Page 31 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

Gretchen collects the menus and heads toward the kitchen.

“What were you expecting?” I ask.

He takes a drink of water, clearly enjoying himself. “I don’t know. My mom used to make Eggs Benedict every Sunday before she and my dad divorced.”

“So, it brings back fond memories?” I ask carefully.

“Yeah,” he says, laughing softly. “It does.”

“Do you miss those Sundays?”

He turns his water glass slowly between his hands. “Sometimes. Not because of the food. I just hated never feeling settled after the divorce.” He pauses. “That’s probably why I like reading so much. No matter where I am, I can disappear into another world.”

“I get that,” I say quietly.

Books have always been my escape, too. But where I use them to imagine a bigger life, Dylan uses them to find something solid.

“Speaking of my mom,” he says, hesitating, “she mentioned you haven’t answered her emails this week.”

“You talked about me?” My grip tightens around the edge of the menu.

“Not like that,” he assures me. “She just wondered if the first date went badly.”

He said date. Not meeting or coffee.

Date.

“I’ve been busy,” I say, not entirely lying. “I’ll email her back today.”

“You don’t have to,” he says gently.

“I want to,” I admit, my cheeks warming. “I just don’t know what to say. About you.”

His expression turns unbearably smug. “I’ve put you in an awkward position.”

“Why are you smiling?” I ask.

“Because you like me.”

“Everyone likes you,” I remind him, unable to hold his gaze. “Remember?”

He doesn’t deny it, which is somehow worse.

“So,” I say, trying to regain control, “any suggestions for what I should write?”

“You could tell her we had a spirited debate about books,” he says. “But you’re not interested in being friends with an attractive linebacker.”

“I never said you were attractive.”

“You didn’t say I wasn’t.”

“And who said we aren’t friends?” I counter, even though we’re clearly toeing a line I’ve never stood on before.

He tilts his head, eyes intent. “Are we? I think we might be a little more than that,” he adds lightly. “You did kiss me.”

“I kissed your cheek,” I correct.

“What’s the difference?”