Page 78 of Practice Makes Perfect
“Merci, Grandmère,” I whisper against her cheek.
“De rien, ma chérie.” She pulls back to look at me, her gaze serious despite her smile. “Remember, life is too short for bad sex and dishonest hearts.”
I laugh all the way to the door, where I pause with my hand on the knob. “I’ll call you later this week.”
“I expect a full report,” she calls after me. “Suddenly,yourlife isfarmore interesting thanLove Match…”
Outside, I finally pull out my phone to respond to Linc’s text. My thumb hovers over the keyboard as I consider what to say. Eventually, I type:
See you at 7. Have snacks and… maybe some other surprises…
I hit send, then look back at my grandmother’s apartment building with a fond smile. Some lessons in life aren’t found in any syllabus—and it feels like I’ve just received a master class in honesty from a woman who’s never followed anyone else’s rules.
As I walk toward my car, I feel lighter somehow, as if naming my feelings—even just to myself and my grandmother—has released some of their weight. I don’t know exactly what will happen tomorrow night, but I know one thing for certain: I’m done pretending this is just educational.
And maybe, just maybe, Linc is ready to learn something new too.
twenty
EM
I’ve changedmy sheets twice in the last hour.
The first set—burgundy jersey knit—looked too much like I was trying to create some kind of bordello ambiance. The second set—crisp white cotton—gave off serious hospital vibes. I’ve finally settled on my trusty navy-blue sheets, which hopefully convey “I’m a normal human who sleeps in a normal bed” vibes.
Focus, Amélie.
I straighten a textbook on my desk for the fourteenth time. My dorm room has never been this clean. Even the bathroom grout is sparkling, courtesy of an old toothbrush and my 3 a.m. anxiety, my brain having decided that scrubbing was less stressful than lying in bed imagining all the ways tonight could go wrong.
Or right.
Definitely wrong.
Maybe right?
I check my phone: 6:52 p.m. Linc will be here in eight minutes, unless he’s early again, which is simultaneously infuriating and endearing. Eight minutes to fret, to scan for any stray lint, and to check my reflection in the mirrorone last timefor thethirtiethtime.
Since my discussion with my grandmother, it feels like this night carrieswaymore significance than before. Under the influence of wine, delicious biscuits and seventy-five years of experience, I finally admitted my feelings. Now, I’ve decided I won’t hide from them—in my head, at least.
It’s not that I’m planning to dramatically confess my feelings the moment he walks through the door. That would violate approximately seven different social norms—not to mention rule three—and possibly cause me to erupt in spontaneous combustion.
But I can’t hide from these feelings.
So I’m planning to… test the waters? Look for signs that he might be feeling something beyond our educational arrangement? A lingering glance, perhaps. A touch that lasts longer than strictly necessary. The kind of evidence that would hold up in the court of “oh my god, does he like me?”
Of course, there’s the very real possibility that I’m projecting. That I’ve manufactured an entire romantic narrative in my head while he’s just thinking about hockey plays and protein shakes, and thinking that what we’ve got is nothing more than an enjoyable, casual fuck.
And if I’ve got it wrong. Ohgod.
What if he doesn’t feel the same?
What if he ends our arrangement?
My mind has spent been hammering me with every possible outcome.
So small steps it is.
If I sense there’s something there, I can pursue it.
