Page 108 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

There’s a flicker in her eyes—relief, maybe—but she doesn’t linger on it. She doesn’t have to.

Gemma insists Kate’s stuffing recipe needs more sage. Dylan steals a roll before the basket reaches him, and Kate threatens to seat him at the children’s table even though there’s no children’s table.

Watching them together—the quiet pride in Kate’s eyes when Dylan talks about football, the way Gemma teases him without mercy—I start to understand something I hadn’t fully grasped before.

Dylan’s future isn’t just a dream he talks about.

Everyone in this room believes Dylan has a real chance. It doesn’t guarantee anything, but it makes the possibility feel close enough to touch.

And I suddenly feel like I’m standing at the edge of something enormous.

Professional football.

He could play for the Larks. Or somewhere neither of us has imagined.

Maybe not knowing exactly what comes after graduation isn’t only frightening. Maybe it’s freedom.

I could travel. See places beyond Willow Creek. I could work in publishing, teach, or finally take my own writing seriously.

Dylan and I could step into a larger world together without either of us disappearing inside the other’s dream.

I’ve spent my life reading about women who become the main characters of their own stories while I remain safely outside mine.

I should work on that.

And as I sit here between Dylan and Gemma, across from Kate, I don’t feel like I’m visiting anymore.

I feel included.

Not because everything is perfect, but because they made room for me without asking me to become someone else.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Dylan

I’ve spent most of my life chasing noise. Stadium lights. Crowds. The hard collision of pads on a cold field.

But standing here with Lucy, the only sounds are falling water and her breathing. I don’t have to perform or prove anything. I only have to be present.

Part of me still doesn’t know what to do with this much peace.

Tension was normal in our house, even before my parents divorced. Nothing dramatic enough to name, but always there. Tight voices, unfinished conversations, and doors closing harder than they needed to.

Maybe watching them taught me how quickly love can become something people endure instead of something that steadies them.

I reach for the shampoo bottle and then start washing Lucy’s hair.

She laughs softly and says, “You spoil me.”

“I’m building a very specific skill set.”

She smiles, and the look in her eyes hits deeper than I expected. Not playful. Not teasing. Just calm.

After I finish rinsing her hair, her hands move over my shoulders, returning the care with the same quiet attention.

The shower settles around us again—just water, breath, and the space between us.

And I find myself wondering if this is what I’ve been chasing all along.