Page 39 of Practice Makes Perfect
He considers this, then sighs. “Fine. I’ll back off. But promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“If things get complicated—emotionally, I mean—you’ll tell me. Don’t suffer alone if this goes sideways.”
“It won’t,” I insist with more confidence than I feel. “But yes, I promise.”
Louis nods, apparently satisfied, and changes the subject to his latest soccer practice. I let the conversation flow naturally away from my sex life—or lack thereof—and try to ignore the tiny voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like Louis, whispering doubts about my ability to keep feelings out of this.
Because the truth is, I’m not as certain as I pretend to be. There’s something about Linc that makes my stomach flutter in a way that feels dangerous—something beyond the physical attraction I’m willing to admit to. When he kissed my cheek the other night, it sparked more emotion than I’d experienced in years.
I try to rationalize it as mere excitement—the thrill of finally facing my fears. Anything deeper would complicate my already chaotic life.
Besides, this arrangement is perfect precisely because we’re attracted to each other. The spark is already there, which means the physical part should be enjoyable rather than awkward. And since we’ve established clear boundaries—no actual dating, no romantic expectations—there’s no pressure to be anything more than what we are: two people helping each other out.
He gets sex. I get sex education.
Clean. Simple. Perfect.
My phone buzzes with a text and I smile when I see Linc’s name on the screen:
Monday, 8pm. Wear something comfortable. I’ll bring the Slurpees. Don’t eat beforehand.
I read the message three times, heat creeping up my neck at the implications of “don’t eat beforehand.” When I glance up, Louis is watching me with a knowing expression.
“That him?” he says.
I nod, unable to hide my smile.
“And how exactly are you going to keep feelings out of it when you’re grinning like you just won the lottery over a text message?”
“Shut up,” I mutter, tucking my phone away.
Louis’s expression turns serious. “Just remember: I know what heartbreak looks like on you, and I’d rather not see it again.”
I want to fire back with something clever and dismissive, but the genuine concern in his eyes stops me. Instead, I just shrug, the way I used to when my parents asked if I was “really OK” after the Derek disaster.
“It’s just sex, Louis,” I say softly. “Not a relationship.”
Louis shakes his head, then sighs. “For your sake, I hope you’re right.”
I hope I am too. But as my phone buzzes with another text from Linc:
I’m looking forward to seeing you.
My pulse quickens in a way that feels distinctly heart-involved. But that’s just nerves, I tell myself—nothing more.
Right?
ten
LINC
The puck slidespast my stick for the third time in twenty minutes.
“Jesus Christ, Garcia!” Coach’s booming voice echoes across the rink. “My mother could’ve caught that pass, and she got cremated fifteen years ago!”
I bite back a response and nod instead.
