Page 25 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

fifteen

EM

I’ve been death-gripping my steering wheel for twenty minutes straight, and my fingers have progressed from tingling to full-on cramping.

The rational part of my brain knows I should probably relax my hold before I permanently fuse to the vinyl, but the emotional part can’t seem to get the message through.

“You told him. You told him everything.” My voice sounds strange in the quiet car, tight and panicky. “It was meant to be no strings, no feels, and you told him…”

The road stretches ahead of me, streetlights illuminating patches of asphalt in rhythmic intervals.

I’ve driven this route between Trenton and campus countless times, usually with my mind occupied by choreography or lesson plans.

Tonight, my thoughts are a hurricane, with Derek and Linc battling for center stage.

A truck blares its horn as it whizzes past, and I realize I’ve been unconsciously slowing down to a crawl. I press the gas pedal and force myself to focus on driving like a functional human being. But that’s easier said than done when I’ve just verbally vomited my deepest trauma all over Linc.

The weird part isn’t even that I told him—it’s that I don’t regret it. The relief washing through me feels like the first deep breath after being underwater too long. And just as mind-blowing was his reaction, the way his jaw tightened and his eyes darkened.

Not with pity—I couldn’t have handled pity—but with raw, protective anger.

Like he wanted to hunt Derek down himself.

“And why does that make you feel all tingly?” I ask my rearview mirror, as if it might have answers. “There’s something wrong with you, Dubois.”

The memory of leaning toward him in his car hits me again—that magnetic pull, the way his gaze dropped to my lips.

We almost kissed. And not a lesson kiss, but a real one, one in clear breach of rule number three.

But the rules are starting to feel arbitrary, like speed limits on an empty highway at 3 a.m.

Dangerous to ignore, but tempting nonetheless.

I park in the nearly empty lot outside my dorm and kill the engine, but don’t move. The post-confession adrenaline is wearing off, leaving me drained but oddly peaceful. Because I shared my story without feeling like I’ve ripped open my own chest in the process.

“Maybe that’s growth,” I whisper, resting my forehead against the steering wheel. “Or maybe it’s just Linc.”

There’s something about him that makes me feel safe enough to be vulnerable.

Not just physically safe—I know plenty of guys who could protect me in a dark alley—but emotionally safe.

He listens like every word matters, even when I’m rambling about dance or my grandmother’s latest reality TV obsession.

And the way he looked at me tonight, with such genuine care when I shared my story… it made me wonder what else I could share with him. What else he might understand.

With a sigh, part exhaustion and part longing, I get out of the car and climb the stairs to my dorm room—the elevator out yet again . I’m tired, so by the time I reach our door, my dance-weary legs are screaming and my brain is thoroughly exhausted from its emotional marathon.

All I want is to face-plant into my bed and sleep for approximately fourteen hours.

But when I unlock the door, I find Lea sitting at our tiny kitchen table, cradling a mug between her palms. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun, and she’s wearing one of Declan’s old hockey jerseys—her comfort uniform.

“Hey,” I say, dropping my dance bag. “Surprised you’re home…”

She looks up, her expression uncharacteristically somber. “Yeah.”

I kick off my shoes and pad over to the table, sinking into the chair opposite her. Something’s off. In the time I’ve known her, I’ve found this still, quiet version of her sets off my internal alarm bells.

“Spill it,” I say, reaching across to squeeze her arm. “What’s wrong?”

She takes a long sip of tea before answering. “Declan has panic attacks.”

The statement catches me off guard. “So?”

“So… we’ve been dating for months, and I’ve only just found out.

” She stares into her mug like it contains encrypted messages.

“Last night he woke up gasping for air after a nightmare, and I thought he was choking or something. He finally told me the truth, and that he’s been having them since his sophomore year. ”

“That’s… a lot,” I say, unsure what else to offer. “Are you OK?”

“Yeah, I’m just processing.” She looks up at me now, her eyes troubled. “Isn’t it weird how you think you know someone—like, really know them—and then suddenly there’s this whole other part of them you had no idea about? And then you wonder what else there might be?”

The question hits uncomfortably close to home, considering what I just shared with Linc. “Yeah, it is weird. Did he say why he didn’t tell you sooner?”

“He said he was embarrassed and that he thought I might see him differently if he shared that with me.” Lea traces the rim of her mug. “But we’re supposed to be past that. I’ve shown him everything— all my weird, messy parts—and I thought he’d done the same, you know?”

As I make myself a cup of peppermint tea, I consider my own situation with Linc. We’ve known each other for such a brief time, and yet I’ve already shared one of my deepest wounds. It feels backward—sharing trauma before we’ve even properly kissed.

And it’s not just a one-way street. Although Linc said he didn’t want to talk about it tonight, I still know he’s having trouble adjusting to being co-captain, and he’s living with the constant pressure of his mother’s expectations and Mike’s… situation.

And I can’t help but contrast the situation.

“I don’t know,” I say, returning to the table. “Sometimes the big stuff is harder to share than all the little details.”

“That’s what he said.” Lea sighs. “He said he was afraid I’d think he was broken or something. Which is ridiculous—we’re all a little broken.”

The sentiment hangs between us. I think about Linc and wonder what other broken pieces he might be carrying. I remember the stress in his voice when he talked about Mike and his mom, and the weight of responsibility pressing down on him.

“Do you think…” Lea hesitates. “Do you think it means something that he’s comfortable enough to let me see this part of him now?”

I smile at her. “Yeah, I do. That’s trust, Lea. The real, terrifying kind.”

She nods slowly, processing. “Anyway, enough about my relationship drama. How was work tonight?”

For a split second, I consider telling her about seeing Linc, about sharing my Derek story, about that almost-kiss that’s still making my skin tingle.

But something stops me. Maybe it’s because what happened between us feels special, almost sacred.

Or maybe I’m just not ready to analyze it to death.

“Just the usual,” I say instead. “Sweated out my body weight and choreographed something new for the kids.”

“Any prima donna meltdowns from the seven-year-olds?”

“Not tonight.” I laugh. “But Sophia did inform me very seriously that her arabesque is better than mine because her leg goes ‘all the way to outer space.’”

Lea snorts. “Well, can’t argue with that logic.”

We chat for a while longer about nothing significant, but it seems to cheer Lea up. Eventually, Lea’s yawns become contagious, and we both decide to call it a night. As she disappears into her room, I stand in our tiny living area, suddenly feeling too wired to sleep despite my earlier exhaustion.

My body aches from teaching back-to-back classes, but my mind refuses to power down. I drag myself to my bedroom, strip off my dance clothes, and—after a quick shower—pull on my favorite sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt that reads Dance Like Nobody’s Watching .

I flop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling for approximately thirty seconds before the restlessness overwhelms me. With a groan, I sit up and reach for my planner from my nightstand. If I can’t sleep, I might as well be productive and figure out my day tomorrow.

My planner is a masterpiece of color-coding and precision—each subject in a different highlighter shade, appointments underlined twice, deadlines circled in red. It’s the scaffolding that holds my chaotic brain together, a physical manifestation of the control I so desperately need.

Usually, organizing my schedule is therapeutic, like mental yoga, and it helps me get to sleep. Tonight, though, my pen hovers aimlessly over the page. I should be planning tomorrow’s study schedule, but instead I find myself absentmindedly doodling in the margin.

It takes me an embarrassingly long moment to realize I’ve written “Linc” in loopy cursive. Next to it, I’ve added a tiny hockey stick.

“Oh my god, what are you, twelve?” I mutter, frantically erasing the evidence of my momentary lapse into middle-school behavior. The erasure leaves a smudgy ghost behind, and I stare at it, feeling ridiculous and confused and somehow giddy all at once.

This isn’t how it was supposed to go. Our arrangement was meant to be clear-cut: physical intimacy with emotional distance. An exchange of pleasure for education. But somewhere between that first kiss at O’Neil’s and tonight’s car confession, things have gotten messy.

I close my planner with more force than necessary and toss it onto my desk. There’s no point pretending I’ll get anything productive done tonight.

I crawl under my comforter and pull it up to my chin, but sleep feels as distant as Antarctica. My thoughts keep circling back to Linc—the warmth in his eyes when I talked about dance, the barely contained rage when I mentioned Derek, the way his hand felt against mine.

“It’s because there’s an expiration date,” I whisper to my dark room. “That’s why it’s easier to share things with him.”

The realization clicks into place with surprising clarity.

Maybe it’s easier to be vulnerable with someone when you know they’re temporary.

When there’s no long-term risk involved.

Our arrangement has a built-in end date—a finish line where we’ll high-five, thank each other, and go our separate ways.

No messy feelings. No complications. No potential for another Derek situation.

Except…

Except my body doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo. I keep remembering how his eyes darkened when he looked at me. How his voice lowered and became husky when he said my name. The firm pressure of his hand on my waist during our lesson. How secure I felt despite my nervousness.

My skin heats at the memory, and I press my thighs together against the sudden ache there.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to banish the images of Linc that keep flooding my mind, but they’re persistent. The way his lips parted slightly when I told him about my dancing. The strong line of his jaw. The veins in his forearms when he gripped the steering wheel.

Trying to get him out of my head, I flip onto my stomach and bury my face in my pillow. But the new position only makes things worse, creating pressure exactly where I’m trying not to feel anything. I flip back over with a frustrated groan.

It’s just physical attraction. Nothing more. Completely normal when you’re spending time with someone as objectively gorgeous as Linc. Add in his kindness, the way he listened to me tonight, and it’s a simple biological reaction. Chemistry, hormones, whatever.

I stare at the ceiling, hyperaware of every inch of my skin—like my nerve endings have all decided to work overtime. The soft brush of my t-shirt against my breasts. The slight weight of the comforter across my hips. The persistent throbbing between my legs that refuses to be ignored.

“Fine,” I whisper to my empty room. “Strictly biology.”

I slide my hand beneath the waistband of my sleep shorts, biting my lip as my fingers discover that I’m already embarrassingly wet. My eyes drift closed as I begin to circle my clit, slowly at first, then with increasing pressure.

In my mind, I’m back in Linc’s car, but this time, Louis doesn’t call. This time, when Linc leans toward me, his lips meet mine in a kiss that’s nothing like our lessons—it’s hungry, desperate, real.

My breath catches as I continue circling my clit with one finger, while with the other hand I slip a finger inside myself. The whole time, I imagine it’s Linc touching me, Linc’s fingers stretching me, Linc’s voice in my ear.

The scene shifts in my mind. We’re at our next lesson, but this time there are no boundaries, no hesitation. He lays me back on my bed, moving over me with purpose. His lips trail down my neck, across my collarbone, worshiping me.

“Is this OK?” he asks, always checking in, always making sure I’m comfortable.

“Yes,” I gasp, both in my fantasy and in reality, my fingers moving faster.

In my mind, he’s inside me now, filling me completely. The slight burn of stretching around him, his weight pressing me into the mattress, the look of wonder in his eyes as he moves—it’s all so vivid I could swear it’s real.

“Em,” he whispers, “you feel amazing.”

My back arches off the bed as I curl my finger inside myself, hitting the spot that instantly undoes me. My movements become less controlled, more frantic, as I chase the building pressure.

“Let go,” Fantasy-Linc urges. “I’ve got you.”

A second later, pleasure hits. My body pulses around my fingers as I ride out the orgasm, gasping for breath. As the haze of pleasure fades, reality crashes back with brutal clarity.

“Well, that was unexpected,” I mutter.

Unexpected and completely at odds with our arrangement, rule number three—no feelings—is starting to seem like the most fragile of our boundaries. I grab a makeup wipe and clean up, trying to rationalize what just happened.

It doesn’t have to mean anything. Fantasies are just fantasies. I’m attracted to him, that’s all. It’s not like I’m in love with the guy. We’ve got a clear arrangement that’s mutually beneficial and has a clear cut-off point.

Right?