know. I didn’t get far enough to tell.” He glances at the cutting board. “What are you making?”
“Arroz con Pollo.” I shrug, although I mentally prepare for him to findsomethingto fault. “My grandmother’s recipe.”
“Beats pizza,” Maine says, sniffing appreciatively at the marinating chicken. “Though I’m still not convinced anything tops Domino’s garlic bread.”
“That’s because your taste buds were stunted by too many pucks to the face,” Declan replies, then turns to Mike. “Forgetmeditation. After a few rounds of Mario Kart, you’ll find a different kind of flow state. The kind where you’re cursing at all of us for blue-shelling you.”
Mike doesn’t smile, but some tension eases from his shoulders. “Whatever. I’m going to grab a beer.”
As he heads to the fridge, I exchange glances with Maine and Declan. This is going better than expected. Mike’s communicating, at least, even if he’s still got all the charm of a rattlesnake. The fact that he hasn’t retreated to his room yet is a big win…
Maybe tonight won’t be a total disaster.
I return to my garlic, dumping it into the bowl with the other vegetables. As I slice into it, the seeds and juice spill across the cutting board, and I find myself thinking of how Em’s lips had parted under mine, soft and yielding.
“You’re smiling at a tomato,” Maine observes. “That’s weird, even for you.”
“Just thinking about food,” I lie.
“Your food-thinking face is different from your girl-thinking face.”
“I don’t have a girl-thinking face,” I object.
Mike pops the cap off his beer. “You definitely do. You get this dopey look.”
“Thanks. That’s flattering.”
Maine turns to Mike. “Mario Kart?”
“I’m in,” Mike says, surprising me with his enthusiasm. “Dibs on Bowser.”
“You’re such a stereotype,” Maine laughs.
“Big, fearless leader?” Mike snorts.
