Page 93 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

“It is.” I squeeze her hand gently. “And you’re going to fit right in.”

Gemma will be home. And Dad’s going to stop by while we’re there. I tell myself Lucy has nothing to worry about.

The intercom crackles overhead, announcing that boarding will begin shortly. I stand, lifting both our carry-ons, and hold my hand out to her.

“Ready?” I ask.

She takes a steadying breath, then places her hand in mine. “Yeah,” she says. “Let’s do this.”

And as we step into line together, I realize this trip isn’t only about introducing Lucy to my family.

It’s the first time we’re discovering whether home can mean more than one place.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Lucy

The Dallas skyline rises ahead of us, glass and steel catching the late-afternoon sun. My nerves have been building since we left the airport.

Kate offered to pick us up, but Dylan rented a car so we wouldn’t have to organize the entire trip around her schedule.

He guides the rental car along the highway with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on my thigh, his thumb tracing slow circles as if he already knows I need the contact—the comfort of his touch.

“You doing okay?” he asks, eyes flicking briefly toward me before returning to traffic. His voice is calm, but there’s a gentleness there. A quiet check-in meant just for me.

“Just nervous.”

“That’s normal,” he says easily. “But my family is going to love you, Lucy. I promise.”

I nod, though my gaze drifts back to the window. Dallas feels big. Alive in a way that’s hard to ignore. Traffic surges around us in shining lines, brake lights glowing red beneath the overpasses. Buildings rise and disappear between exits, their mirrored windows reflecting a sky streaked with gold. Even from inside the car, the city feels louder than Willow Creek. Faster, wider, full of people moving toward lives I know nothing about.

“Almost there,” Dylan says as he signals toward the exit.

My heart stutters.

We turn into a quiet neighborhood, the kind that feels settled and intentional. The houses are spacious, built of brick and stone, with lawns trimmed to perfection. Porch lights flicker on as the sun dips lower, bathing everything in amber light. When we pull into the driveway of a two-story brick house with a wide porch and flower beds, something inside me quiets.

It’s beautiful, but not in the cold, untouched way I expected. The porch swing moves in the breeze, the flower beds are slightly uneven, and the welcome mat sits crooked in front of the door.

My parents’ house is smaller, older, with creaking floors and books stacked in questionable places, but the feeling is unexpectedly familiar. This is a home people actually live in.

Dylan cuts the engine and grins at me like this isn’t the most nerve-wracking moment of my life. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt.

He’s already out of the car by the time I open my door, stepping around to take my hand. The Texas air is warmer than back home, carrying a faint breeze that rustles the trees lining the street. Dylan grips my fingers gently but firmly as we walk up the path.

The door opens before we can knock.

“Dylan!” Kate exclaims, pulling him into a hug that’s equal parts fierce and affectionate. He looks so much like her. Dark hair. Piercing blue eyes.

When she turns to me, her smile widens, and every greeting I rehearsed disappears.

“And you must be Lucy,” she says warmly, stepping forward. “I’ve been dying to meet you ever since I read your essay this summer.”

Before I can overthink it, she wraps me in a hug—close, sincere, and unexpectedly comforting. “It’s so nice to finally meet you face-to-face,” she adds, pulling back to look at me with knowing eyes. “I had a feeling you and my son would get along.”

“Thank you,” I manage, the words softer than usual. “It’s really nice to meet you, too.”