Page 77 of Practice Makes Perfect
“You’re human,” she corrects gently. “And arrangements, like rules, are made to be reconsidered when circumstances change.”
I shake my head, feeling the familiar pressure of anxiety building in my chest. “I can’t tell him how I feel. What if he ends our arrangement? I’d rather have this—whatever it is—than nothing at all. Because, on top of everything, his lessons areworking, and I feelwaymore confident around men, and with sex, than I did.”
“The heart wants what it wants, Amélie.” She squeezes my hand. “The arrangement itself isn’t the problem, the dishonesty is. With yourself, with him.”
“So what do I do?” I ask, feeling utterly lost.
“That depends,” she says with a small smile. “Do you want the American advice or the French advice?”
Despite everything, I find myself smiling back. “Is there really a difference?”
“Absolument. The American would tell you to have ‘the talk,’” she says, making air quotes. “Sit down, define your relationship, practical and direct.”
“And the French advice?”
Her smile turns enigmatic. “Show, don’t tell. Let your actions speak. Seduce him—not just his body, but his mind, his heart. Make him want you more than air.”
“That sounds manipulative,” I point out.
“Not at all. It’s giving him the space to discover his own feelings rather than forcing a confrontation.” She taps a finger against her chin thoughtfully. “Though I suppose the truly French approach would be to take another lover and make him jealous, but that seems unnecessarily dramatic even to me.”
I laugh despite myself. “I think I’ll pass on that strategy.”
She takes a delicate bite of madeleine, savoring it with her eyes closed for a moment. When she opens them again, they’re filled with a softness I don’t often see. “Your grandfather and I fought like cats sometimes.” She chuckles. “But I never regretted our arrangement. I never regretted our honesty.”
“Really? Not even once?” The skepticism in my voice could probably butter another batch of madeleines.
“I only regretted the times I was too afraid to speak my truth,” she says firmly. “There were moments—early on—when I kept things to myself, thinking it would be easier. But secrets… they’re heavy,mon chou, and they grow heavier the longer you carry them.”
I stare at my wine glass, watching the light catch in the pale liquid. “It’s going to be so hard to tell him,” I admit quietly. “And I risk pushing him away.”
“The truth is rarely convenient, Amélie.” She takes another sip of wine. “That’s what makes it valuable.”
We sit in comfortable silence, watching the shadows lengthen across the courtyard as the afternoon stretches on. The madeleines disappear one by one, soft and buttery on my tongue. And the wine bottle slowly gets drained, and I suspect it’s me doing most of the draining.
“You know,” Grandma says eventually, “when your grandfather and I decided to come to America, everyone said it would destroy our marriage. That we’d never survive the distance from our families, the culture shock, the languagebarrier.” She smiles at the memory. “But we had something most couples didn’t.”
“Radical honesty,” I supply.
“Exactement. We survived because we never pretended with each other. Not about the hard things, not about the beautiful things.” She smiles. “But dishonesty—especially with yourself—almost always guarantees unhappiness in my experience.”
The weight of her words settles around me like a blanket—uncomfortable at first, then gradually warming into something that feels like clarity. I don’t need to define what Linc and I have according to anyone else’s template. What matters is being honest—first with myself, and eventually with him.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to find a text from Linc:
Still on for tomorrow? Your place at 7? Mike has people over, so my place is out…
I stare at the screen, my pulse quickening. It’s just a simple text—the same kind we’ve exchanged dozens of times since starting our arrangement. But somehow, it feels different now. Because I’m different. Because I’m finally starting to come to terms with what I want, despite the risk.
“I should get going,” I say, tucking my phone away without replying yet. “I’ve got a shift at the diner in an hour.”
Grandma nods, rising with me. “Take some madeleines for the road. And for that hockey player of yours—men always think better with full stomachs.”
I laugh as she wraps a small bundle in parchment paper, then tucks it into my hands. “I’m not sure we’ve reached the ‘eating the home baked goods’ stage yet.”
“Then eat them all yourself, or with someone else,” she says with a shrug. “More pleasure for you.”
I hug her tightly, breathing in the scent of Chanel No. 5 and butter and lemon. I’m struck by a sudden wave of appreciationfor this woman who defied conventions long before it was acceptable, who created a life on her terms, and who has buttressed me from the minute I was born.
