Page 30 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

“I’ve never been in love, so I can’t say for sure.”

“Why not?”

“Why not what?” His confusion appears genuine.

“Why have you never been in love?” I clarify.

Dylan tilts his head, thoughtful. “I think love requires understanding. And no one’s ever really understood me.”

That catches my attention.

“So you believe that to love someone—to truly love them—they have to understand every part of who you are?” I ask.

He leans closer. “Don’t you?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t think anything about love makes sense.”

“What about Darcy and Elizabeth?” he counters. “They understood each other on a level no one else could.”

“Yeah,” I say, “but only after Darcy fell in love with Elizabeth against his better judgment.”

“What if his heart knew all along she’d accept him exactly as he was?” Dylan challenges, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“What if it didn’t?” I fire back, enjoying the spark between us.

He accepts the challenge immediately. “Catherine and Heathcliff, then. She says their souls are made of the same stuff. That makes it seem like love does make sense. Like it requires—”

“Empathy,” I finish. “But if there had been real understanding, Catherine wouldn’t have married Edgar Linton. And if she had, Heathcliff wouldn’t have been so angry. He wouldn’t have felt betrayed.”

Dylan leans back, arms crossing as he considers this. “Understanding doesn’t change how we feel about the choices other people make. Heathcliff might’ve understood why Catherine chose Linton. That doesn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt.”

I nod slowly. “Exactly. Love doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t disappear just because the person you love chooses someone else. It stays.”

The thought quiets some of my earlier playfulness. Love is brave and bold. All the great classics say so. But I’m neither of those things. I understand Jane Eyre’s instinct to guard the private parts of herself, even when everything inside her is demanding to be heard.

“And sometimes,” I add softly, “it just turns into something sharper.”

Dylan studies me for a moment before asking quietly, “Have you ever been in love?”

“Oh, many times. Every time I pick up a book. Every time a character gives their heart to someone, I feel like I do, too.”

Amusement reaches his eyes. “I get why you think love doesn’t make sense.”

I hitch one shoulder, trying to keep it playful. “Be careful. That kind of understanding might make you fall in love with me.”

“It just might.” The teasing answer lands with unexpected weight.

My throat goes dry just as Gretchen appears at our table.

“What can I get for you two this morning?”

Dylan barely glances at the menu. “French toast.”

“And for you?” she asks, turning to me.

“Eggs Benedict,” I say, deciding on a whim.

“Eggs Benedict?” Dylan arches an amused eyebrow. “Not what I was expecting.”