Page 47 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

twenty-eight

EM

The campus is practically deserted at this hour.

A few stragglers hurry across the quad, silhouettes against the amber glow of streetlamps.

My legs ache pleasantly from three straight hours of choreographing—that satisfying muscle fatigue that says I’ve accomplished something today besides existing and attending classes.

My phone buzzes against my ear as Grandma Penelope launches into another breathless recap.

“—and then Marcella confronted him about the hotel key! Can you believe it? The absolute audacity of this man?—”

“Hang on,” I interrupt, narrowly avoiding a collision with a skateboarder. I flatten myself against a tree, my dance bag swinging wildly. “Dude!”

He tosses a half-hearted apology over his shoulder without slowing down.

“What happened?” Grandma demands. “Are you being mugged? Do I need to call the police? I still have that detective’s number from?—”

“I’m fine,” I laugh, stepping back onto the sidewalk. “Just a near-death experience.”

“Americans,” she scoffs, the word dripping with Parisian disdain despite her having lived here for over fifty years. “So—did you watch the episode?”

I wince, already anticipating her reaction. “Not yet.”

“ Quoi? ” The word explodes through the phone with such force I have to pull it away from my ear. “Amélie Charlotte Dubois! We had an agreement !”

“I know, I know. But I have an excellent reason.”

“Are you in the hospital? Because anything short of a medical emergency is unacceptable.”

I roll my eyes, though of course she can’t see me. “Remember you said the wise thing about my situation with Linc?”

“I say many wise things, which makes it utterly impossible to keep track of them all.”

“Well,” I pause for dramatic effect, “I have a boyfriend.”

There’s a brief silence, then a delighted laugh crackles through the phone. “ Fantastique! So you followed my advice!”

“I did.” A smile spreads across my face, my cheeks warming despite the chill in the air. “You were right. Again. Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Impossible. My head is already too full of wisdom to fit anything else,” she says, the smugness practically radiating through the phone. “So, tell me.”

“Linc and I,” I confirm, sidestepping a puddle that gleams like black glass in the darkness. “We’re officially together.”

“Details, ma chérie ! How did it happen? Was it romantic? Did he sweep you off your feet? Did you finally tell him how you feel, like I suggested?”

I laugh, remembering exactly how our relationship status changed—which involved considerably less clothing than I’m willing to describe to my grandmother. “Let’s just say we both realized we wanted more than our… arrangement.”

“And now you’re together. Is he living up to his reputation?”

My face burns so hot I’m surprised it doesn’t illuminate the path. “Grandma!”

“What? I’m old, not dead. Besides, you’re the one who told me about it.”

“I did no such thing!” I sputter, then remember that, actually, I might have. My ADHD has a special talent for launching my mouth into motion before my brain can catch up, especially around people I’m comfortable with. “I mean, if I did, I was just repeating campus gossip.”

“Gossip that is accurate, from the sound of your voice.” Her laughter is wicked and knowing. “Good for you, ma petite . Life is too short for mediocre men.”

I nearly trip over a crack in the sidewalk. “Can we please talk about literally anything else?”

“Fine, fine. When do I get to meet this boy who has you too distracted for our shows?”

I pause at the entrance to my dorm building, digging through my dance bag for my key card. “Well, he has a big game this weekend against Brown.”

“Ah, so you’re one of those hockey girlfriends now? Sitting in the cold, screaming while men hit each other with sticks?”

“It’s an indoor rink,” I correct her, smiling at the mental image of my elegant grandmother bundled up in the stands. “But yeah, I guess I am.”

“Your mother will be horrified.” Grandma laughs, then continues. “It will be wonderful to see the look of disapproval on her face…”

Not sharing her enthusiasm, I finally locate my key card beneath a half-empty water bottle, and my color-coded planner. “Mom’s going to have to deal. But maybe next weekend? I could switch shifts at the diner, and we could come for dinner. Louis could join too—I think he’s free that weekend.”

The excited squeal that erupts is so uncharacteristic of my usually composed grandmother. “ Magnifique! I’ll make coq au vin—no, ratatouille—no, both!”

I swipe my card and push through the heavy door into the warmth of the building. “Don’t go overboard, Grandma. It’s just dinner.”

“Just dinner? Ma chérie , this is the first boy you’ve ever brought home to meet me. This is not ‘just’ anything.”

Her words create a sudden lump in my throat. She’s right. “Yeah,” I manage, my voice a little rough. “I guess it isn’t.”

“Good. Now tell me, does he like French cuisine? Because if he’s one of those boys who only eats chicken tenders and pizza, I need to know…”

I laugh, the moment of emotion passing. “He actually cooks and appreciates good food in general.”

“A man who cooks? Keep him!” She makes a satisfied noise. “Now, about Louis joining us—did he still break up with that awful girl?”

“Macey,” I supply, heading up the stairs rather than waiting for the ancient elevator. “And yes, they broke up months ago. Why?”

“Because I’m inviting Juliette’s granddaughter to dinner as well. She’s studying at Columbia, but she’ll be visiting next weekend. She’s very pretty, very smart.”

I stop mid-step. “Are you trying to set Louis up?”

“Of course not,” she scoffs unconvincingly. “I’m simply having my grandson over for dinner along with a lovely young woman who happens to be single.”

“You’re incorrigible,” I announce.

“I’m happy for you. Truly.” Her voice softens. “Your Linc, he treats you well? He respects you?”

“He does.” I reach my floor, pausing in the stairwell doorway. “Better than I expected, honestly.”

“Good. Because if he doesn’t, I still have that carving knife your grandfather gave me for our fortieth anniversary. Very sharp. Excellent balance.”

“Oh my God.”

“What? I’m joking!” She pauses. “Mostly.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “I love you, Grandma.”

“I love you too, ma petite ,” she says. “Before you go, did you hear about Brianna? From Love Match ?”

I fumble with my key, trying to balance my phone between my ear and shoulder. “No, what happened?”

“Eliminated! Can you believe it? For making only two salads for the romantic dinner challenge while everyone else prepared three courses. The betrayal!”

“Wait, what?” The key slips from my fingers and clatters to the floor. “No way. Brianna was the front-runner!”

“I know!” My grandmother’s voice reaches a pitch usually reserved for opera sopranos. “Judge Marcel called her meal ‘an insult to romance itself.’”

I unlock my door. “This is a travesty. Brianna was robbed.”

“Completely,” she agrees. “Now you must catch up before our next call.”

“I’ll try,” I promise, though my mind is already drifting to thoughts of Linc—specifically, what it might be like to bring him home, to see him sitting at my grandmother’s dining table, tasting her cooking, charming my parents. The image is both thrilling and terrifying.

“You’re thinking about your hockey boy again,” she says, reading my mind with that uncanny grandmother sixth sense. “I can hear you not listening.”

“Sorry,” I laugh. “I’ll watch Love Match tomorrow, I promise.”

“ Bon . Now go get some rest. You sound tired.”

We say our goodbyes, and I step into my apartment, immediately hit by the sharp scent of turpentine and the sight of Lea sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by canvases, paintbrushes, and what appears to be every art supply she owns.

“Hey,” she says without looking up, carefully applying a stroke of deep blue to the canvas in front of her. “How was dance?”

I check my watch—10:47 p.m. “Productive. What is all… this?” I gesture at the creative explosion covering our living room.

She sits back, examining her work with narrowed eyes. “It’s due in three weeks, but I had a sudden flash of inspiration and couldn’t sleep.”

“So you decided to recreate the aftermath of a tornado in an art supply store instead?”

Lea finally looks up, her tired eyes crinkling at the corners. “At least I put newspaper down this time.”

“True progress,” I acknowledge, carefully stepping over her work. “Last time I found paint on the ceiling. The ceiling , Lea. Physics doesn’t even support that.”

“Art defies physics,” she says solemnly before breaking into a grin. “Are you going to Linc’s game tomorrow?”

I pause in the middle of hanging up my jacket. “Uh, maybe?”

“Declan says it’s a huge deal. If they win, they’re practically guaranteed a playoff spot,” she says, then tilts her head. “Want to come with me? Mike’s still riding the bench, but he likes having moral support. And…” she waggles her eyebrows suggestively, “I bet Linc would love to see you there.”

“Yeah, that would be great.”

“Perfect.” Lea returns to her painting. “Game’s at seven. We should leave by six-thirty to get decent seats.”

“Sounds good.” I start heading toward my bedroom, then pause. “I just invited Linc to dinner at my grandmother’s next weekend. And possibly my parents’.”

Lea’s brush freezes mid-stroke. “Wow. That’s… big.”

“Is it too much?” Anxiety flutters in my chest. “Too soon? We’ve only been officially together for like, a minute, but it feels?—”

“Right,” Lea finishes for me, her expression softening. “It feels right. And that’s what matters.”

“Yeah,” I say, relief washing over me. “It really does.”

She smiles at me. “Now go to bed before you step on my wet canvas and die tragically young.”

I glance down to find I’m indeed centimeters away from ruining what appears to be a portrait of a woman with kaleidoscope eyes. “Your concern is touching.”

“What can I say? I’m a giver.” Lea makes a shooing motion. “Seriously though, go. You’ve got that glazed look you get when you’re running on empty.”

“Fine, fine.” I navigate the art obstacle course toward my bedroom. “But if I wake up with paint in my hair again, we’re having words.”

“That was one time!” she calls after me. “And it washed out… eventually … by the third time!”

I close my bedroom door and collapse onto my bed without bothering to change.

My limbs feel deliciously heavy from dance, and my mind is already drifting toward sleep, filled with pleasant thoughts of watching Linc tomorrow, cheering as he scores, seeing his face light up when he spots me in the stands.

I fall asleep with a smile on my face, feeling more content than I have in years. Everything is finally falling into place—my dance, studies, my friendships, my relationship with Linc. Even the prospect of introducing him to my family fills me with more excitement than fear.

For once, everything in my life feels perfectly aligned—like the universe has decided I’ve finally suffered enough and deserves something good. If only I’d remembered that the universe has a wicked sense of humor and an impeccable sense of timing.