Summer.
Tim. He watches as she folds a sweater. Slowly. Carefully. He's lying across her bed, arms folded behind his head. "It'll probably take you three months, at this rate," he grins. "Think you'll be ready by Thanksgiving?"
She says nothing, narrowing her eyes and wrinkling her nose at him. Tim Riggins knows that look, the one she reserves for him when he teases her, the look that tells him that he's pretty goddamn irresistible, whatever he's saying. Or not saying. He loves that look. He loves this girl.
His smile disappears as she goes back to folding sweaters. He loves this girl. Who's leaving him. For Vanderbilt. He usually puts it out of his head – when he thinks about it, that is. When he thinks about it, he tries not to think about, which sometimes works, but usually makes him think about it more. Which is depressing. So he tries not to think about it.
Like now. Watching her pack for college. He told himself he should not come over tonight to watch her pack for college. Because watching her pack – that's so . . . final, yunno? Like, if you don't watch her pack, she's not really going. But she's going. And he told her to go. And he's glad she's going. Well, he's not glad. He's actually pretty goddamned miserable about it, but he supposes that it's better than the alternative . . . giving up her dreams to follow him to San Antonio State. That would be worse. Right?
He convinced her. And now, as he lays here, on her bed – the bed where they've spent so many nights together – he convinces himself. This is the right thing. The best thing. For her. For him. This is right. . . . Right?
He's leaving first. Actually. Of course, he's not packing first. But he's leaving first. He reports to preseason on August 1. In three days. He's not looking forward to it. People keep asking him if he's excited. People keep telling him that college, football – college football – is a fucking exciting thing to be starting. That he has his whole life ahead of him. And, sometimes, he even thinks it might be true.
But on nights like this, as he watches his life in front of him – this girl he loves – he wonders. How is he supposed to do this without her? The whole college thing – that's her thing. He did it for her. He's doing it for her. How is he supposed to make it there without her?
On a night like this, he can hardly believe that he existed before she came along. Before she fell in love with him. It's not like he doesn't remember life before Lyla Garrity. It's not like he didn't enjoy life before she came along (some might say he enjoyed it too much). But everything's different now. He's different. He's not that guy anymore. He doesn't know how he's supposed to go back to being that guy.
When she closes her suitcase and zips it shut, he sits up and puts a hand on her arm. She looks at him. "What?" she asks. Softly.
He shakes his head. "I don't know." His voice betrays a sadness. He tries to hold it back, but he can't. How is he supposed to do this?
She knows. She sees. He feels her slip her arms around him and pull him close. They don't speak. He closes his eyes and buries his face in her hair.
Finally, she pulls away. "We're going to be okay, you know," she says. He hears the determination in her voice. He wonders if she feels as certain as she sounds.
"I know," he nods.
"We're going to be okay," she repeats.
"We're going to be okay," he says.
We're going to be okay, he thinks. We have to be. I love this girl. That has to be enough.
Lyla. When he leaves that night, she cries. She refuses to cry in front of him. If she starts crying, then she can't convince him that he's making the right decision, that they're making the right decision. She wants him to go to San Antonio State. She needs him to go to San Antonio State. And she needs to go to Vanderbilt. She knows this. But knowing that something is right doesn't make it any easier.
So she cries when he leaves. He didn't want to leave. But she needed to cry, so . . . here she is. Alone. She sits on her bed, her arms wrapped around her knees, crying. Her suitcase – one of three – is lined up (according to size, largest to smallest) next to her closet. Neatly. Perfectly.
She remembers when life used to be that neat. Perfect. Simple. When she didn't have to worry about making decisions about her future – about whether she was making the right decision about her future – back when she was headed to South Bend with Jason. Jason Street. She wonders what he's doing tonight, what he and Erin and Noah are doing tonight. In New York City.
Lyla Garrity remembers that life. Almost like it was someone else's life. Back when she made decisions about her own life for someone else. And now here she sits, ready to embark on this new life – in Nashville – by herself. For herself. This is a good thing. She knows that this is a good thing. She knows that this is the right decision – that she needs this – needs to go off and discover the world.
But part of her – a pretty damn big part of her – wants to hold onto the life she has now. Right now. Tim Riggins has a tight grip on that part of her. She can't quite pinpoint when it happened, how it happened, why it happened, but it's there. In front of her. There was a point in time where she almost couldn't conceive of leaving him. Almost. But Tim was there, pushing her to go. That he is her biggest supporter makes this even harder for her.
They're not breaking up. She's said this to herself a thousand times over the last two months. They're not breaking up. But with Tim in San Antonio and Lyla in Nashville . . . she wonders. How's that supposed to work? In reality. Not in some teenager's fantasy world where you can hold onto your past and reach for your future all at the same time.
Tim is a football player. Lyla knows what goes along with that. Lyla knows what went along with that at Dillon High . . . before she came along. Before he committed to the "whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing" with her. She shakes her head, pushing thoughts of Tim's past extracurricular activities out of her head. He loves her.
And if she's being honest with herself, she's less worried about the possibility of Tim being unfaithful to her than she is the possibility of him simply not being there. He's been her rock. For so long. When her family fell apart, when her father fell apart, when her life crumbled around her. He was by her side. Through it all. The idea of him not being there anymore – not loving her anymore, not protecting her anymore . . . if she's being honest with herself, that's what scares her. The idea of facing life without Tim Riggins by her side scares the hell out of her.
She knows that this is what college is supposed to be about. Getting out of your comfort zone. Figuring out who you are. Where you're going. What you need. What you want. But that doesn't make it any less scary. Lyla desperately wants to believe that she and Tim will be okay. But, if she's being honest with herself – in the quiet of her bedroom, with her suitcases packed for Vanderbilt – she doesn't know.