Page 88 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

“Dylan invited me to Dallas for Thanksgiving. To meet his mom. And… I said yes.”

The words sit between us, fragile and irreversible.

For a heartbeat, her face gives nothing away. She studies me the way she used to when I’d come home from a rough day at school pretending I hadn’t cried in the bathroom, measuring what I’m saying against what I’m not.

“You’re going to Dallas,” she repeats evenly.

I nod. “I know it’s sudden. And I’ve never missed Thanksgiving. Not once. But… it feels important.” My voice softens. “He wants me to meet his family. And I—I love him.”

There it is. Not dramatic. Not stormy like Catherine and Heathcliff. Just honest.

Mom’s eyes glisten at the corners before she reaches for my hand. Her grip is gentle and familiar.

“I know you love him,” she says. “I see it every time he walks through that door.” She pauses. “I just didn’t expect this so soon.”

“I didn’t mean to spring it on you.”

“I’m proud of you,” she says. “And I’m going to miss you terribly. Those things can both be true.”

My shoulders loosen for the first time since she entered the room. I didn’t realize how tightly I’d been bracing for disappointment.

“Dylan’s practice schedule means we might not leave until late Wednesday.”

Mom nods. “Your first flight.”

“I’m going to miss you and Dad,” I whisper.

“Maybe it’s time you started building some traditions of your own.”

Building my own traditions.

For most of my life, my world has been small in the best possible way. The same neighborhood. The same bookstore. The same kitchen table where Dad reads the newspaper and Mom hums while she cooks.

I’ve always loved the safety of that.

But maybe loving Dylan means letting my world grow wider.

Not abandoning what I have here, just carrying it with me into whatever comes next.

The thought is equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

“I guess it is,” I say.

She brushes a strand of hair behind my ear like she’s done since I was five. “Now tell me about this trip. What’s his mom like? Have you actually spoken to her, or have you just imagined her in your head like one of your characters?”

I laugh, tension easing out of my shoulders. “I’ve emailed her. She’s… brilliant. Funny. Kind. A little intimidating.”

“That sounds about right for the woman who managed to arrange your love life through email,” she teases.

We talk for a while after that. About flights, about what to wear, about whether I should bring a gift. When she finally leaves my room, I feel steadier. Not fearless. But steadier.

The future still feels like an unfinished sentence. Dylan wants to go pro. And me? I haven’t figured out what I want to do with my life the way he has.

I love writing, but I still don’t know whether that means graduate school, teaching, publishing, or trying to finish a book of my own.

I could dwell on it. Consult my books for answers. Instead, I decide to text Dylan.

Can we talk?