Page 112 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

Mom’s voice pulls me fully back, and I exhale, marking my place before closing Gone with the Wind on my lap. The story dissolves, but the feeling doesn’t. That sense of being suspended between two worlds clings stubbornly to me.

“Coming,” I call, even as my thoughts lag behind.

Scarlett fades. Tara disappears. But the question remains: what life do I want now?

I move into the kitchen, where the mouthwatering smell of pancakes fills the room. Comforting. Predictable. And yet, there’s a heaviness sitting in my chest that doesn’t belong here.

“Morning,” I say, forcing brightness as I take a seat.

Mom watches me for half a second too long. She always does that. Sees the cracks before I even know they’re there.

“Are you okay?” she asks gently. “You seem… far away.”

I toy with the edge of my napkin, debating. Then the words spill out anyway.

“I’ve been thinking,” I admit. “About Dylan. About everything.”

Her expression softens, already understanding more than I’ve said. “About him possibly moving California?”

I nod, my throat burning. “The Redwood Larks, Mom. That’s not just a job. It’s a whole different life. And I’m still here. Everything I’ve ever known is here.” I swallow. “I’ve built my life around staying close. Around not changing.”

She lets me talk. She always does.

“When I was in Dallas,” I continue, “Gemma took me to volunteer at the food bank. It was nice. Really nice. And Kate, she made me feel welcome. Like I belonged.” I shake my head. “But it never quite felt like home.”

Dallas felt fast in a way I’m not used to.

Even the air seemed different—rich with movement and possibility.

Dylan belonged there naturally.

He moved through that city with an ease that made me realize something I hadn’t fully admitted to myself before.

His world is expanding.

Mine has always stayed the same size.

“They made me feel like I belonged with them,” I say. “But belonging with people isn’t the same as knowing whether I could build a life in their world.”

Dallas welcomed me, but it still felt unfamiliar. Temporary.

She reaches across the table, resting her hand over mine. “Sometimes,” she says softly, “the hardest part isn’t leaving home. It’s deciding whether you’re ready to build a new one.”

Her words reach much deeper than Scarlett’s ever have.

Because this isn’t a story I can close and set aside.

This is my life. And I’m realizing that staying exactly where I am might be just as frightening as stepping into the unknown.

“I know,” I say quietly. “But it’s not just the distance. It’s this… looming thing over everything. Dylan’s future feels so defined. So big. If he gets the chance to play professionally, he could be traveling and living a life that stretches far beyond anything I’ve imagined for myself.”

Mom studies me before answering.

“You don’t need your whole life mapped out,” Mom says. “But you should start paying attention to what pulls at you.”

Her words feel weighty in my chest.

What do I want?