Page 16 of Practice Makes Perfect
My fingers trail down her stomach, feeling the muscles quiver beneath my touch. I trace the waistband of her jeans, watching her face carefully for any sign of hesitation. But her eyes are half-closed, lips parted, breathing quick and shallow.
“Can I unbutton these?” I ask, hooking my finger just inside the waistband.
And just like that, everything changes.
Em’s entire body goes rigid. Her eyes fly open, no longer clouded with desire but sharp with something that looks disturbingly like fear. Her hand clamps down on my wrist, stilling my movement.
“Em?” I pull back slightly, confusion replacing arousal. “What’s wrong?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she shakes her head frantically, pushing at my shoulders until I roll off her. She scrambles to sit up, reaching for her top and yanking it over her head without bothering to put her bra back on.
“I—I have to go,” she mumbles, not meeting my eyes as she tugs her top down. “I have an early class tomorrow morning. I need to get back to my dorm.”
Early class? Tomorrow’s Sunday.
“Hey, slow down,” I say, reaching for her but stopping short of actually touching her. “What happened? Did I do something wrong?”
“No, it’s not you, it’s just—” She stands up abruptly. “I really need to go. I forgot about this… thing I have to do.”
She’s lying. That much is obvious. But why? Everything was going great—better than great—and then in the span of two seconds, she completely shut down. I follow her out of the bedroom, my mind racing to figure out what the hell just happened.
“It’s cool that you wanted to stop, but at least let me walk you home,” I say. “It’s late, and the night bus stop has no streetlamps.”
“I’ll be fine.” She’s already shoving her feet into her shoes, not bothering to tie the laces. “I… catch buses in the dark all the time… in fact, it’s quite relaxing…”
Her rambling doesn’t make me feel any better. In fact, it makes me want to insist even more, but something in her posture—the way she’s holding herself, arms wrapped protectively around her middle—tells me she needs space more than she needs an escort.
“Em, please talk to me.” I hate how frustrated I sound, but I can’t help it. “If I crossed a line?—”
“You didn’t,” she cuts me off, finally looking at me. “I just—I can’t do this right now. I’m sorry, OK?”
Before I can respond, she’s yanking open the door and practically sprinting into the hallway. I stand frozen for a second, completely blindsided by the turn of events. By the time my brain catches up and I dash after her, all I see are the elevator doors sliding shut, taking Em with them.
I stare at the closed doors, utterly bewildered. “What the fuck was that?” I whisper.
One minute she was melting in my arms, the next she couldn’t get away fast enough. It doesn’t make sense. I thought we had chemistry—the kind that makes you forget about anything else—but clearly, I was wrong, or I completely misread the situation.
Running a hand through my hair, I turn back to my apartment, feeling hollow and confused. The look on her face wasn’t just embarrassment or regret or a change of mind. It was fear. And that bothers mewaymore than being left with the world’s most painful case of blue balls.
I lean against the door, replaying the evening in my mind over and over again. Everything was going absolutely perfect until I asked about her jeans. Was that too far, too fast? But she’d been responding so enthusiastically to everything else, I thought…
I shake my head. Clearly, I was wrong. But that doesn’t explain the way she froze up like she’d been electrocuted. Like I’d suddenly morphed into someone else—someone who scared her—and she needed to run away like I was a slasher in one of those shitty movies.
The sound of the stairwell door opening snaps me out of my thoughts. Mike appears, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, favoring his injured ankle with each step. He looks like he just went twelve rounds with a treadmill and lost.
“What happened to you?” I ask, still leaning against our apartment door.
He grimaces, shifting his weight off his bad ankle. “Went for a jog.”
“With a fucked-up ankle?”
“Physical therapy,” he mutters, wiping sweat from his brow. “Doctor’s orders.”
The expression on my face must say it all, because Mike’s shoulders slump.
“Fine. I thought I’d test it out.” He shrugs, taking in my disheveled hair and the frustration that must be all over my face. “What’s your excuse? You look like shit.”
“Thanks. Really boosting my confidence here.” I sigh. “I think I just cost myself my reputation as the campus ladies’ man.”
