Chapter Seven
Lucy
I’ve reread the same passage in Jane Eyre eight times.
Saturday breakfast has filled every table around me.
Silverware scrapes against plates, the espresso machine releases impatient bursts of steam, and sunlight flashes across the glass sugar dispenser whenever someone opens the door.
Normally, the familiar noise settles easily around me.
Today, every sound feels like an interruption.
Even the words beneath my fingertips seem restless, refusing to remain in their proper sentences.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t focus. Every time the café door dings, signaling someone’s entrance, I lose my place and look up, hoping it’s him.
I kissed Dylan last night.
Not an earth-shattering, breath-stealing kiss. Just a brush of my lips against his cheek. Close enough to feel his breath against my skin. Close enough to leave me wondering what comes next, but not pushing me toward anything I’m not ready for.
Now all I can think about is what it would be like to kiss his lips.
Maybe I’m ready for that. Or maybe I’m not.
The downside of being “Library Girl” is that every romantic first I’ve ever experienced has happened on the page.
At twenty-one, I’ve never kissed anyone on the lips.
I’ve been on exactly one date. Two, if I count my time with Dylan last weekend.
That first date was with Joel Wiley junior year of high school.
We went to a science fair together. He tried to hold my hand, and I told him I wasn’t comfortable with that.
After that day, he never talked to me again.
Evidently, a lifetime of reading romance offers very little practical instruction.
In books, I’m Elizabeth Bennet. I’m witty, bold, and unafraid to speak my mind. In reality, I’m closer to Charlotte Lucas. I’m practical enough to expect very little and cautious enough not to ask for more.
Except I’d never marry Mr. Collins.
Not after he proposed to my best friend, anyway.
Not that I have a best friend outside of Ms. Thorn. I should probably work on that.
“You look deep in thought.”
Dylan’s voice pulls me back to the present.
I close Jane Eyre as he slides into the chair across from me, abandoning any pretense that I’m going to keep reading.
“I was thinking about Charlotte Lucas.”
“We are all fools in love,” he says easily.
“That’s the movie, not Austen.”
“It’s still a good line.”
I rest my chin in my hand. “Do you really believe that about love?”
“I’ve never been in love, so I can’t say for sure.”
“Why not?”
“Why not what?” His confusion appears genuine.
“Why have you never been in love?” I clarify.
Dylan tilts his head, thoughtful. “I think love requires understanding. And no one’s ever really understood me.”
That catches my attention.
“So you believe that to love someone—to truly love them—they have to understand every part of who you are?” I ask.
He leans closer. “Don’t you?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t think anything about love makes sense.”
“What about Darcy and Elizabeth?” he counters. “They understood each other on a level no one else could.”
“Yeah,” I say, “but only after Darcy fell in love with Elizabeth against his better judgment.”
“What if his heart knew all along she’d accept him exactly as he was?” Dylan challenges, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“What if it didn’t?” I fire back, enjoying the spark between us.
He accepts the challenge immediately. “Catherine and Heathcliff, then. She says their souls are made of the same stuff. That makes it seem like love does make sense. Like it requires—”
“Empathy,” I finish. “But if there had been real understanding, Catherine wouldn’t have married Edgar Linton. And if she had, Heathcliff wouldn’t have been so angry. He wouldn’t have felt betrayed.”
Dylan leans back, arms crossing as he considers this. “Understanding doesn’t change how we feel about the choices other people make. Heathcliff might’ve understood why Catherine chose Linton. That doesn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt.”
I nod slowly. “Exactly. Love doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t disappear just because the person you love chooses someone else. It stays.”
The thought quiets some of my earlier playfulness. Love is brave and bold. All the great classics say so. But I’m neither of those things. I understand Jane Eyre’s instinct to guard the private parts of herself, even when everything inside her is demanding to be heard.
“And sometimes,” I add softly, “it just turns into something sharper.”
Dylan studies me for a moment before asking quietly, “Have you ever been in love?”
“Oh, many times. Every time I pick up a book. Every time a character gives their heart to someone, I feel like I do, too.”
Amusement reaches his eyes. “I get why you think love doesn’t make sense.”
I hitch one shoulder, trying to keep it playful. “Be careful. That kind of understanding might make you fall in love with me.”
“It just might.” The teasing answer lands with unexpected weight.
My throat goes dry just as Gretchen appears at our table.
“What can I get for you two this morning?”
Dylan barely glances at the menu. “French toast.”
“And for you?” she asks, turning to me.
“Eggs Benedict,” I say, deciding on a whim.
“Eggs Benedict?” Dylan arches an amused eyebrow. “Not what I was expecting.”
Gretchen collects the menus and heads toward the kitchen.
“What were you expecting?” I ask.
He takes a drink of water, clearly enjoying himself. “I don’t know. My mom used to make Eggs Benedict every Sunday before she and my dad divorced.”
“So, it brings back fond memories?” I ask carefully.
“Yeah,” he says, laughing softly. “It does.”
“Do you miss those Sundays?”
He turns his water glass slowly between his hands. “Sometimes. Not because of the food. I just hated never feeling settled after the divorce.” He pauses. “That’s probably why I like reading so much. No matter where I am, I can disappear into another world.”
“I get that,” I say quietly.
Books have always been my escape, too. But where I use them to imagine a bigger life, Dylan uses them to find something solid.
“Speaking of my mom,” he says, hesitating, “she mentioned you haven’t answered her emails this week.”
“You talked about me?” My grip tightens around the edge of the menu.
“Not like that,” he assures me. “She just wondered if the first date went badly.”
He said date. Not meeting or coffee.
Date.
“I’ve been busy,” I say, not entirely lying. “I’ll email her back today.”
“You don’t have to,” he says gently.
“I want to,” I admit, my cheeks warming. “I just don’t know what to say. About you.”
His expression turns unbearably smug. “I’ve put you in an awkward position.”
“Why are you smiling?” I ask.
“Because you like me.”
“Everyone likes you,” I remind him, unable to hold his gaze. “Remember?”
He doesn’t deny it, which is somehow worse.
“So,” I say, trying to regain control, “any suggestions for what I should write?”
“You could tell her we had a spirited debate about books,” he says. “But you’re not interested in being friends with an attractive linebacker.”
“I never said you were attractive.”
“You didn’t say I wasn’t.”
“And who said we aren’t friends?” I counter, even though we’re clearly toeing a line I’ve never stood on before.
He tilts his head, eyes intent. “Are we? I think we might be a little more than that,” he adds lightly. “You did kiss me.”
“I kissed your cheek,” I correct.
“What’s the difference?”
“So much.”
But the truth falls quietly between us.
I’m not sure the difference matters anymore.
For a second, it feels as though the rest of the scene has been edited away.
The clink of dishes, the low hum of conversation, even the rhythm of my own breathing fades away.
Every impossible declaration I’ve ever underlined suddenly feels less exaggerated.
For once, it feels less like fiction and more like something I might actually be standing inside.
“French toast,” Gretchen announces, setting a plate in front of Dylan. Then she turns to me. “And Eggs Benedict.”
I blink, the spell breaking, and swallow hard. “Thank you.”
“Can I get you anything else?”
We both shake our heads, and she disappears, leaving us in the space she accidentally created, charged and a little terrifying.
“When’s your game this week?” I ask, needing something solid to hold on to.
“Thursday,” he says easily. “You should come.”
The invitation twists every excuse I’ve ever made about football games into a single knot of dread. Being pulled into Dylan’s world is terrifying for me. Safe, quiet spaces are easier. Less noise, fewer chances of someone calling me Library Girl.
My fingers tense around my fork. “I don’t know… I don’t really—” I hesitate. “I wouldn’t have anyone to go with.”
It’s not a great excuse, but it’s the truth. Dad works late on Thursdays. Mom would never be caught dead at a game. Besides, crowds make my chest feel tight, and the idea of navigating one alone is exhausting before I even try.
Dylan goes quiet for a moment. “Will you be in the library Thursday night?”
I nod, suddenly embarrassed by how predictable the answer is. “Yeah.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. “Then I have an idea.”
Whatever idea he has already sounds dangerously difficult to refuse.
***
By Thursday evening, the library has settled into its familiar after-dark hush.
Rain taps softly against the tall windows, blurring the stadium lights beyond the trees into green-and-white smears.
The shelves cast long shadows across the carpet, and the heating vents breathe warm air through the reading room.
Somewhere upstairs, a return cart squeaks along an aisle.
I expect the ordinary comfort of my chair and book. Instead, my corner glows.
“Is that a laptop?” I whisper to Ms. Thorn.
“It is indeed,” she says, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.
“Streaming Dylan’s game?”
“Streaming Dylan’s game.”
I gesture toward the desk. “And the candles?”
“Flameless,” Ms. Thorn assures me. “I may be a romantic, but I’m still a librarian.”
A blanket is folded over my favorite chair. Beside it sits a fresh BLT from the café.
“And the blanket?” My voice cracks just a little.
“A very comfy blanket,” she confirms.
“That looks like dinner,” I add, noticing the neatly plated sandwich beside the setup. “In the reading area?”
“Gretchen brought by your favorite BLT from the café ten minutes ago. I’m prepared to pretend I never saw it,” Ms. Thorn says, clearly pleased with the arrangement.
“Dylan did all of this… for me?”
“He dropped by Monday to ask me if it was okay,” Ms. Thorn explains. “Gretchen handled dinner. I supplied the blanket and candles. The laptop, books, and note were all Dylan. He dropped them off early this morning.”
I press my fingers to my cheek, overwhelmed.
I step closer, afraid that touching anything might make the entire setup disappear. Next to the laptop sits a small stack of books. I pick them up one by one.
East of Eden.
Walden.
Of Mice and Men.
Leaves of Grass.
“He left this for you,” Ms. Thorn whispers, placing a folded note into my palm.
My hands tremble as I open it.
I know you love romantic classics, so I brought a few of mine. They’re mostly about people trying to figure out where they belong. Thought you might understand them. –D
Something inside me cracks open.
“Oh!” Ms. Thorn snaps her fingers. “One last thing.”
She disappears as I sink into my favorite chair, staring at the screen, the books, the candles, trying to understand how any of this is real.
It doesn’t make sense.
Dylan thrives in noise and crowds. He plays under stadium lights. I struggle to raise my hand in class. I hide between shelves and pages.
How did he understand exactly what would make this feel thoughtful?
“Your chai tea latte,” Ms. Thorn says, setting the mug down carefully in front of me.
The steam curls upward, carrying the scent of spice and tea.
“Why did he do all of this?” I whisper before I can stop myself.
She smiles, arms folding loosely around herself. “He pays attention.”
“It was probably easy for him to arrange.”
“No, Lucy. Buying dinner is easy. Learning what makes someone feel safe takes effort.”
Care this thoughtful feels dangerously close to the stories I’ve spent my life reading.
I’m not ready to call it love.
But I’m beginning to believe it isn’t only fiction.
I curl deeper into the chair, wrapping my hands around the mug as the game begins.
Maybe something doesn’t have to make sense yet to be real.