Page 136 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

“That sounds about right.”

“She never tried to fix anything.” Lucy’s voice softens. “She just kept handing me stories until I figured things out for myself.”

I follow her gaze toward the front doors.

“I used to be jealous of this place,” I tell her.

She blinks at me. “The library?”

I nod. “You always looked happier walking in here than anywhere else.”

She studies me for a long moment before smiling. “You know what’s funny?”

“What?” I say.

“I always thought you belonged at the stadium.”

I laugh. “I did, too.”

For a few seconds, neither of us speaks.

It’s strange how two people can spend hours looking at each other and still misunderstand where the other feels most alive.

Lucy squeezes my hand.

“You know,” she says, “I used to think I’d stay here forever.”

“What changed?”

She looks toward the second-floor windows where sunlight spills across the glass.

“I don’t think the library changed.”

“No?”

She shakes her head. “I did.”

The words hang between us. And I don’t rush to fill the silence.

Months ago, I would have.

Months ago, I would have started telling her about California. About opportunities. About how much she’d love it.

Now…

I just let her have the moment.

After a while she smiles, almost to herself. “I think that’s how you know you’ve grown.”

“How?”

“When the place that once felt big enough for your dreams suddenly feels too small.”

I look at the old brick building again. And I no longer see the place that kept Lucy hidden from the world. I see the place that quietly helped prepare her for it.

“What do you want now?” I ask.

She looks at the windows. “I want to write. I don’t know exactly what that means yet, but I want to find out.”