Chapter Thirteen
Lucy
Dylan stops in front of Meredith.
Even from across the stage, I recognize the plaid blanket beneath the green cellophane. My basket.
Meredith says something I can’t hear. Dylan’s expression hardens, but he never looks away from the basket. Then he lifts it from her hands and turns toward me.
“This one,” he tells the emcee clearly. “Lucy made this one.”
He says my name loudly enough that no photograph or whispered rumor can rewrite the moment.
I try to keep my eyes on Dylan, but the stage is packed shoulder to shoulder, the noise crashing over me in waves. I tense every time a player pauses in front of the basket I’m holding, only to relax when he moves on.
I tell myself I’m here for Dylan. That this is worth it.
But standing under the harsh lights, exposed and very aware of how little space I take up compared to everyone else, I’ve never felt more out of place.
“Well, looks like you’ve got my basket, Library Girl.”
The voice is lazy. Drawling.
I look up and find myself face-to-face with a shaggy-haired guy, his arms folded over a broad chest, his smile all confidence and entitlement. He looks like someone who’s never had to work for attention and expects it anyway.
“You think so?” I ask, keeping my voice even.
“I know so.” He studies the contents, and lifts the basket from my hands. “Knew it.” He pauses before adding, “What do you say we sneak out of here and find somewhere more—”
“Don’t you have a girlfriend?” I interrupt, nodding toward the basket as evidence.
He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Meredith doesn’t have to know.”
I glance toward Meredith. Apparently, whatever exists between her and Greg doesn’t stop him from flirting with other women or her pursuing Dylan.
Disgust replaces my nervousness immediately. I knew tonight would be uncomfortable, but I wasn’t prepared for this. My fingers curl into fists as I fight the urge to tell him what I think of him.
“Not interested,” I say coolly.
Greg leans closer instead of leaving.
Before he can respond, someone steps between us.
I don’t need to see his face to know it’s Dylan.
“She answered you,” Dylan says from beside me. “Back off.”
His voice is calm. Too calm.
Greg doesn’t flinch. If anything, he seems more entertained than embarrassed. “Relax, Sharpe. I’m just having some fun.”
“Find someone else,” Dylan replies. “Now.”
Greg lifts his hands in mock surrender, laughter spilling from him as he backs away. “No need to get territorial.”
He disappears into the crowd, condoms dangling shamelessly from the basket in his hands.
Only after Greg leaves do I realize how tightly my fists are clenched—not from fear exactly, but from the aftermath of holding my ground. Beneath the lingering nerves is something unfamiliar. Pride, maybe. Or relief.
I didn’t freeze. I didn’t apologize. I didn’t soften my voice or try to make him comfortable at my expense.
That feels new.
For most of my life, safety has meant avoiding moments like this. Slipping sideways before conflict could find me. Letting discomfort pass without challenging it.
But tonight, I didn’t disappear.
I stood.
Dylan turns to me. His jaw tightens as he tracks Greg’s retreat.
“You okay?” he asks gently.
I nod, managing a small smile. “Yeah. I just… didn’t expect that.”
He tucks a loose curl behind my ear, and the brief touch distracts me from the crowd. “He wasn’t listening. I’m sorry. Greg’s—”
“A creep,” I finish.
“That about covers it.”
Dylan lifts my basket, holding it up slightly. “Don’t worry. I found yours.”
“Thank goodness.” My shoulders finally loosen.
His eyes light as he looks inside. “Hot chocolate from our first date,” he says. “And the rose from Romeo and Juliet in the park.”
“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” I say quietly.
He looks at me like I’ve handed him something priceless. “You’re so thoughtful, Luce.”
When his fingers thread through my hair, I lean into him before I can overthink it. He pulls me close and kisses me. It’s tender, unwavering, and unmistakably Dylan. The noise stalls. The lights blur. For a heartbeat, nothing exists beyond the way he holds me.
Then Meredith’s voice cuts through the air.
“Five minutes left!” Meredith announces brightly. Her expression tightens for half a second before the public smile returns. “Find your basket, win the game. If not, well, better luck next time.”
Quiet satisfaction settles over me. Dylan gets me. He sees me—not the label, not the stereotype, not the version people project onto me—but me. I can’t help the smile that curves my lips as I look up at him, a flutter blooming low in my stomach.
I’m falling in love with Dylan.
It should terrify me. Instead, it feels steady. And less like losing my footing and more like finally trusting where I stand.
“What do you think Meredith’s ‘consequences’ are going to be?” I whisper, leaning closer so only he can hear me.
Dylan arches a brow, mischief flickering in his blue eyes. “No idea. But I’m not too worried. I picked right.”
I smile and lace my fingers through his, the way they seem to fit without effort. Whatever Meredith’s planning, I decide I won’t let it ruin this moment.
“Lucy!”
Meredith’s voice slices through the room over the loudspeaker, sharp and calculated, yanking me out of my bubble. I blink and scan the stage. She’s standing front and center, a sly grin on her face as she waits for every last conversation to die down.
“Well, lovebirds,” she drawls, sarcasm dripping from every syllable, “aren’t you going to tell us if Dylan picked the right basket?”
Dylan squeezes my hand. The pressure reminds me that I’m not standing up here alone.
I take a breath, lift my chin, and step forward with him at my side. “Yeah,” I say steadier than I feel. “He did.”
For just a second, Meredith’s smile falters. Then it snaps back into place, sharper than before. “How sweet,” she purrs. “Looks like someone got lucky.”
She doesn’t mean the basket.
I don’t rise to it. I just smile. “Luck had nothing to do with it,” I say calmly, Dylan’s hand firm in mine.
A few murmurs ripple through the crowd. Dylan’s lips twitch like he’s holding back a laugh, but I know better. There’s no humor in it. He’s watching.
And that’s when it hits me: I’m not just surviving this moment. I’m standing in it.
“Tell us what’s in your basket, Dylan.” Her voice remains pleasant, but the demand beneath it is clear.
My eyes widen. The thought of our quiet memories being dissected under these lights makes my skin prickle.
Dylan’s grip tenses once before he answers evenly. “Hot chocolate and a rose.”
Meredith laughs too loudly, her eyes gleaming. “Come on. Tell us more. Why did Library Girl put that in there?”
The nickname drags every old label behind it. Tomato Face. Quiet Lucy. The girl people describe before they bother to know her.
Heat climbs into my cheeks, but I keep my chin lifted. Meredith can call me whatever she wants. I don’t have to answer to it.
Dylan squeezes my hand again.
“The basket is ours,” he says flatly. Final. “The memories are private.”
The room goes quiet.
No laughter. No cheers. Just a thick, uncomfortable silence as Meredith scans the crowd, waiting for validation that never comes.
Dylan shifts beside me, anxiety coiling through his body.
The words gather, but before I decide whether Meredith deserves an answer, Darnell calls from the side of the stage. “Did anyone get their basket wrong?”
Two players raise their hands, and Meredith launches into an explanation involving matching costumes and karaoke. The room’s attention shifts away from us.
Dylan leans in and asks, “How are you doing?”
I nod, forcing a small smile even as my pulse races. “Fine,” I say. “I’m good.”
And I am.
He glances toward Darnell, who’s off to the side looking far too pleased with himself. “Darnell saved us from that nightmare,” Dylan mutters.
Darnell lent him his truck during Mom’s emergency, and now he has stepped in again without being asked.
“You’ll have to thank him for me,” I say softly.
Dylan’s mouth curves with mischief. “Wanna get out of here?”
“Oh my gosh, yes.” The answer escapes before he finishes asking.
We don’t sneak away. We bolt.
Fingers laced, we slip down the stairs and pass behind Meredith while she turns back to the microphone.
We hurry, my heels striking loudly against every step.
A startled laugh escapes me when Dylan nearly hits himself with the door.
Cool autumn air hits my face like freedom.
I draw my first full breath of the night. I didn’t realize how tightly I’d been holding myself until now. My shoulders are tense and my senses overloaded.
I didn’t conquer the room.
I didn’t win anything.
But I didn’t lose myself either.
And that feels like a quiet kind of victory.
Sometimes, it’s worth speaking up. And sometimes, leaving is the stronger choice.
“You survived your first football event,” Dylan teases, pulling me close.
“Barely.” I scoff, though my smile gives me away.
He dips his head, voice soft and playful. “Lucy Bennett. The girl who managed to romance the laser-focused linebacker.”
I roll my eyes and kiss him. “Maybe it’s the other way around.”
“Oh yeah?” He grins. “The laser-focused linebacker managed to romance the girl in the library?”
“Yeah. That sounds more accurate.”
Dylan’s arm drapes comfortably over my shoulders as we walk toward my car. “Nah. It was all my mom. She orchestrated this entire thing.”
I laugh. “Ah. Kate. The modern-day Mrs. Bennet.”
He stops short, mock-offended. “So, I’m Mr. Bingley and you’re Jane?”
“I think we’re more like Darcy and Elizabeth, don’t you think?”
“Are we?”
I tilt my head, pretending to consider it. “I’m just glad you’re not the detestable Mr. Wickham.”
“I’m more of a Darcy,” he decides. “And you’re a lot more like Elizabeth Bennet than you think. You even share a last name.”
“Would you drive?” I ask when we reach my car. “I need a few minutes before I trust myself with traffic.”
He holds out his hand, and I drop the keys into his palm.
“What do you think your parents are up to tonight?” he asks as he opens the door for me.
I settle into the seat. “Spooky Movie Night.”
“Spooky Movie Night?” He laughs when he slides into the driver’s seat beside me. “What’d they pick?”
“No idea,” I say as his fingers brush along my jaw. “But knowing them? Something terrifying.”
He starts the car, soft music filling the space as we pull away. The night is quiet. Safe.
When we reach my house, the lights are dim, the windows glowing softly. I already know I have no intention of watching a scary movie with my parents tonight.
Not when I could spend the next few hours with someone who makes being understood feel possible.