Page 75 of Practice Makes Perfect
“Bien sûr,” she replies, taking it and promptly tossing it onto an already precarious stack of reading material. “But that’s not why you’re here.”
How can she always cut straight through my carefully constructed pretenses?
It’s like emotional X-ray vision.
“I was in the neighborhood?” I try.
One perfectly arched eyebrow rises in disbelief. “On a Sunday afternoon? When you should be drinking or doom-scrolling or sleeping or studying or whatever else it is young people do to avoid their feelings these days?” She steps aside. “Come. I’m making madeleines.”
I step inside, and the apartment smells divine—warm butter, zesty lemon, and the unmistakable comfort of baking that always reminds me of childhood weekends spent in this kitchen while Mom worked at her shop. These scents are my emotional anchor, the olfactory equivalent of a weighted blanket.
I follow her to the small but impeccably organized kitchen, where a bowl of pale yellow batter sits next to shell-shaped molds. Classical music—probably Debussy, her usual Sunday afternoon favorite—drifts softly from a speaker nearby.
“Finish mixing,” she instructs, handing me a wooden spoon. “Your hands need something to do while your mouth tells me what’s wrong.”
I take the spoon and begin stirring, watching the batter swirl hypnotically. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“Mon petit chou, you have the face of a woman with man troubles.” She pulls a bottle of riesling from the refrigerator and pours two generous glasses. “Wine?”
“It’s barely two o’clock,” I protest halfheartedly.
“It’s the evening in Paris,chérie.” She pushes a glass toward me. “Drink. Then tell me about the boy who has you wound up.”
Where do I start?
I stare into the bowl of madeleine batter, watching it swirl hypnotically as my mind drifts back to the hockey game. To that moment of terror I felt when Linc got into a fight, and the electric moment when his eyes found mine across the rink, his gaze so intense it made my skin prickle.
“Ma petite, you’re going to stir that batter into oblivion.” Grandma Penelope’s amused voice cuts through my reverie.She takes a delicate sip of her wine, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief above the rim of her glass. “And you still haven’t told me about the boyfriend who has you mixing with such… enthusiasm.”
I pause my stirring, heat creeping up my neck. “He’s not—I mean, we’re not—” The words dissolve on my tongue as I try to explain what Linc and I are to each other. Friends with benefits? Sexual education partners? Two people who accidentally set an ice rink on fire with one look?
“Ah.” She nods sagely, as if my incoherent stammering has revealed everything, even as she puts the madelaines in the oven. “So it’s complicated.”
“It’s not complicated at all,” I protest, but even I can hear the lie in my voice. “We have an… arrangement.”
One perfectly sculpted eyebrow rises. “Un arrangement?Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
“Grandmère!” I laugh, then take a sip of wine.
“What?” She takes a delicate sip of her wine, completely unfazed. “I’m seventy-five, not dead. I know what young people do.”
I take a fortifying gulp of wine and explain our arrangement—how we met in statistics class, our encounter at his apartment, my hasty exit, and finally, our agreement for him to teach me… well, everything. Grandma listens without interruption, her expression shifting between amusement and genuine interest.
When I finish, she nods slowly. “So, this boy, he is your… how do Americans say it? Sex tutor?”
I nearly choke on my wine again. “Please,pleasenever say those words together again.”
She waves away my embarrassment with a flick of her wrist. “Oh,ma chérie, you’re more American than French, I’m afraid. And that means you haveAmericansqueamishness aboutpleasure. It’s exhausting.” She refills both our glasses without asking. “So why go to his hockey game in his jersey?”
My jaw drops. “How did you?—”
She smirks. “Your mother saw a photo and mentioned it.”
“I—it’s—” I stutter, then finally admit defeat. “Fine. Yes. I wore his jersey.”
“Mmm-hmm.” The sound carries several paragraphs worth of judgment. “So you’ve claimed him publicly but pretend it’s just educational in private?”
I let out a sigh that could power a small wind farm. “It’s not like that. I just went to support him. He’s been having a hard time.”
