Page 119 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

“What’s going on?” I ask, reflecting his seriousness back to him.

He finally looks up, meeting my eyes. “I’ve gone back and forth all morning about whether I should even be here. But I wanted to talk to you about something,” he says quietly. “About Dylan.”

My mouth dries. Before he even continues, I know this isn’t casual.

“Look, Lucy,” he says, leaning forward, resting his arms on the table. “I know you and Dylan are dealing with a lot right now. I just… suck at this kind of thing.”

I nod, my heart racing.

“It seems like he’s been… different lately,” Darnell continues, glancing toward the window like he’s searching for the right phrasing. “Not in a bad way. Just… worried. And it’s not just football.”

I lick my lips nervously. “What do you mean?”

Darnell exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “You know Dylan’s always talked about going pro like it was his destiny. Football’s been his whole life. His purpose. The thing that kept him pushing when everything else got hard.” He hesitates, then looks at me again. “But now he’s talking about walking away from it.”

I frown. “What?”

“He’s talking like he might turn down the Larks if it means moving away from you.”

Dylan giving up football wasn’t something I ever imagined. And for me? That doesn’t sound like him.

“But I never asked him to do that,” I say quickly. “I would never—”

“I know,” Darnell cuts in gently. “I know I’m crossing a line. He’ll probably never forgive me for this. But I don’t know if he’s thinking straight.”

“Why are you telling me instead of telling him to talk to me?”

“Because he thinks loving you means he already knows what you need. He’s torn up over the idea of being across the country from you. I told him long distance could work, at least for a while, but…”

“He said football wasn’t the only thing he wanted anymore,” I finish, recalling our conversation at the arcade.

Darnell shifts in his seat, his voice softer now. “He told me he’s scared that choosing football means losing you.”

My fingers curl against the edge of the table, my pulse pounding in my ears. Hearing from Dylan’s best friend that he’s willing to give up everything—the dream he’s worked toward his entire life—because he doesn’t want to be away from me?

It’s too much.

I stare down at the table, my reflection faint in the polished wood, and all I can think is no.

Not like this.

Not for me.

Dylan’s dream has existed longer than I have. Longer than us. It was there before the time he fixed my car, before Shakespeare in the Park, before late-night phone calls and whispered promises and all the quiet, beautiful ways we’ve learned each other.

And I love him too much to be the reason that disappears.

The thought arrives in me with a terrible kind of clarity.

Maybe this is the part of Atticus that stays with me. Not the courtroom. Not the verdict. Just the quiet understanding that doing what feels right doesn’t always feel victorious.

I blink hard, forcing the tears back. Across from me, Darnell watches with a kind of helpless sympathy that only makes this more real.

Right now, every future I imagine is asking Dylan and me to become someone we never meant to be.

At least not yet.

“But that’s his dream,” I whisper, more to myself than to Darnell. “How can he just give that up?”