Page 103 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

“Neither did I.” I lean against the door. “They’re usually better when they only have to be civil for five minutes.”

Her expression softens. “I’m worried about you.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“That’s not how loving someone works.”

The answer catches me off guard.

I hold out my hand, and she crosses the space between us.

Holidays used to sound different in this house.

When Gemma and I were kids, Thanksgiving meant noise—football blaring from the TV, Mom shouting at Dad for sneaking bites of stuffing before dinner, and neighbors drifting in and out of the kitchen like it was open territory.

Back then the tension was playful.

Now it feels like everyone is carefully stepping around invisible cracks in the floor.

“We can leave if you want.”

“No,” she says. “I just needed a minute.”

“Take as long as you need.”

She rests her forehead against my chest. “Am I making this harder?”

“No. This family was complicated long before you arrived.”

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“For what?”

“For being you.”

I kiss her softly.

“I should go back before they turn breakfast into a negotiation.”

She gives me a grateful smile, and I slip out alone.

I close the door and take a steadying breath. I thought bringing Lucy here would help her understand that I see her in my future.

Now, I’m not sure this trip is showing her what I hoped it would.

When I return, the kitchen feels different from before. Mom and Dad sit across from each other, plates barely touched. Mom looks up first, worry written all over her face. Dad pretends his phone is more interesting than the room.

“Lucy okay?” Mom asks, glancing toward the hall.

“Yeah,” I say, sitting down. “Just needed a breather.”

Mom looks toward the hallway. “I’m sorry if we made her uncomfortable.”

Dad sets his phone down. “So am I.”

Mom’s gaze flicks toward him. “Then perhaps we can act like adults for one morning.”

“That was the plan,” he says.