Page 54 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)
I drop my head against the sofa cushion behind me. “God, asking him to teach me about sex has to be the most idiotic decision I’ve ever made. Like, what was I thinking? ‘Hey, campus player with commitment issues, show me what intimacy is like!’ Yeah, brilliant plan, Em. A-plus life choices.”
Lea turns to face me, her expression surprisingly serious for someone drinking vodka through a straw at nearly 4 a.m. “Don’t do that,” she says firmly.
“Do what?” I snort, taking another long swig of my drink. “Be honest about my catastrophically bad judgment?”
“No, don’t act like trusting him was wrong.
Don’t act like loving him was a mistake.
” She sets her drink down. “A year ago, you wouldn’t have considered becoming intimate with anyone.
You wouldn’t have let yourself be vulnerable.
The fact that you could—that you did—that’s growth, Em. That’s healing.”
I hate that she’s right. It only makes everything more frustrating.
“Yeah, well, a lot of good that healing did me.” I slam my Slurpee down on the coffee table, blue liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “The worst part is, despite everything, despite how angry I am, despite how much I want to hate him… I still love him. How pathetic is that?”
“It’s not pathetic. It’s human.”
“It’s inconvenient is what it is.”
Lea laughs. “Yeah, emotions tend to be that way.”
“You’re supposed to be on my side,” I grumble, failing to hide my own smile.
She raises her cup again. “To Em Dubois, who’s still a badass even when she’s crying on the floor.”
“I’m not crying,” I point out, although my voice wavers dangerously. “ Yet , anyway.”
“Give the vodka time to work.”
I laugh despite myself and take another sip. The blue raspberry is starting to taste more like pure vodka—oops, forgot to stir it—and my head is pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. Combined with the lack of sleep and heightened emotions, we’re both definitely tipsy at this point.
“So what now?” Lea asks after a comfortable silence.
“Maybe I’ll get a cat. Just one, though. A small one, to spite my cousins.”
Lea snickers. “Very reasonable.”
I smirk. “I’m a reasonable person. Except when I fall in love with guys who?—”
“Who what?”
The voice doesn’t come from Lea. It comes from behind us, from the direction of our front door, which we apparently forgot to lock. It’s a voice I’d recognize anywhere, a voice I never expected to hear again in my dorm room.
My heart stops.
I turn my head slowly, my entire body tense, and see Linc standing in our doorway. His hair is a mess, his eyes are bloodshot, and he’s still wearing his uniform from the game.
“ What ,” I say with deadly calm that belies the storm raging inside me, “are you doing in my apartment?”
Before I can respond further, Lea launches to her feet and physically plants herself between me and Linc, arms spread like she’s guarding the goal at the World Cup… or whatever the hockey equivalent of a World Cup is, if there is one.
“Breaking and entering is a crime in all fifty states,” she says, voice sharp enough to slice through steel. “Get out before I call campus security.”
Linc’s gaze shifts from me to Lea, his expression unreadable. “Your door was unlocked.”
“It was—” Lea falters for a split second, glancing back at the entrance. “That doesn’t matter! You can’t just walk into someone’s apartment unannounced!”
“Lea—” he starts.
“No.” She advances toward him. “You don’t get to ‘Lea’ me. You lost all ‘Lea-ing’ privileges when you crushed my friend’s heart into powder.”
She places both hands against his chest and pushes. Linc, who outweighs her by at least seventy pounds of solid muscle, doesn’t budge an inch. It would be comical if I wasn’t busy trying to process the fact that he’s actually here.
Lea’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be?”
She pivots, marches to our study desk, and grabs her massive art history textbook. She brandishes it like a medieval weapon, and at this very moment I know who my money would be on in this engagement…
“I will concuss you with Renaissance masterpieces,” she threatens, raising the book above her head. “And if that fails, I have a collection of Exacto knives…”
Amusement flickers across Linc’s face before disappearing beneath a more somber expression. “Would it change anything if you knew I came to apologize?”
The words hang in the air, even as Lea pauses, the textbook still held aloft, and turns to look at me with raised eyebrows. The silent question is clear: What do you want me to do here?
My mind races in five different directions at once. Part of me wants to tell Lea to go ahead, give him a concussion, see how he likes unexpected pain. Another part—the part I’m less proud of—wants to throw myself into his arms and pretend the last twelve hours never happened.
But mostly, I need to know why.
Why he said he loved me and then walked away. Why he thought it was okay to break my heart in a hallway. Why he’s here now. I deserve an explanation, at the very least. And maybe hearing it will kill that stubborn flicker of hope that refuses to die.
“It’s okay,” I tell Lea, my voice steadier than I expected. “You can give us some space.”
“Are you sure?” Lea lowers the book, looking unconvinced. “Because I’m happy to test if a detailed examination of Michelangelo’s work can cause brain damage.”
Despite everything, that pulls a small laugh from me. “I’m sure.”
She sighs dramatically, setting the book down. “Fine. But I’m setting a timer for ten minutes.” She turns her laser focus on Linc. “And if I come back out here and find her crying, I swear to god I will make you regret being born with functioning limbs.”
Lea backs toward her bedroom before disappearing inside with a final threatening glare. And, once she’s gone, I push myself up from the floor, acutely aware of how I must look—unwashed hair pulled into a messy bun, wearing the same clothes I had on yesterday, eyes puffy from unshed tears.
But I refuse to hide from how much his rejection has hurt me.
I cross the room and stand directly in front of him, arms crossed tightly over my chest. It’s partly a defensive posture, but mostly it’s to keep my hands from trembling. I’m not sure what comes next, but we’ll find out in the next quarter-hour.
“You have ten minutes,” I say, meeting his gaze directly. My heart hammers against my ribs, but I keep my expression neutral. “Make them count.”