Page 91 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

I laugh, shaking my head. “What can I say?”

Darnell claps me on the shoulder. “Have fun, man. Don’t forget us when you’re living the dream.”

“I won’t,” I say, already backing away. “And no, you’re not getting details.”

They laugh as we part ways.

Twenty minutes later, I’m grabbing my suitcase, sliding into a cab, and watching the campus fade past the window. Every mile puts me closer to Lucy, closer to a weekend that feels like more than just a trip.

It feels like a turning point.

I try not to overthink their first meeting. I know it will go well. Mom is always raving about Lucy. But there’s a difference between emailing with someone and meeting them in person. The only concern is that Mom’s expectations might be too high.

And then there’s Dad.

He’s stopping by at some point, which sounds normal until you remember my parents aren’t normal. Mom and Dad can be civil in short conversations, as long as the rest of their lives remain carefully separate. Put them under the same roof, though, and every old fracture becomes visible.

Lucy knows my parents are divorced. She doesn’t know how quickly old tension returns when they share a room.

I don’t want this holiday to be the one where she learns my family comes with history. With lines. With edges.

I want her to feel welcomed, not tested.

The cab pulls up in front of her house, and she’s already outside with a suitcase at her feet.

“There’s my girl,” I say as I step out of the car.

“Hey,” she breathes, and when I pull her into my arms, she fits against me like she always does. I kiss her, quick but meaningful, then take her suitcase.

“Ready for Dallas?” I murmur near her ear.

She nods, though her smile wobbles just a little. “A little anxious to fly. But… ready.”

“We’ll take it one step at a time,” I tell her.

Her cheeks flush pink, and she ducks her head in that shy way that still undoes me.

We load her bag into the trunk, then slide into the backseat. I lace my fingers through hers immediately. The ride is quiet and comfortable.

By the time we pull up to the airport, Lucy’s palm is warm and damp in mine.

I step out first and grab our bags.

I pull her close before we head inside. “Still with me?”

“Still with you,” she says.

I kiss her once, then take the handle of her suitcase.

The terminal opens around us in layers of sound and motion. Wheels rattle over tile. A child cries near the security ropes while someone farther down the concourse laughs into a phone. The air smells of coffee, cinnamon, and the clean scent of floor polish. Beyond the windows, baggage carts weave between parked planes beneath a November sky.

Lucy watches everything with the focused attention she usually gives a page, tracking gate numbers, uniforms, flashing screens, and families gathered around suitcases. Every few seconds, an announcement rolls through the speakers, blurred at the edges by distance.

We stop at the check-in kiosk, and I punch in our flight information. The boarding passes spit out a second later, and I hand hers to her.

She studies every line as though there might be a question about it later.

“First time flying together,” I tease.