Chapter Nine
Lucy
My lips are still tingling in the best way. Dylan’s hand rests at the back of my neck as our legs tangle on the plaid blanket beneath us, the warm fabric pressing into my back. The autumn breeze slips beneath the edge of the blanket, cool against skin that still feels overheated from his touch.
I’m not sure when Casablanca ended. At some point, the dialogue faded, the screen dimmed, and it became just us kissing beneath a canopy of stars until the rest of the world no longer existed.
Around us, volunteers are cleaning up while the projector clicks through the final frames of the reel.
The park smells of damp grass, fallen leaves, and the hot chocolate Dylan spilled near the edge of our blanket.
A streetlamp flickers beyond the trees, but our corner remains hidden in the shadow of an old oak, separate from the quiet cleanup happening around us.
I had no idea kissing could feel like this.
Dylan’s hand slides to my waist, drawing me closer, and whenever I lose the rhythm, Dylan slows without drawing attention to it.
“I need…” I manage, pulling back just enough to breathe. “To… catch my breath.”
He laughs quietly, resting his forehead against mine. “Sorry. I got carried away.”
“It’s okay,” I say, tracing the edge of his jaw with my thumb. “I’m just… not very good at this.”
His arms tighten around me.
“There’s nothing you’re supposed to be good at,” he says. “We’re figuring it out.”
“Are you an expert?”
“Not even close.”
“How many girls have you kissed?” I ask, more curious than jealous.
He props himself on one elbow, moonlight softening his expression. “Including you? Three.”
I blink. “Only three?”
He shrugs. “I’m not exactly experienced either. It’s been four years.”
“Why?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
He looks toward the darkened screen. “That’s complicated.”
“How?”
Instead of answering, he sits up, pulling me with him and wrapping his arms around me. My head rests against his chest as I stare at the stars overhead, my heartbeat slowly settling.
“I dated a girl in high school,” he says quietly. “But I couldn’t figure out how to balance being a boyfriend and playing football.”
Unease slips beneath the comfort of his arms.
“I didn’t know how to make room for both back then,” he says. “I’m not trying to make that same mistake again.”
“What happens if your career takes off?”
“I don’t know yet. But I don’t want football to become an excuse for treating people like they’re temporary.”
His lips find mine again before I can ask what that actually means. The kiss is gentle enough to quiet the question but not erase it.
The world blurs.
For this moment, there is no future. No fear. No overthinking.
I’m not wishing I had Elizabeth Bennet’s courage right now. I’m not reading about intimacy between the pages of a book. Not imagining what it might feel like to be held and kissed and known the way so many of my favorite heroines are.
For a moment, there is only Dylan and the impossible feeling of being seen, wanted, and chosen.
And maybe that’s enough.
For now.
***
“It’s late,” Dad says, his voice a low rumble as I carefully shut the front door behind me. “Your mother made me stay up to wait for you.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, hanging my coat on the rack. “I lost track of time.”
“How was Casablanca?” Dad asks, his eyes narrowing, probably noticing the smile I’m trying to hide.
I wrap my arms around myself, still floating. “Good.”
“Just good?”
“Well…” I fail completely at hiding my expression. “Really good.”
“When are we going to meet this Dale character?”
“Dylan,” I correct. “His name is Dylan.”
“Does Devin normally woo his dates with—”
“Dylan, Dad. And he doesn’t date. Or hasn’t for the past several years.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Him? What about me? I’ve never dated. Ever.”
“That’s because you’re special, Lucy,” Dad says, his tone softening. “You’re not easily impressed by some random boy on the football team.”
“A random boy?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Just because Dylan plays football doesn’t mean he’s out there”—I gesture vaguely—“wooing dates.”
“He’s a chump until he proves otherwise,” Dad mutters as he heads into the kitchen. “And what kind of guy takes a girl out without asking her father first?”
“I believe that part is for marriage.”
“Not in this household.” He flips on the kettle. “Tea?”
“Yes,” I say, leaning against the doorframe. “I never thought I’d see Thad Bennett get his panties in a twist over a boy.”
“Panties?” He folds his arms, affronted.
“I know you think I’m still your little girl,” I sigh, “but I’m all grown up.”
“If he breaks your heart,” Dad warns, punching the air, “I will punch him in the throat.”
“You’re not punching anyone in the throat.”
“I’m serious,” he adds, eyes twinkling. “He already has two strikes.”
“What are they?”
“Existing and keeping you out until one.”
“I’ll let him know,” I say, grabbing two mugs.
“Luce?” Dad’s voice softens.
“Yeah?”
“He’s a lucky guy if you’re giving him the time of day.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
The conviction in his voice settles some old, stubborn doubt inside me. Other than my parents and Aunt Joss, Dylan is the only other person who’s ever complimented me.
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t expect you to—”
“Thad!” Mom’s voice calls sharply from upstairs. “Thad!”
Dad’s face drains of color. He’s moving before I can react. The kettle screams just as I hear Mom cry out.
I shut off the stove and run.
Mom is doubled over, clutching her stomach.
“We need to get your mom to the hospital!” Dad yells at me.
My hands shake as I grab the keys from the ceramic bowl on the entryway table. Dad braces an arm around her waist and helps her down the stairs one step at a time, her face twisted in pain. I yank the front door open and race ahead to unlock the car.
I climb into the back seat beside Mom as Dad starts the car.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper.
“My s-stomach,” Mom gasps, clutching herself.
Houses and streetlights streak past the windows.
“Hurry,” I urge, watching the dark road vanish beneath the headlights.
“I am, Luce,” Dad answers, knuckles white on the wheel.
I smooth Mom’s hair back and force my voice to remain steady.
“I woke up with cramps,” she groans. “But this—this is different.”
Her words send a fresh wave of fear crashing over me, but I force myself to stay calm, stroking her hair as she leans against me, her breathing ragged.
It feels like an eternity, but we finally pull into the Willow Creek ER. Dad leaps out and helps Mom from the backseat.
“I’ll take her in,” he says quickly. “You park.”
I nod, sliding behind the wheel as they disappear through the automatic doors. My hands shake so badly I nearly miss the parking space. When I finally turn off the engine, I sit there, trying to breathe.
When I was younger, Mom used to pin a little fuzzy bear to my shirt whenever I got anxious. She’d spray it with her perfume and tell me that whenever I needed her, all I had to do was count to ten.
Right now, I’d give anything to have that bear pinned to my shirt.
My fingers fumble for my phone. I barely register scrolling to Dylan’s name before I hit call. He answers on the second ring.
“Hey.”
The familiar steadiness in his voice undoes me. Tears spill over as I choke out his name.
“Lucy, what’s wrong?”
“My m-mom,” I manage. “We’re at the hospital.”
“I’m on my way,” he says without hesitation. “I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
I nod even though he can’t see me.
Somehow, I work up the courage to open the car door and head inside.
The waiting room is all harsh lights and antiseptic smells.
A television mounted near the ceiling plays a muted late-night news program while a vending machine hums in the corner.
Plastic chairs line the walls beneath posters explaining symptoms no one wants to imagine having.
Somewhere behind the secured doors, a monitor beeps steadily, followed by the squeak of rubber soles across polished floors.
Every few minutes, the automatic doors open and let in a blade of cold air before sealing us inside again.
I don’t see Dad anywhere, so I sink into a chair, hugging myself. Old instincts send me searching through fictional women for instructions.
Elizabeth Bennet would be brave.
Jane Eyre would endure.
Jo March would fight.
I close my eyes.
You don’t have to be any of them, Lucy.
I stand and approach the receptionist, my voice trembling as I ask about Violet Bennett.
“The doctor ordered a CT scan,” the woman says. “Someone will update you as soon as they can.”
“Thank you.”
I text Dad, but the message remains unread.
I sit again, every unanswered minute feeding another terrible possibility. Mom is strong. Healthy. Careful. This doesn’t make sense.
She’s the best mom anyone could ask for.
She’s always accepted me just as I am. Even when it was hard for her, Mom has never asked me to be different.
She’s always encouraged me to go out into the world and experience as much of it as I could.
But she’s also been patient enough to let me see the world through stories and libraries.
Mom has always known when to push me and when to give me somewhere quiet to retreat.
When neighborhood kids invited me to birthday parties, she made sure we arrived with a gift and stayed long enough to show we cared.
Then, before the noise became unbearable, she invented an excuse and took me home.
She taught me that showing up did not have to mean abandoning myself.
In a novel, she would be Marmee—steady, loving, and stronger than everyone realizes.
Sitting here in the Willow Creek emergency room, the thought of losing her is unbearable. She’s the reason I learned to never be afraid to be myself.
“Lucy?”
I look up just as Dylan crosses the room. He looks out of place in a sweatshirt and pajama pants, but I’m just happy he’s here.
The moment he reaches me, I fall into his arms.
“You came,” I whisper.
“I told you I would.” His arms tighten around me. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I admit. “I’m not.”
He presses a kiss to my forehead. “It’s going to be alright.”
The clean scent of laundry detergent is so ordinary that it gives me something solid to hold on to.
“I’m here.”
“I know.”
“She’s going to be fine.”
“I don’t know if she will be,” I whisper. “She was in so much pain.”
“Then we’ll sit here,” he says gently, “until we know.”
Our fingers lace together, and for the first time tonight, I make it all the way to ten without losing count.
Nothing has changed, but I no longer feel as though I’m facing it alone.