Page 27 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

seventeen

EM

I groan dramatically as I flop onto my couch, feeling like someone’s replaced my leg muscles with overcooked spaghetti. Teaching back-to-back dance classes to hyperactive elementary schoolers has a way of making even the most energetic person—which I normally am—feel like they’ve been run over.

“Television, save me,” I mutter, fumbling for the remote and pressing the power button with what little strength I have left.

The screen flickers to life, displaying my favorite French film, which I’d started watching the night before. I’m a little surprised Lea hasn’t started something in its place, but then again she spends more time at Dec’s place than our dorm lately, so I shouldn’t be too shocked.

The movie is a French indie romance—complete with moody lighting, copious amounts of nudity, and characters who smoke cigarettes while staring meaningfully into the middle distance.

But just as I press play, there’s a knock at the door.

“Coming!” I call, assuming it’s Ping or Marnie saying hi or asking to borrow something, then push myself up from the couch and head for the door.

I pull open the door and the words die in my throat. It’s not Ping or Marnie. Or Lea. It’s Linc. And his normally bright green eyes look dull, and his shoulders have a defeated slump to them I’ve never seen before. Despite this, my pulse instantly quickens at the sight of him.

“Um, hi?” I say, the greeting tilting up into a question.

He gives me a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Is this a bad time? I can g?—”

“No! It’s fine!” I interrupt. “I just wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I know our lesson is tomorrow, but I needed a friendly face.” Linc runs his hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in adorable tufts. “I was at my apartment, but it’s hell being around Mike right now, and I want to avoid anything related to hockey tonight, so I thought…”

“What?” I say, softer than I intended.

“I was hoping to hang out for a couple hours?”

“Sure,” I say, letting him in and closing the door. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Linc looks like someone has fueled him up again, because he lets out a contented sigh of relief, puts his backpack on the floor, then sinks onto the couch. His knee bounces rapidly, his fingers drumming against his thigh—a level of fidgeting that even I, ADHD queen, find impressive.

“Are you OK?” I ask, taking a seat next to him but leaving enough space that we’re not touching. “You seem… not OK.”

“I’m fine,” he says automatically, then his shoulders drop even lower. “Actually, no, I’m not, but I don’t want to dump all my crap on you.”

“I mean, that’s what friends do,” I say, then mentally kick myself because we’re not exactly just friends, are we?

We’re something in the undefined gray area between hookup buddies and… something else… that I’m trying very hard not to think about.

“How was your double shift?” he asks, clearly deflecting.

I decide to let him, launching into the story of how a five-year-old declared herself the “Queen of Dance” and refused to follow any choreography that wasn’t “royal enough.” So, there I was, trying to teach them a simple eight-count, and Queen Sophia was spinning in circles yelling ‘peasant moves’ at the other kids. ”

Linc laughs, a genuine sound that brightens his eyes momentarily. “What did you do?”

“I promoted everyone to royal status and renamed the routine ‘The Court Dance.’ Suddenly my choreography was acceptable to Her Majesty.”

“Nice,” he says with a smile, but then goes quiet again, staring at the TV where my paused French film is waiting.

The silence stretches between us, thick and awkward. I fidget with a loose thread on my leggings, trying to think of something to say. It’s weird seeing him like this—normally he’s so confident, so in control—and this defeated version of Linc makes my chest ache.

“OK,” I say finally. “Are you going to tell me what’s actually wrong?”

He exhales slowly, his broad shoulders rising and falling.

“Mike and I had a fight the night I saw you in Trenton and still aren’t speaking.

” His hands clench into fists on his thighs.

“And Coach is still on my case about getting Mike to step up as a leader, which is impossible when he won’t even speak to me. ”

I nod, not interrupting.

“There’s going to be scouts at the game against Brown, and my mom is blowing up my phone about it, sending me links to articles about what scouts look for, texting me reminders to eat protein…

” He shakes his head. “And I’m barely sleeping, so my game is off, which means Coach is riding me even harder… ”

“That’s a lot,” I say softly, picking up the conversation when he trails off.

“Yeah.” His voice is barely above a whisper.

I bite my lip, not really sure how to deal with that much shit all at once, so I gesture toward the TV.

“Do you want to watch the rest of this with me?” I say.

“I sometimes find when I’m overwhelmed that it’s good to just chill out and zone out, and it has English subtitles, which is good, since you don’t speak French. ”

“Sure.”

I hit play, and the film resumes with a scene of the main characters sitting in a Parisian café, having an intense conversation about love and loss while accordion music plays softly in the background. It’s about the most French thing imaginable.

“So what’s happening?” Linc asks, his voice sounding more normal now.

“She’s telling him that she can’t be with him because she’s engaged to his brother, but she’s clearly in love with him and the brother is kind of a jerk who cheated on her with her best friend, but she feels obligated to stay because of some promise she made to her dying mother.”

“Ah, the classic ‘I’m engaged to your brother but secretly in love with you while my best friend is sleeping with my fiancé’ situation,” Linc says dryly.

I snort. “Happens to the best of us.”

He grins. “I know, right?”

We watch for a few more minutes until we reach my favorite scene—where the heroine finally decides to follow her heart, forsaking the cheating asshole who happens to be rich and shacking up with the straight-talking and totally non- cheating brother.

I sit up straighter, my exhaustion temporarily forgotten.

“This is the best part,” I announce. As the character delivers her passionate monologue, I recite along with her in perfect French, complete with dramatic hand gestures: “ Je ne peux plus vivre sans toi. Mon c?ur t’appartient, pour toujours. Tu es mon destin, mon ame s?ur, ma raison de vivre. ”

But even as I say it, I’m not sure if I’m saying it to Linc or the movie.

Linc stares at me, his mouth slightly open. “What did you just say?”

“I cannot live without you. My heart belongs to you, forever. You are my destiny, my soulmate, my reason for living.” I shrug. “It’s super cheesy.”

“That was…” he pauses, his green eyes softening as they meet mine. “That was really cute. Sexy.”

My cheeks warm at the compliment. “Thanks. I’ll take ‘sexy’ as a compliment any day of the week!”

“Thanks for letting me crash your movie night,” he says softly.

“Anytime,” I reply, meaning it more than I probably should.

We inch closer on the couch—not exactly cuddling but sitting close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off his body.

The movie continues, but my brain completely abandons any attempt to follow the plot.

I’m acutely conscious of how close we are, how easy it would be to reach over and take his hand…

“This is basically a date,” Linc says suddenly, eyes still on the screen.

I stiffen, my whole body tensing as if someone’s just poured ice water down my spine. Date? But we said no feelings, right? This can’t be a date… can it? We’d agreed we were just having sex lessons—just hooking up, basically—so how can this?—

Linc notices immediately, putting his warm hand on mine. “I was joking, so calm your mind,” he says quickly. “Though movie dates are my favorite kind.”

I force myself to relax. “In my very limited experience, movie dates are literally the worst , though.”

“What? No way!”

“Yes way,” I argue, thankful for the shift to lighter territory. “You can’t talk during them, so how are you supposed to get to know the person?”

“That’s why movie dates aren’t for the beginning of a relationship,” Linc explains with the air of someone sharing profound wisdom. “They’re for when you already know the person. They’re just an excuse to hook up in a dark place that—if you pick the right movie—is usually empty.”

Heat rushes to my face, and I become extremely interested in a loose thread on my—wait, no, not my sweatshirt. Linc’s sweatshirt. The one he loaned me that night in his car when I was cold, and I… never gave back.

The one I realize I’ve been wearing a lot since that night.

Oh god .

I’m literally sitting here wearing his clothes like we’re a couple or something. Does he think that’s weird? Should I give it back? But it smells so good, and it’s the softest thing I own and?—

“You look good in it,” he says, as if reading my mind.

“Thanks,” I mumble. “I just needed the extra comfort today.”

“Rough day?”

I hesitate, debating how much to share. My period started this morning, and while it’s not usually awful, today brought cramps that felt like tiny demons stabbing my uterus with pitchforks.

I flash back to high school, to Derek’s disgusted face when I mentioned being on my period. We were making out in the park, and he’d slid his hand under my shirt toward my stomach.

When I winced and explained why, you’d have thought I’d told him I had the plague. He actually wiped his hand on his jeans before muttering something about “girl problems” and leaving me there.

But Linc isn’t Derek. He’s definitely been with enough women to have encountered periods before. Hell, if he really is the campus stud, there’s a fair chance he’s slept with some women on their period. Right?

“I’m on my period,” I blurt out, then immediately want to sink through the floor.