Page 41 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

“Panties?” He folds his arms, affronted.

“I know you think I’m still your little girl,” I sigh, “but I’m all grown up.”

“If he breaks your heart,” Dad warns, punching the air, “I will punch him in the throat.”

“You’re not punching anyone in the throat.”

“I’m serious,” he adds, eyes twinkling. “He already has two strikes.”

“What are they?”

“Existing and keeping you out until one.”

“I’ll let him know,” I say, grabbing two mugs.

“Luce?” Dad’s voice softens.

“Yeah?”

“He’s a lucky guy if you’re giving him the time of day.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

The conviction in his voice settles some old, stubborn doubt inside me. Other than my parents and Aunt Joss, Dylan is the only other person who’s ever complimented me.

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t expect you to—”

“Thad!” Mom’s voice calls sharply from upstairs. “Thad!”

Dad’s face drains of color. He’s moving before I can react. The kettle screams just as I hear Mom cry out.

I shut off the stove and run.

Mom is doubled over, clutching her stomach.

“We need to get your mom to the hospital!” Dad yells at me.

My hands shake as I grab the keys from the ceramic bowl on the entryway table. Dad braces an arm around her waist and helps her down the stairs one step at a time, her face twisted in pain. I yank the front door open and race ahead to unlock the car.

I climb into the back seat beside Mom as Dad starts the car.

“What’s wrong?” I whisper.

“My s-stomach,” Mom gasps, clutching herself.

Houses and streetlights streak past the windows.

“Hurry,” I urge, watching the dark road vanish beneath the headlights.

“I am, Luce,” Dad answers, knuckles white on the wheel.

I smooth Mom’s hair back and force my voice to remain steady.

“I woke up with cramps,” she groans. “But this—this is different.”