Page 9 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

five

EM

“All right, kid.” Harold materializes beside me, his perpetually wrinkled uniform stretched across his belly. “Your shift ended thirty minutes ago.”

I wipe my hands on my apron and gesture to tables twelve and fourteen. “But I’ve already got drinks started for those two tables, and the dinner rush will start soon…”

Harold’s bushy eyebrows merge into a single fuzzy caterpillar above his eyes. “What’s this? Volunteering for a double? Normally, you race out of here.”

“I just thought?—”

“Nope.” He shoves a cloth into his back pocket. “Rachel’s coming in at four. I’ve got it covered.”

“But—”

“No buts.” He plants his hands on his hips. “Go home. Rest. Don’t you have classes starting tomorrow?”

I do have classes tomorrow. At 9 a.m., in fact.

And I’m desperately hoping Linc isn’t in any of them.

Because, if he is, I’d have to sit there, pretending I didn’t bolt from his apartment like it was on fire and pretending my heart doesn’t race every time I think about how his lips felt against my skin.

“I can handle work and school,” I insist. “Rachel can take the booking for twenty, and I’ll stay in the weeds.”

Harold narrows his eyes, studying me with the perspicacity of someone who’s managed waitstaff for thirty years. “You can’t hide from your life here, kid.”

My mouth falls open. For a man whose idea of a bold move is adding both salt and pepper to his food, Harold can be perceptive. “Just need the money,” I lie.

“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t even pretend to believe me. “Hide elsewhere. Or, better yet, confront whoever or whatever it is. But get out of here.”

I sigh, knowing when I’m beaten. Untying my apron, I head to the back to collect my things, dragging my feet the entire way.

My car keys feel unusually heavy in my hand as I step outside into the January chill.

The diner’s neon sign casts a pink glow across the parking lot, illuminating my old Honda Civic.

I slide into the driver’s seat and sit there, not turning the key. Going back to the dorm means potentially facing Lea, and I’m not ready for her questions. The memory of her face when I left O’Neil’s with Linc flashes through my mind—eyebrows raised, lips pursed in a silent “well, well, well.”

She’s definitely going to want details, and I can’t even process them myself yet.

I rest my forehead against the steering wheel, groaning. I made such a fool of myself. One minute I was all over him—and he was all over me, more to the point—and the next I was sprinting for the elevator like I was being chased by a chainsaw-wielding maniac. He must think I’m insane.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a message from Lea:

Still at the diner?

I type back quickly:

Just finished. Heading home now.

The reply comes quick:

Cool, Dec and I are at the library. Won’t be back until late.

Relieved, I reply nonchalantly:

OK!

Then she surprises me by replying again:

I still need gossip on what happened with Linc! Dec is playing dumb!

I put my phone away without responding. She wants answers, but her being out means no interrogation, at least not yet.

The irony of avoiding Lea isn’t lost on me. Last semester, I was both her cheerleader and perpetual shoulder to cry on while she worked things out with Declan. I listened to every tearful play-by-play, offered sage advice at 3 a.m., and provided gallons and gallons of cinnamon cider.

But that was different. That was Lea’s love life, not mine.

“Just a little double standard,” I mutter to my reflection in the rearview mirror. “Totally reasonable.”

The thing is, I’ve been deliberately vague whenever Lea’s asked about potential romantic interests, or past ones. She used to ask all the time, but my answers were always some version of “meh” or “not interested” or “did you see that guy’s shoes?”

Eventually, she stopped asking.

And good thing, too, because there’s a history I don’t want to share.

But then she’d watched me follow Linc outside.

And now she wants to know everything.

But what can I even tell her? That I ran away from the hottest guy on campus because he touched my jeans?

That I’m a twenty- one-year-old who freaked out at the prospect of going beyond second base?

That I decided to wade into the pool of boys after a long time on the sidelines and barely made it past my ankles?

But that’s all stuff I don’t need to deal with right now, so I start the car, pull out of the parking lot and drive back to campus—fifteen minutes of just me and my thoughts, which is approximately fourteen minutes and fifty-nine seconds too many right now.

Wow, I’m a mess.

It’s just… kissing Linc was a mistake. A hot, electric, toe-curling mistake that I’ve replayed in my head approximately eight million times since bolting from his apartment, but a mistake nonetheless. I liked my crush better when it was just that—a crush.

A little heart skip when I saw him, coupled with the complete absence of pressure to act on those feelings. It was safe. Uncomplicated. And now it’s a mess.

Because once he kissed me? Game over. His lips felt too good against mine, his hands too perfect on my body. By the time his teammate whooped at us, I wasn’t even embarrassed—I was too focused on getting closer to Linc, until I remembered why I kept the distance from guys in the first place.

Derek’s sneering face flashes through my mind, his words from four years ago still as sharp as glass. I squeeze my eyes shut, push the memory away. It’s ancient history. I’m not seventeen anymore, and Linc isn’t Derek.

But I still ran.

Because the truth is, I don’t know how to do this. How to let someone touch me without panicking, how to be vulnerable without expecting the worst. And now I’ve probably ruined any chance of finding out if Linc could be different.

All because I freaked out the second things got a little heated.

As I pull into the parking lot outside my dorm, I rest my head against the headrest and close my eyes, trying to be reasonable and let some light into the gloom inside my head.

I mean, the night wasn’t a total disaster.

For starters, asking Linc to go outside was probably the most forward move I’ve made.

I’ve never been shy about speaking my mind in other areas of my life—I once told my dance instructor her choreography looked like a kindergartener designed it while having a seizure—but with men… well… not so much. Yet something about Linc had made me bold, for a while, at least.

I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, a nervous habit I’ve never managed to break. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.

Something had made me grab his hand, pull him outside, kiss him like I knew what I was doing. For a brief, glorious moment, I’d channeled the confidence I have in every other aspect of my life into something romantic. Honestly, that’s progress, even with the pathetic ending.

I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling of my car. “A step forward,” I whisper to myself. “One tiny baby step.”

But that’s all it can be. With Linc, anyway. His reputation precedes him—everyone knows he’s slept with half the female population on campus, and there are invite-only WhatsApp groups dedicated to his sexual prowess—and he’s not going to waste any more time with the freak-out queen.

We’re operating in different universes.

And, honestly, I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t spread gossip about me.

But, unlike with Derek, at least it’d be true this time.

Which is too bad, because there was definitely chemistry between us. If I hadn’t freaked out, who knows where the night might have led? But I did freak out, and now I’m sitting in my car having a conversation with myself like a lunatic.

The worst part is, I know my hang-up isn’t about dating itself.

I can talk to guys just fine. I can even flirt with them—sort of.

It’s the physical part that sends me into panic mode.

The moment things cross from casual to intimate, my brain disconnects from my body, and all my carefully constructed confidence crumbles.

But how am I supposed to get comfortable with physical intimacy if I’m only ever with strangers? That’s the paradox. To get past my fear, I need practice. To get practice, I need to get past my fear. It’s the world’s most frustrating chicken-and-egg scenario.

And let’s be honest—what guy is patient enough to wait around while I work through my issues? Especially a guy like Linc, who could have his pick of experienced, willing partners. Why would he waste time on someone who might never be ready?

I bang my head gently against the steering wheel. “I need a manual,” I grumble. “Dating for Dummies: Trauma Edition.”

I finally drag myself out of the car and head toward my dorm, my steps heavy. The campus is quiet tonight—most students probably still clinging to the last precious hours before classes resume tomorrow. A few people cluster around the entrance to my building, and I slip past them with a half-smile.

I’m looking forward to a lazy Sunday afternoon of alone time, catching up on reality TV that I can discuss with my grandmother and free of any thoughts of boys or Linc. But when I push open the door to our dorm room, I discover my plans have been utterly sabotaged.

“There she is!” Lea chirps from her perch on the couch, cross-legged in sweatpants that are at least two sizes too big—definitely Declan’s. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and she’s holding a mug of hot chocolate in her?—

Wait .

Lea .

Here .

The library text was a trap.

“I thought you were studying,” I say, immediately suspicious of her apparent change of plans.

“I am studying.” She gestures to a textbook that’s clearly been positioned as a prop. It’s not even open to a real page—just the table of contents.