Page 123 of Practice Makes Perfect
My thoughts spin like a hamster wheel at triple speed. I need to fix this, but I don’t know what “this” is.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I try.
When he shakes his head once, sharp and definitive, I shift my weight, hyper-aware of the muffled roar of the crowd a few hallways away. The second period must have started without him. That can’t be good, given he’s the co-captain and this is a game against a rival team.
“Linc, is this about the scouts?”
“Don’t,” he cuts me off, the single word slicing through the air between us.
Well, shit.I’ve apparently hit the exact wrong nerve. The silence stretches between us, thin and brittle as ice in spring. And suddenly, my mind is screaming at me todo something, do anything, and do it fast—because part of being a good girlfriend is being there when the stakes are high and the chips are down.
And I very badly want to be Lincoln Garcia’s girlfriend.
“I was talking to my grandmother last night,” I blurt out, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. My brain has officially switched to panic mode, which for me means verbaldiarrhea. “About you meeting my family… and she’s invited us over for dinner next week.”
Linc blinks, finally looking directly at me with an expression of bewilderment. Like I’ve suddenly started speaking Klingon. But I can’t stop. It’s like my mouth has decided this is the perfect moment to discuss next weekend’s plans—when, in fact, it’s probably the worst possible time.
I plow ahead. “She’s so excited. Like, ridiculous levels of excited. She’s already planning this whole French feast with all these dishes she thinks you’ll like based on things I’ve mentioned, which is sweet but also slightly terrifying because my grandmother can be a bit… much.”
Stop talking. For the love of god, stop talking.
“And I told her not to go overboard but that’s like telling a fish not to swim, you know? But I promise it won’t be overwhelming. Louis will be there too, just like we discussed, and he’s great at diffusing tension. Not that there will be tension! My family will love you. I mean, how could they not? You’re great and?—”
“Em.” Linc’s voice is quiet but firm, bringing my runaway train of words to a screeching halt.
Great job. You’ve made this about you somehow. Stellar girlfriend behavior.
I take a breath, forcing myself to slow down. “Sorry. I’m nervous. You’re upset. And I don’t know how to help and I’m making it worse.”
He runs a hand over his face, and for a moment he looks so tired I want to wrap my arms around him and tell him to forget the stupid game, and offer to do whatever it takes to make him feel better. But something in his posture warns me not to touch him.
Linc is staring at the floor now, and I can’t tell if he’s even listening. His face has gone completely blank—a mask thatreveals nothing. I keep my mouth shut until he finally looks up, meeting my eyes. The anger I saw earlier has drained away, leaving something worse in its place.
A distant, hollow look that makes my stomach drop.
“Em.” His voice is so quiet I have to lean in to hear him.
“Yes?”
“I’m not sure I can do this.”
The words don’t compute at first, like they’re in a foreign language my brain can’t translate. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s trying to break free from my ribcage.
Say something. Ask for clarification. Don’t just stand here like an idiot.
“I haven’t even told you when the dinner is,” I reply, relief washing over me. “But it’s flexible! We can schedule it on a non-game day. Grandma’s retired, so?—”
Linc lifts his gaze to mine again, and the look in his eyes stops me mid-sentence. His lips press into a thin line, and I can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard.
“No, Em. That’s not what I meant.” He gestures vaguely with one hand between us. “I can’t dothis. Us.”
The words land like a physical blow. My stomach drops so suddenly that I feel momentarily dizzy, like I’ve missed a step at the top of a staircase and my body is already bracing for the fall.
“What?” My voice doesn’t sound like my own. It’s too high, too thin. “What do you mean, Linc?”
He shifts his weight, looking everywhere but at me. “It’s too much pressure. I can’t handle it.”
“Too much pressure?” I repeat stupidly, the words not quite computing. “What do you mean? What pressure?”
