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.”
Kate keeps my hands clasped in hers for a second after the hug. “It’s good to finally have you here. Come on in. Dinner’s almost ready.”
The moment I cross the threshold, the scent of roasted chicken and herbs wraps around me.
The house is elegant without feeling stiff.
Family photos line the hallway: Dylan and Gemma missing front teeth, Kate kneeling behind them at a school fair, and one older picture where both parents still stand together.
Holiday décor is already scattered throughout, subtle but intentional, like reminders that this place is always ready to gather people in.
“I just need to check on the chicken,” Kate says, heading toward the kitchen. “But first, there’s someone who’s been waiting all day to see you.”
Footsteps thunder down the stairs, and suddenly a girl with dark hair and bright blue eyes appears, all energy.
“Gemma!” Dylan laughs as she launches herself into his arms. “I thought you weren’t getting in until tomorrow!”
“I found an earlier flight. No way I was spending another night away when everyone was already here.” Then her attention snaps to me, and she grins. “And I wanted to meet you.”
“Hi,” I say, laughing as she pulls me into a hug that mirrors her mom’s warmth. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Oh, we’re going to get along just fine,” Gemma declares. “I can already tell.”
Dylan watches us with visible relief.
I wonder if he realizes how obvious it is.
The way he keeps glancing between me and his sister, almost measuring whether this world will accept me.
Like he’s been carrying the responsibility of blending these pieces of his life together.
Family Dylan.
Football Dylan.
The quieter version he shares with me.
I offer him a reassuring smile.
I’m not here to test anything.
I’m here because I love him.
“Anyone who can handle my brother,” Gemma adds, “is already a hero in my book.”
Gemma’s easy humor makes everything feel less intimidating.
Maybe this trip won’t be as terrifying as I thought.
I smile again, genuinely this time, grateful for how effortlessly she’s putting me at ease. “I don’t know if I’d go that far yet.”
“You will,” Gemma says confidently as she gestures toward the kitchen table. “Give it time. Come on, let’s sit. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
Dylan clears his throat.
“I’m talking too much, aren’t I?” Gemma asks. She hasn’t taken a breath since we met.
“A little,” Dylan says.
“I’m excited,” she tells me. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”
The kitchen is warm and inviting, the kind of space that feels like it’s meant for lingering.
Soft light spills across the counters, and there’s an easy hum to the room that makes me imagine long afternoons spent talking over tea, laughter drifting through open windows.
Kate sets out a spread of appetizers—cheese, crackers, sliced fruit—while Gemma launches into a rapid-fire update on her holiday plans and how much she’s missed having family around.
I mostly listen, smiling as Dylan and Gemma banter back and forth, trading teasing remarks that only siblings who genuinely adore each other can get away with. He rolls his eyes at her more than once, but I can see it clearly—the affection, the pride, the comfort they share.
“So, Lucy,” Kate says gently as she brings the roast chicken to the table, “how are you holding up? I know meeting the family can feel a little overwhelming.”
The question catches me off guard. Not because it’s intrusive, but because it’s kind. Thoughtful. I nod, feeling suddenly exposed in the best way.
“A little nervous,” I say honestly. “But… good.”
“You don’t have anything to be nervous about here. We’re really happy you’re with us.”
“We’ll take good care of you,” Gemma adds from across the table, grinning.
I glance at Dylan, who’s watching me closely. I didn’t realize how badly I needed to hear that.
Gemma tells me Dylan once spent an entire summer running drills around lawn chairs in the backyard until Kate threatened to throw them away. Dylan insists the arrangement was highly technical. Kate calls it a public nuisance.
Dinner passes easily after that. We talk, laugh, and share stories. Dylan fills them in on the latest with the scouts while Kate listens intently, pride shining in her eyes. Plates are cleared, conversations soften, and when Dylan stands and offers me his hand, his smile is unmistakably playful.
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll show you upstairs so we can drop off our stuff.”
“Go get settled,” Kate says. “Dessert will be ready in a little while.”
Gemma smirks. “Fair warning, Lucy, his room is basically a museum of teenage football glory.”
Dylan groans. “I’ve evolved since then, thank you very much.”
I laugh as I take his hand and follow him upstairs, suddenly aware that we are leaving everyone else behind. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
As we head upstairs, the house quiets.
And when we reach the end of the hall, Dylan opens a door and steps aside.
It’s unmistakably a guy’s room.
A neatly made bed with dark blue sheets. Trophies arranged near the window. Posters, framed photos, and a jersey—number 23—mounted proudly on the wall.
I pause in the doorway for a second longer than necessary.
There’s something strangely intimate about standing inside the room where someone grew up.
The trophies on the shelf aren’t just decorations. They’re pieces of his history. The jersey on the wall isn’t just memorabilia. It’s proof of how long he’s been chasing this dream.
I imagine him here at sixteen, tossing a football in the backyard before dinner, arguing with his sister over the bathroom, staying up late studying plays.
All the versions of Dylan that existed before he ever met me.
It makes the present feel different somehow. More real.
“See?” Dylan says from behind me. “Could be worse.”
“It’s very… you,” I say, smiling.
He chuckles as he pulls our suitcases inside and drops them near the closet. “I’ve always loved football.”
“I can tell,” I tease, trailing my fingers along the edge of his desk where notebooks and an old playbook sit stacked. “Very refined,” I say dryly.
He steps behind me and slides his arms around my waist. For a moment, we stand together beneath the framed jersey, surrounded by all the versions of him that came before me.
“Thank you for coming,” he murmurs.
I turn in his arms. “I wouldn’t miss this.”
The kiss begins softly, but the privacy of the room quickly deepens it. I catch the front of his shirt and pull him close until the backs of my knees meet the bed.
“Lucy,” he says against my mouth, equal parts warning and want.
Footsteps sound in the hallway before either of us can decide what happens next.
Dylan rests his forehead against mine and laughs quietly. “We should go downstairs.”
“Probably.”
He reaches for my hand. “Later.”
The promise follows us out of the room.