Page 43 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

In a novel, she would be Marmee—steady, loving, and stronger than everyone realizes.

Sitting here in the Willow Creek emergency room, the thought of losing her is unbearable. She’s the reason I learned to never be afraid to be myself.

“Lucy?”

I look up just as Dylan crosses the room. He looks out of place in a sweatshirt and pajama pants, but I’m just happy he’s here.

The moment he reaches me, I fall into his arms.

“You came,” I whisper.

“I told you I would.” His arms tighten around me. “Are you okay?”

“No,” I admit. “I’m not.”

He presses a kiss to my forehead. “It’s going to be alright.”

The clean scent of laundry detergent is so ordinary that it gives me something solid to hold on to.

“I’m here.”

“I know.”

“She’s going to be fine.”

“I don’t know if she will be,” I whisper. “She was in so much pain.”

“Then we’ll sit here,” he says gently, “until we know.”

Our fingers lace together, and for the first time tonight, I make it all the way to ten without losing count.

Nothing has changed, but I no longer feel as though I’m facing it alone.

Chapter Ten

Dylan

I’ve been holding Lucy’s hand for the past fifteen minutes, my thumb moving absently over her knuckles as we sit in the crowded ER waiting room. The place hums with restless energy—someone clutching their head in pain, a little girl crying into her mother’s shoulder, a woman being rushed through swinging doors, her face drained of color.

But Lucy doesn’t seem to notice any of it.

Her gaze is locked on the double doors across the room, her body rigid beside me. I can feel it in the tightness of her grip, the rapid pulse beating beneath my fingers. Her breathing grows shallower, and I recognize the signs of her disappearing into every possible outcome.

Books. That’s the best way to reach her.

“What part of Jane Eyre do you think about when you’re scared?” I ask.

Lucy shakes her head slowly. “The part where she reminds herself she isn’t powerless just because she’s afraid.”

“That’s a good one.”

She shifts closer, her shoulder brushing mine.

“Okay,” I say. “Another book. One you think gets love completely wrong?”

Her eyebrows lift. “Love in the Time of Cholera. Some people wouldn’t call it romantic, but I think it treats love like a place only the courageous are strong enough to enter.”

“And you don’t believe that’s true?”