Page 138 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

She shrugs helplessly. “For thinking I had to protect your dream instead of trusting you with mine.”

It’s strange.

We spent months carrying the weight of decisions we never let each other help make.

“I don’t want us doing that anymore,” I say quietly.

“Doing what?”

“Deciding things for each other.”

She smiles. “I’d like that.”

“So…” I squeeze her hand gently. “Next time one of us is scared—”

“We talk,” she finishes.

“Even if it’s messy.”

“Especially if it’s messy.”

“I can do messy.”

I swallow hard. “Does this mean we’re trying again?”

Lucy looks at our joined hands. “It means I never stopped wanting to.”

“Neither did I.”

She laughs again, shaking her head, and I realize something.

For months I’d imagined what getting Lucy back would feel like.

I’d pictured grand speeches.

Perfect words.

Some impossible moment where everything suddenly made sense.

Instead, it feels like this. Walking beside her. Making her laugh. Learning how to be honest before fear has the chance to speak for either of us.

Maybe love was never supposed to be found in the big moments.

Maybe it was always hidden inside a thousand ordinary ones like these.

Without really thinking about it, we drift toward Ashby Park, where we watched Shakespeare in the Park.

The playground is mostly empty, save for a little girl determined to conquer monkey bars while her father waits patiently beneath her, arms outstretched just in case.

Lucy smiles. “I used to come here with my mom.”

“You did?”

She nods. “Every Saturday morning. We’d stop at the café afterward if I managed not to fall off the swings.”

I grin.

We settle onto a weathered park bench beneath a sprawling maple tree. The branches sway overhead, scattering patches of sunlight across the sidewalk in front of us.