Page 51 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

He sits beside me. “They don’t?”

“No.”

“That explains why your dad bolted upstairs.”

I smile and brush my fingers along his jaw. “Thank you for hanging out with him. He’s been stuck inside for the past week since Mom came home.”

The doctors called it an intestinal infection, though no one has explained what caused it yet.

“I like him,” Dylan says simply.

Before I can answer, his mouth finds mine again. He tastes like cinnamon. His hands settle at my waist, solid against the thin knit of my sweater. I didn’t know it was possible to be this close to someone and still want more.

Every instinct tells me this should be frightening. Instead, I feel present. Maybe I feel a little nervous, too, but mostly confident that if I ask him to stop he will.

My fingers slide down his chest, over muscle and warmth, catching the hem of his shirt. I slip my fingers beneath the material, watching his face for any sign that I should stop.

“Lucy.” My name sounds different in his voice—rougher, almost reverent.

“Yes?” I whisper, opening my eyes to the intensity in his.

“Lucy…” He stops, searching.

“Yeah?” I say softly, my palm resting against his stomach.

Instead of answering, he kisses me again, deeper this time.

Three loud knocks rattle the door.

We break apart, startled. I cover my mouth with my hand, laughing quietly while Dylan’s face turns the exact shade of my hair.

“Yeah?” I say as I cross the room.

Dad clears his throat. “I’m heading to the store. Can you check on your mom in a bit?”

“I will,” I say, smoothing my hair before opening the door.

Dad won’t look at either of us.

“You need anything from the store?” He pauses. “Anything I’ll regret asking about?”

“Dad!” I squeak, mortified.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he says, shifting uncomfortably.

“Go.” I wave him off. “Please.”

He disappears, and I close the door, pressing my forehead against it for a second.

Behind me, Dylan makes a strangled sound that is far too close to laughter.

“I like your family,” he says.

I close my eyes. “I need a new identity.”

Somehow, I force myself to turn back to Dylan. He’s sitting on the edge of my bed now, elbows braced on his knees, a crooked smile still lingering on his face.

He holds out his hand, and I take it, letting him pull me between his knees. His hands settle at my waist, warm and steady.