Page 53 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

thirty-two

EM

The digital clock mocks me with its red glow, each minute ticking by like a personal insult. Three hours and seventeen minutes of a brand new day, which I’m experiencing horizontally on the floor of the living area of my doom room, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers.

I’ve been down here since midnight, after realizing that my bed—a place where I normally pass out within minutes of my head hitting the pillow—has transformed into some kind of medieval torture device designed specifically to deny sleep to the recently dumped.

The hardwood presses uncomfortably against my spine.

Good. The physical discomfort feels appropriate somehow, like my body is just catching up to what my heart’s been feeling since last night, when Linc looked at me in that hockey rink hallway and said those four words that keep replaying in my mind.

I can’t do this.

I curl my fingers into fists. The anger that’s been building for hours heats my blood, making my skin feel too tight, too hot. My jaw aches from clenching it so hard.

That absolute asshole .

I trusted him. I let him see parts of me—literally and metaphorically—that no one else had ever seen. I let him be my first. I told him I loved him, and he said it back. He looked me in the eyes and said those three words, and I believed him.

Everything about us felt real. And then, not even twenty-four hours later, the second I mentioned meeting my family, he goes all wide-eyed panic mode and dumps me in a hallway.

A hallway .

“Pressure,” he’d said. “Need some space.”

Space.

Sometimes, I want to hug my mind, because right now it’s conjuring up an incredibly satisfying image of Linc being launched into actual space without a helmet.

My grandmother would tell me that’s not productive. She’s probably right, but right now, the fantasy is keeping me from screaming with rage and heartbreak at 3:19 in the morning, so I’m counting it as a win.

I roll onto my side, wincing as my hip bone makes contact with the floor. Part of me recognizes that I could just go back to bed, or at least move to the couch that’s three feet away, but there’s something righteous about this discomfort.

Like I’m punishing my body for being so stupid.

For wanting him.

For still wanting him despite the fact that he broke my heart.

My phone lights up on the coffee table. For one wild, pathetic second, my heart leaps, thinking it might be him.

But it’s just Louis, sending me a TikTok at an ungodly hour.

I don’t bother looking at it. I don’t want to laugh right now.

I want to marinate in my anger because it’s the only thing keeping the tears at bay.

What’s infuriating—truly, deeply infuriating—is that as hurt and angry as I am, I’m also… okay?

Not okay okay. I’m not about to skip down the street singing about rainbows. But I’m not destroyed either. After Derek, I was a wreck for months. My grades tanked, and I couldn’t even look at guys without feeling sick. I truly believed I was broken in some fundamental way that could never be fixed.

It took me years to recover from that, including changing high schools, a gap year and swearing off boys for a long time. But now, lying here on my uncomfortable floor at 3:21 a.m., I’m sad and I’m furious, but I’m not broken. And somehow, that makes me even angrier.

Because the most infuriating part of all this?

Linc helped me find that strength. Our relationship—the one he tossed away like it meant nothing—taught me that I could be vulnerable again.

That I could enjoy physical intimacy. That I could open myself up to another person. That I was worth being loved.

And I am. Regardless of what Linc Garcia thinks or feels, I’m worth being loved.

“ Fuck ,” I whisper to my empty dorm, pushing myself back up to sitting, my back protesting after hours on the hard floor.

Sleep isn’t happening tonight. My brain is too busy crafting elaborate scenarios where Linc realizes what an idiot he’s been and comes crawling back, only for me to deliver some devastating one-liner that leaves him shattered while I saunter away, my hair somehow blowing in the wind even though we’re indoors.

It’s a nice fantasy, but I know myself too well. If he showed up right now with an apology and those stupidly gorgeous eyes of his, I’d probably forgive him immediately because apparently my bar for men is so low it’s practically a tavern in hell.

The longer I sit on the floor feeling sorry for myself, the more I realize one thing: I refuse to spend the next decade of my life afraid to date again because of Linc Garcia. I’ve been there, done that, got the emotional trauma T-shirt, and I’m not going back to that place.

I won’t become the cat lady my cousins joke about at family gatherings—though to be fair, cats are loyal, which puts them leagues ahead of certain hockey players. I’m hurt, yes—devastated, even—but not broken, and the heat of the anger I’m feeling is helping to weld together the cracks in my heart.

This pep talk I’m giving myself might be more convincing if I wasn’t still sitting on the floor of my dorm at 3:30 in the morning, but hey, baby steps. At least my internal monologue has graduated from murder fantasies to something vaguely resembling self-respect.

The sound of a key in the lock makes me freeze. Lea left around two-thirty, claiming we needed “provisions” if we were going to properly process my emotional trauma. Judging by the time she’s been gone, I assume those provisions include a freshly slaughtered cow and a small vineyard.

“I come bearing the necessities of emotional support!” Lea announces as she kicks the door open, her arms loaded with plastic bags. “Although the only store still open within fifteen miles was that sketchy gas station by the highway, so our options were limited.”

She stops short when she sees me still on the floor, exactly where she left me. “Em, have you moved at all?”

“I shifted from my back to my side at one point,” I say. “You should have seen it. It was very dramatic.”

Lea dumps her bags on our tiny kitchen counter.

“Well, I got chips. Three different kinds because I wasn’t sure what kind of breakdown we’re having.

Salt and vinegar if we’re angry, barbecue if we’re sad, and sour cream and onion if we’re in that middle zone where we hate everyone but also want to cry. ”

“I’ll take all three,” I laugh for the first time since Linc dumped me, then start to sit up. “My emotional damage has depth and dimensions .”

“And…” She pulls out two massive Slurpees with a triumphant flourish. “Ta-da! One cherry for me, one blue raspberry for you?—”

The sight of that bright blue frozen drink hits me like a sucker punch. I collapse back onto the floor with a groan, covering my face with my hands.

“What?” Lea asks, then her face falls as she realizes. “Oh shit. His post-game Slurpee thing. The blue… I’m so sorry, Em, I wasn’t thinking?—”

“It’s fine,” I say, even though it’s clearly not. I uncover my face and force myself to sit up. “Hand it over, consider it the potion I need to reclaim my control.”

“I can dump it. We can just have chips?—”

“No.” I reach up with more determination than I’ve felt all night. “I refuse to let Linc Garcia ruin Slurpees for me on top of everything else he’s taken.”

Lea passes me the frozen drink with a cautious smile. “That’s my girl.”

I take a long sip, and the artificial blue raspberry flavor floods my mouth. It tastes like nostalgia and heartbreak and, weirdly, a bit like victory. At least I’m not letting him steal one more thing from me.

“You know what would make this better?” Lea asks, setting her cherry Slurpee on the coffee table and heading back to the kitchen.

“A time machine?”

“Second best thing.” She pulls a bottle of vodka from the freezer. “Courtesy of Mike, who says to tell you he’s, quote, ‘Ready to kick Linc’s ass if you want.’”

Something warm blooms in my chest at that. “You told Mike?”

“Of course not.” Lea returns with the vodka and two shot glasses. “Declan did. Who heard it from Maine. It’s the hockey team. They’re a symbiotic organism.”

Great. Nothing quite like being the talk of the town to put the cherry on top of my rejection sundae. It’s a shame, too, because I’d started to think of some of those guys as friends.

Lea pours a double shot of vodka into each of our Slurpees and raises hers in toast. “To dickheads who don’t deserve you.”

I clink my cup against hers. “To vodka. The real MVP.”

We drink in silence for a moment. I can feel the alcohol warming my stomach, softening the edges of my pain just slightly. Lea slides down to join me on the floor, her back against the sofa.

“So,” she says after a while, choosing each word as carefully as a fish swimming past a shark. “Have you heard from him?”

I snort. “Not a peep. Radio silence. I’ve officially joined Linc’s legion of former girls. Maybe we should start a support group. Make t-shirts.”

“You haven’t tried to call him?”

“No, fuck him. What would I even say?” I say, taking another long sip, the alcohol and sugar creating a pleasant buzz. “‘Hey, remember when you said you loved me and then dumped me twelve hours later? Good times!’” I shake my head. “No thanks. My dignity has taken enough hits.”

Lea nudges my shoulder with hers. “What happened, Em? Really? You were so happy yesterday morning.”

“Nothing!” I sigh. The memory of that morning—waking up in his arms, making love, his whispered “I love you” against my skin—sends a fresh wave of pain through me. I take another gulp of my spiked Slurpee. “That’s the weird thing. Everything was great and then… it wasn’t.”

She stays silent. The old ‘keep quiet until Em can’t resist talking’ trick.

It works.