Page 13 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

I meet his gaze, surprised by the sincerity there. People don’t usually apologize to me.

“Uh… thank you.”

For a moment, neither of us moves. The café noise fades into the background, and the air between us feels charged, as if something’s humming just beneath the surface.

I look away first, cheeks warming.

“So.” Dylan leans back, easing some of the tension between us. “How did my mom con you into this?”

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “You don’t want to know.”

“No,” he says. “I really do.”

“She told me you didn’t have many friends,” I admit. “And that she thought I might be someone you’d get along with.”

“She did not.”

“She absolutely did.”

He shakes his head, half amused, half exasperated. “She always does this. Butts into my life like it’s her job.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” I sigh, “she’s been relentlessly butting into mine for the past three months.”

That earns a real laugh, easy and unguarded. Something about the sound makes my heartbeat slow.

“Okay,” he says. “That actually does make me feel better.”

“So,” I say, leaning forward just slightly, “which Kerouac novel is your favorite?”

He takes a moment before answering. “The Town and the City.”

“His debut,” I say, impressed despite myself. “What do you like about it?”

He leans back in his chair, gaze drifting as he thinks. “I guess I connect with wanting something different from the life you were raised in but still feeling tied to it. Like no matter how far you go, something keeps pulling you back.”

“Roots and wings.”

He looks at me again. “What was that?”

I hesitate, then decide not to retreat. “It’s hard to have both. Roots keep you grounded, but wings make you curious. Sometimes it feels like you have to choose.”

His expression softens. “Yeah. Exactly.”

“I’ve never really spread my wings,” I say. “My roots run deep.”

“You grew up here?”

“I did.” Pride rises first. Uncertainty follows close behind. “I love it here. I’ve never wanted to live anywhere else.”

“And after graduation?” he asks softly. “Do you think that’ll change?”

“I don’t know.” The word comes out quietly. The future feels like a question I’ve been avoiding for years.

“What’s it like?” he asks.

“Not knowing?”

“No,” he says. “Wanting to stay somewhere everyone else seems eager to leave.”