Page 65 of Practice Makes Perfect
The chips Em was buying the other night, the ones she said were her faves.
I hesitate for just a moment before grabbing them and adding them to my purchase. As I slap them on the counter, the cashier rings up the purchase with the enthusiasm of someone who’d rather be literally anywhere else, so I don’t bother making small talk.
Heading out of the store and walking back to my apartment, Slurpee in one hand and corn snacks in the other, I realize I’ve put myself in a ridiculous position. I bought snacks for a woman I’mdefinitelynot texting tonight or thinking about at all.
Smooth move, Garcia.
I consider tossing them in the nearest trash can, but that seems wasteful. I could eat them myself, but I’m not big on salty snacks. I could leave them for Mike as some weird peace offering, but knowing our current dynamic, he’d probably assume they were poisoned.
“This is stupid,” I mutter, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk.
A passing student gives me a curious look, and I realize I’m standing motionless, having an existential crisis over a bag of chips. My life has officially reached a new level of pathetic. I start walking again, but my phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish out my phone, and see it’s a text from Em.
Can’t stop thinking about our conversation the other night. Thanks for listening. Looking forward to our next lesson. :)
And just like that, every resolution I made about keeping distance until our next lesson evaporates. My thumb hovers over the keyboard as I debate what to say. Something casual? Something flirty? Something that acknowledges the weight of what she shared without making her uncomfortable?
Before I can overthink it anymore, I type:
I can’t stop thinking about it either, or about you.
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it, then immediately panic.
Too much? Not enough? What the hell was I thinking?
My phone buzzes again almost immediately:
Lea’s promised to knock next time.
Relief washes over me, followed by a laugh that startles another passing student. I’m grinning like an idiot at my phone in the middle of campus, holding a rapidly melting Slurpee and a bag of chips I bought for a woman who just texted me.
Maybe I do have control over something in my life after all.
It’s just not what I expected.
seventeen
EM
I groan dramaticallyas I flop onto my couch, feeling like someone’s replaced my leg muscles with overcooked spaghetti. Teaching back-to-back dance classes to hyperactive elementary schoolers has a way of making even the most energetic person—which I normally am—feel like they’ve been run over.
“Television, save me,” I mutter, fumbling for the remote and pressing the power button with what little strength I have left.
The screen flickers to life, displaying my favorite French film, which I’d started watching the night before. I’m a little surprised Lea hasn’t started something in its place, but then again she spends more time at Dec’s place than our dorm lately, so I shouldn’t be too shocked.
The movie is a French indie romance—complete with moody lighting, copious amounts of nudity, and characters who smoke cigarettes while staring meaningfully into the middle distance.
But just as I press play, there’s a knock at the door.
“Coming!” I call, assuming it’s Ping or Marnie saying hi or asking to borrow something, then push myself up from the couch and head for the door.
I pull open the door and the words die in my throat. It’s not Ping or Marnie. Or Lea. It’s Linc. And his normally bright green eyes look dull, and his shoulders have a defeated slump to them I’ve never seen before. Despite this, my pulse instantly quickens at the sight of him.
“Um, hi?” I say, the greeting tilting up into a question.
He gives me a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Is this a bad time? I can g?—”
“No! It’s fine!” I interrupt. “I just wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
