Page 117 of Practice Makes Perfect
“Oh my God.”
“What? I’m joking!” She pauses. “Mostly.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “I love you, Grandma.”
“I love you too,ma petite,” she says. “Before you go, did you hear about Brianna? FromLove Match?”
I fumble with my key, trying to balance my phone between my ear and shoulder. “No, what happened?”
“Eliminated! Can you believe it? For making only two salads for the romantic dinner challenge while everyone else prepared three courses. The betrayal!”
“Wait, what?” The key slips from my fingers and clatters to the floor. “No way. Brianna was the front-runner!”
“I know!” My grandmother’s voice reaches a pitch usually reserved for opera sopranos. “Judge Marcel called her meal ‘an insult to romance itself.’”
I unlock my door. “This is a travesty. Brianna was robbed.”
“Completely,” she agrees. “Now you must catch up before our next call.”
“I’ll try,” I promise, though my mind is already drifting to thoughts of Linc—specifically, what it might be like to bring him home, to see him sitting at my grandmother’s dining table, tasting her cooking, charming my parents. The image is both thrilling and terrifying.
“You’re thinking about your hockey boy again,” she says, reading my mind with that uncanny grandmother sixth sense. “I can hear you not listening.”
“Sorry,” I laugh. “I’ll watchLove Matchtomorrow, I promise.”
“Bon. Now go get some rest. You sound tired.”
We say our goodbyes, and I step into my apartment, immediately hit by the sharp scent of turpentine and the sight of Lea sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by canvases, paintbrushes, and what appears to be every art supply she owns.
“Hey,” she says without looking up, carefully applying a stroke of deep blue to the canvas in front of her. “How was dance?”
I check my watch—10:47 p.m. “Productive. What is all… this?” I gesture at the creative explosion covering our living room.
She sits back, examining her work with narrowed eyes. “It’s due in three weeks, but I had a sudden flash of inspiration and couldn’t sleep.”
“So you decided to recreate the aftermath of a tornado in an art supply store instead?”
Lea finally looks up, her tired eyes crinkling at the corners. “At least I put newspaper down this time.”
“True progress,” I acknowledge, carefully stepping over her work. “Last time I found paint on the ceiling. Theceiling, Lea. Physics doesn’t even support that.”
“Art defies physics,” she says solemnly before breaking into a grin. “Are you going to Linc’s game tomorrow?”
I pause in the middle of hanging up my jacket. “Uh, maybe?”
“Declan says it’s a huge deal. If they win, they’re practically guaranteed a playoff spot,” she says, then tilts her head. “Want to come with me? Mike’s still riding the bench, but he likes having moral support. And…” she waggles her eyebrows suggestively, “I bet Linc would love to see you there.”
“Yeah, that would be great.”
“Perfect.” Lea returns to her painting. “Game’s at seven. We should leave by six-thirty to get decent seats.”
“Sounds good.” I start heading toward my bedroom, then pause. “I just invited Linc to dinner at my grandmother’s next weekend. And possibly my parents’.”
Lea’s brush freezes mid-stroke. “Wow. That’s… big.”
“Is it too much?” Anxiety flutters in my chest. “Too soon? We’ve only been officially together for like, a minute, but it feels?—”
“Right,” Lea finishes for me, her expression softening. “It feels right. And that’s what matters.”
