Page 132 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

I sip my latte without tasting it, the warmth dulling the ache only briefly before the story pulls me under again. There’s something devastating about watching Marianne learn that intensity is not the same as devotion, and that the person she wanted was never capable of loving her the way she deserved.

Willougby never truly chooses Marianne. Dylan’s mistake was different. He tried to choose me by erasing every other part of himself.

The café fades into background noise—the clink of mugs and the hiss of the espresso machine—as Marianne’s sorrow bleeds into my own. How can someone so vivid, so alive, be relegated to the margins of someone else’s story? And yet… I know exactly what that feels like.

For a moment, memory intrudes. Dylan’s laugh. The warmth of his hand in mine that night at Shakespeare in the Park. The way he made me feel things I’d never felt before. And then the doubt follows—the quiet fear that grew as I realized I was falling for someone whose dreams had always stretched far beyond this place. I wanted to be enough. Wanted to take up as much space in his heart as football always had. The problem is that I took up too much space.

I close the book and rest my hand on its cover, grounding myself in its weight. I don’t know if Marianne would understand, but I feel bound to her—this fear of loving fully while I wonder whether love always asks someone to become smaller so the other person can keep moving forward.

The bell above the café door chimes.

I don’t look up right away, still caught in the echo of Marianne’s heartbreak, until footsteps stop near my table. When I lift my gaze, my breath catches.

Dylan stands just inside the doorway, the morning light framing his broad shoulders. He looks different—not dramatically so, but softer somehow, as if he’s been carrying too much and is finally ready to set it down.

For a heartbeat, I think my mind is playing tricks on me. I’ve imagined this moment more times than I’d like to admit. Dylan walking through a door, smiling like nothing between us ever broke.

But this isn’t a daydream.

The way he hesitates just inside the doorway, the way his eyes search the room until they find mine, it’s real.

And suddenly every carefully constructed wall I built over the past few months feels fragile.

Because the truth I’ve been trying not to admit is standing right in front of me.

He offers a small, uncertain smile and takes a step closer. “Lucy.”

His voice unlocks a flood of memories—late nights, whispered conversations, mornings wrapped in quiet intimacy. My pulse stutters as I force myself to stay still.

“Hi,” I manage, my voice softer than I intend. My fingers curl around the edge of the book like it’s an anchor.

“Is it okay if I sit?” he asks, tentative. This isn’t the Dylan who used to move through the world like he always knew the next step. There’s vulnerability here now. Honesty.

I nod. He pulls out the chair across from me and sits, resting his forearms on the table. For a moment, he simply looks at me, as though he is making sure I’m really here.

The silence between us is charged.

“I hoped you’d be here.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask. “I thought you were in California.”

“I was. I flew back last night. I came here to see you.” His eyes flick to the book. A faint smile tugs at his mouth. “Sense and Sensibility. Still escaping into stories?”

“Some habits are hard to break,” I say, forcing a small smile.

He nods, his fingers tracing slow patterns on the table. “I keep thinking about us. About how things ended. I thought time would make it clearer.”

I tense, bracing myself.

“But nothing makes sense without you.”

He exhales slowly, as if the words have been waiting a long time to be said.

“I tried convincing myself that moving forward meant leaving everything else behind,” he continues. “That if I just focused hard enough on football, the rest of it would sort itself out.”

His eyes soften as they meet mine.

I don’t know what to say, so I let him continue uninterrupted.