Page 50 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

“I don’t have a crowd,” I say, picking up the muffins.

Gretchen sighs. “Just be careful. These people aren’t like you.”

I know Gretchen means well. Everyone always does.

But there’s a difference between kindness and assumption, and I’ve spent most of my life living inside that gap. Teachers who spoke slowly, like I might miss something. Classmates who softened their voices, as if volume alone could break me. Even strangers who mistook quiet for weakness.

I’ve learned to navigate the world carefully. Not because I can’t handle it, but because I choose where to spend my energy. That isn’t fragility. It’s discernment.

Dylan sees that.

He doesn’t confuse silence with fear or gentleness with indecision. He doesn’t try to pull me into his world or shield me from it. He simply opens the door and waits to see if I’ll step through.

And the truth is, that choice—that space—is what makes me feel stronger than I ever have.

I pause at the door.

“I know what she’s doing, Gretchen. Quiet doesn’t mean oblivious.”

Gretchen’s expression turns uneasy.

I hold her gaze, refusing to soften what I said.

Then, I push the door open. Wind lifts the ends of my hair as I step outside. I’m grateful for the people who genuinely care—people like Gretchen and Ms. Thorn—but there’s a hurtful sting that comes with it, too. The quiet assumption that I need protecting. That I should be handled carefully.

I don’t.

I know who I am. I always have.

I’m finished allowing other people to mistake quiet for weakness.

As for Meredith and her Boyfriend Basket Swap?

If I show up, it’ll be because I choose to.

***

Dylan is sitting at the dining room table with Dad when I get home from the café. He came over after treatment to check on Mom and somehow ended up keeping Dad company.

The house still carries the temporary disorder of Mom’s recovery. Prescription bottles sit beside the fruit bowl, a folded blanket has been abandoned over the couch, and someone has left a stack of medical instructions beneath Dad’s reading glasses. The television plays quietly in the living room, though neither of them appears to be watching it. Dylan has a mug in front of him, and Dad’s old chessboard is open between them, several pieces already captured.

I lift the bag of blueberry muffins Mom requested, and Dad snatches it from my hands like it’s contraband.

“It’s about time,” he says cheerfully, already halfway to the stairs.

His footsteps fade, and suddenly it’s just Dylan and me.

“Hi.” The sight of him rearranges my thoughts immediately.

“Hi,” he replies, already crossing the room.

His hands slide up my cheeks, fingers threading into my hair as he kisses me.

“Let’s go to my bedroom,” I whisper against his lips, breathless.

I take his hand and lead him down the hall, closing my bedroom door behind us. He turns the knob slowly, like the sound might alert Mom and Dad to whatever’s going on in here.

“They really don’t mind,” I say, sitting on the edge of the bed.