A/N: Tim Riggins is beautiful, and everything hurts.
(I keep using second person for Tim. In my opinion, it works very well with his character. Hope that's OK with y'all.)
You don't tell Billy about the books.
He's pissed enough already, and those books were damned expensive. A lot of good beer might have been bought instead of those books, and now, looking back, it clearly should have been.
Because, really. Tim Riggins in college?
That's material for a comic routine, if ever there was.
You jammed on the brakes a mile out of Dillon, breath catching in your throat. There was a moment of something—you could have called it fear, if you felt like putting a name to it, which you didn't—and then you swore and ground the gas into the floor.
You won't be afraid of Dillon, even if you don't belong there anymore.
Of course, you don't belong anywhere else. Not at San Antonio State, that's for damn sure.
You'd say you were turning into Billy, but Billy's made a far better life for himself than you likely will. You aren't wanted, aren't needed, aren't even really remembered.
Dillon is so far on its way to forgetting you, you might as well put up a grave marker for Tim Riggins, whose life was measured in seasons rather than years.
Trouble is, you're not even sure who he was.