Page 4 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

Laughter. Belonging. The strange thrill of being part of something loud and alive.

My fingers hover over the door handle.

What’s the worst that could happen?

The answer comes quickly. I hesitate. I breathe. And then I let my hand fall back into my lap.

Not tonight.

The engine hums beneath me as I pull away from the curb, the library lights shrinking in my rearview mirror. Althenia Hall has always been my sanctuary. The place where stories unfold safely, predictably, with endings I can trust.

I’ve always admired women like Elizabeth Bennet, who spoke her mind without apology. Jane Eyre, who found her voice when it mattered. Even Catherine Earnshaw, reckless and passionate and unafraid of wanting too much.

I am not them.

I’m Lucy, the Library Girl. I read instead of attend. Observe instead of leap. I keep pepper spray in my pocket and courage bookmarked for another day.

Still… as I drive away, I can’t quite shake the memory of his smile. His gentle voice. The way he treated me like I wasn’t invisible. Like I belonged in the conversation.

Maybe fictional characters aren’t the only ones capable of defying first impressions.

Maybe tonight wasn’t the moment, but it was something.

Chapter Two

Dylan

A shrill ringtone slices through the quiet, dragging me out of the best dream I’ve had all year. We won the national championship.

I groan and crack one eye open, the vibration of my phone drilling straight through my skull.

Great.

Even though I didn’t touch alcohol last night, my head feels like I spent the night face-down at the bottom of a bottle.

“Hello?” My voice comes out rough, my throat dry as sandpaper.

“Did I wake you?” Mom’s voice crackles through the line. She’s far too cheerful for someone calling before noon. “Oh good. I was hoping I did.”

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. “Already ran five miles,” I lie, stifling a yawn. “Just finished making breakfast for the guys.”

“You’ve always been a terrible liar, Dylan.”

“And you’ve always been obnoxious first thing in the morning.”

She laughs. “Your childhood must have been a nightmare.”

“Well…” I clear my throat and push myself upright. “My parents got divorced when I was thirteen, and I spent my teenage years living out of a suitcase.”

“The trauma is trauma-ing,” she teases.

It wasn’t like that. Not really.

Mom and Dad didn’t fight. Not much, anyway. One day they just stopped loving each other. Gemma and I split our weeks evenly, shuffling back and forth like it was normal.

It worked.

The only thing I hated was the suitcase. Still do. Funny thing is, this cramped campus dorm I share with three guys is the most stable place I’ve ever lived.