Page 19 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

“Why don’t we just get a drink,” I suggest, “sit on a park bench, and be ourselves?”

She lets out a slow breath. “I think I’d like that.”

“No pressure,” I add. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

We grab two hot chocolates and settle on a bench near the outdoor stage.

The park has been transformed by strings of lights looped between the trees and a wooden stage framed by painted stone balconies. Programs rustle as the audience settles. Someone behind us unwraps a crinkling bag of popcorn, and the metal bleachers creak beneath shifting bodies. Lucy cups both hands around her drink, breathing in the steam. By the time the last daylight disappears, the stage lights cast everything, including Lucy, in a warm, golden glow.

I sit close enough to feel her warmth, but I keep my hands to myself. Something tells me she needs patience more than bravado.

“If you could rewrite Romeo and Juliet,” I ask quietly, “how would you end it?”

She fingers the gold flower pendant at her neck. “I don’t know. How would you?”

“Romeo wakes up after dreaming how it all ends. He realizes loving Juliet doesn’t mean dragging her into a war between their families, so he leaves before either of them has to die.”

“And they’d both be alive?”

“They would.”

“But not together?”

“No.”

She considers that, then nods slowly. “A tragedy worse than death,” she muses. “What could’ve been but can’t be.”

“What about you?” I press. “How would you rewrite the ending?”

She mulls it over, gnawing on her lower lip. “I don’t think I’d change anything.”

“Really?”

“Forbidden love,” she says with a shrug. “Anything that starts in extremes usually ends the same way.”

“Too much momentum can be just as dangerous as having none at all,” I add.

“Exactly.” Lucy smiles, and I have to look toward the stage before she sees how much it affects me. “Shakespeare wrote the right ending. I wouldn’t change it.”

She glances down at the space between us. For a moment, I don’t think she’s going to do it. Then, almost shyly, her fingers brush mine before slowly lacing through them.

I turn my hand over and squeeze hers gently, letting her decide how long she wants to hold on.

As the stage lights brighten and the first lines of the play carry across the park, Lucy’s hand remains in mine.

Whatever this is, it doesn’t feel like a distraction.

And that scares me more than it should.

Chapter Five

Lucy

“I’m heading out!” I call over my shoulder, grabbing my black apron and phone off the kitchen counter.

“Is Joss picking you up?” Mom asks, jogging into the room and pumping her bright pink five-pound weights in rhythm.