The One and Only

by Emily Giffin

  I don’t know what I was so afraid of—failure, rejection, or being alone—but something was holding me back. Keeping me in limbo.

  Then, the following Friday night, Miller and I went to see an action flick, sharing popcorn, Twizzlers, and a jumbo Coke for dinner, a typical date night for us. Afterward, he drove me back to my place, his seat reclined, one hand on the steering wheel, some stoner band blaring on the radio. I hated Miller’s music and silently put it on the list of “Why We Aren’t Good Together” that had been lingering in my head since the indictment in Coach’s office. As I turned down the music, I randomly asked Miller if he was glad he went to Walker. I’m not sure what made me ask the question, other than the hope of baiting him into a wrong answer. If he said anything disloyal about our school, I’d have something else to put on my list. If his answer was too curt or uninteresting, I could put that on my list, too: poor conversationalist.

  “Sure,” Miller said, his head bobbing to the bass. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes I think it was a little small,” I said, leading the witness.

  “Maybe,” Miller said noncommittally.

  “Was there anything you didn’t like about it?”

  “The foreign language requirement,” he said. “That was some real mierda.”

  “Mierda?” I said. “I took German.”

  “Shit,” he translated, pushing the sleeve up on his plaid flannel shirt, pretty much the staple of his wardrobe, in addition to T-shirts and jeans. To look at him, you’d never know that he once played college ball or currently coached. With shaggy hair to match his grunge clothes, he looked more musician than athlete.

  “Well … how did you feel about playing for Coach Carr?” I asked.

  “Wait. Are you writing some article about former players?” Miller asked.

  Delusions of grandeur, I thought, as I shook my head and said, “No, Miller. I was just … wondering.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Well, I didn’t like losing my starting spot to Ryan James … But I’d rather play backup QB for Coach than start for some jackass.”

  I laughed, realizing that my strategy was backfiring. Miller really did crack me up, even when he wasn’t trying. He was so easy to be around. In over three years, we hadn’t had a single fight, although I knew that said as much about my personality as about his. I avoided conflict at pretty much any cost.

  “And I got this,” Miller said, pointing down to his hulking Cotton Bowl ring. He winked. “Works wonders with the ladies.”

  I rolled my eyes, and, although I never cared much for jewelry of any kind on a man, I did love how big his hands were and that he could still throw a football fifty yards from his knees.

  “What about you?” he asked. “You glad you went to Walker?”

  “Yes. Best decision I ever made,” I said, thinking that it might be the only big decision I’d ever made. Everything else just sort of happened to me.

  “Better than going out with me?” Miller grinned.

  I smiled back at him, but my insides were in knots as we pulled into the lot of my condo, next to my ancient Honda Accord, with a substantial dent on the driver side where I had sideswiped a concrete pillar in a parking garage months before. Miller started to open his door, but, when I didn’t make a move, he looked at me and said, “Wait. Did you want to get a bite to eat or something?”

  I turned in my seat and said, “Miller. We need to talk.”

  “What’s up?” he said.

  I took a deep breath, digging down for courage—or at least a little gumption. “I don’t think we should keep seeing each other.”

  His face fell. “Are you serious?”

  I nodded. My heart hurt, but the words still felt right, and there was suddenly no doubt in my mind that I was doing the right thing.

  “Why?” he asked, a question that is never really productive when someone is trying to break up with you.

  “I just don’t think it’s … right.”

  “Is this because of Lucy?”

  “No. I swear,” I said, knowing how terrible Miller would feel if he knew who it really came from. “It just doesn’t … feel right anymore. I think we’re both just stalling … hanging out because there isn’t anything better.”

  “But I think you are the best,” Miller said, so sweetly. I could tell he meant it, and I asked myself if maybe that wasn’t good enough. For one of the two of us to feel the right way. But I knew the answer, so I pressed on.

  “That’s really nice, Miller,” I said.

  “Are you seeing someone else?” he asked.

  I said no as vehemently as I could, hoping that this made it better. Then again, what I was really saying was that being alone was better than being with him.

  “Okay,” he finally said. “We can break up … if that’s really what you want … But can we still do it? You know—friends with benefits?”

  “No,” I said, thinking that the question, along with his earnest delivery, confirmed my decision. “We can’t still do it.”

  “C’mon. One more time?” Miller asked, reaching out to put his hand on my thigh.

  I felt myself weakening, the way I did when a waiter asked if I’d saved room for dessert. But no, I had to rip off the Band-Aid. Just do it, in sports speak.

  “I want to,” I said.

  “Well, then, come on. Let’s go,” he said, his face clearing, like that of a child who just wore down his mother to watch another thirty minutes of television.

  “I can’t … Miller … I’m sorry,” I said, pushing his hand off my knee. Then I leaned across the front seat, planting a small but decisive kiss on his unshaven cheek, and said, “See you around?”

  “Yep. See you ’round the way,” Miller said, as I pictured him out at the bars with surgically enhanced, twenty-something blondes. I felt a pang of jealousy, but not enough to reverse the tide. I got out of the car and closed the door, unsure of whether I felt more relieved that it had been so easy or hurt by how quickly he threw in the towel. I told myself not to take it personally. It was just the way Miller was. Laid-back, easygoing, taking things in stride. I watched him now, flashing me a peace sign through his car window, then backing out of my complex, the radio cranked up, undoubtedly already plotting his next booty call.

  A few minutes later, I walked into my apartment, pushing the clean clothes I had yet to fold to one side of my sofa, clearing a place to sit. I reached for the remote control and turned on my new flat-screen, the one I had prioritized over fixing my car. The ESPN Friday Night Fight was just ending. Tyson Fury was kicking someone’s ass—an unknown from Brazil. I watched for a few seconds, then flipped channels. All I wanted to do was call Coach Carr and tell him that I’d taken his advice. But, of course, there was no way I’d ever do such a thing. I had his cell but had never called him and instead left messages with Mrs. Heflin. There was nothing so pressing that it warranted bothering him at home—and breaking up with Miller hardly constituted “pressing” to anyone but me. Apparently including Miller.

  Instead I picked up the phone and called Lucy, even though I knew that anti-Miller sentiment was inevitable and wasn’t really in the mood to hear him bashed. I needed to talk to my best friend—my “bosom friend,” as she had called us since reading Anne of Green Gables in grade school, even writing a quote from the book in calligraphy and giving it to me for Christmas one year: A really kindred spirit to whom I can confide my inmost soul.

  Although there was one thing I’d never confide in her, the quote was true, always had been. It didn’t matter that we weren’t much alike on paper. That I thought the best of people, and she often assumed the worst. That I was an introvert, and she could work a room like nobody I’d ever seen but her mother. That I was even-tempered, and she was moody and dramatic. That I was no frills, and she was all frills. That I loved football, and she simply tolerated it. The list of differences was endless, but, in the end, none of them mattered. What mattered was that we completely accepted each o
ther. That I had her back, and she had mine. That we shared a common history, going all the way back to our mothers’ collegiate friendship. Lucy had always been more like a sister than a friend, especially in a crisis, and I needed her now.

  “I just ended things with Miller,” I said after she answered.

  “Good for you,” she said, as if I’d given her a weather report. “Long overdue.”

  “C’mon, Lucy,” I said. “I’m really sad. I’m going to miss him … It’s not like there are many other options around here.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. But, Shea, you totally did the right thing.”

  “It still hurts,” I said, thinking that in some ways it hurt more than being dumped because there was no anger to distract me.

  “I know. I’m sorry,” she said as I thought of the many times Lucy had soothed me after a breakup over the years.

  “Do you want to come over?” she asked me now. “Open a bottle of wine?”

  I considered this, but decided sleep was what I needed most. “Thanks, but I’ll probably turn in.”

  “Okay. I’m headed home, too. Call me if you need me.”

  “Where are you now?” I said.

  “At my dad’s. Wow, that sounds so weird.”

  “Maybe we should keep calling it your parents’ house. I mean, your mother made it a home. And …” I struggled to find the right words to comfort my best friend. “It will always be hers.”

  “Thank you, Shea,” Lucy said. “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am right,” I said. “Everyone knows that your mother is irreplaceable.”

  Five

  About a week later, I agreed to meet Lucy at her parents’ house. My mother was joining us as well, with the plan to go through Connie’s closet, a task I couldn’t possibly dread more.

  “Any word from Miller?” Lucy asked as we waited for my mother, late as usual.

  “No,” I said, watching her mix up a fresh batch of sweet tea, heaping in the sugar just the way Coach Carr liked it. “Probably easier that way.”

  Lucy nodded in agreement as we heard the garage door rumble. “Daddy’s home,” she said.

  I instinctively stood up a little straighter, then reached up to fluff my hair.

  Lucy narrowed her eyes and gave me a funny look. “Did you just fix your hair?” she said, staring at me.

  “No. Of course not,” I said, feeling embarrassed though I wasn’t sure why.

  “Okay. ’Cause it looked like you did that thing you do in bars when a hot guy walks in.”

  “What thing?”

  She imitated me perfectly.

  “I didn’t do that,” I said, feeling certain I was telling the truth. Maybe I had fixed my hair—but not in that way.

  “Good. Because if you did, that would be really … weird.”

  “You’re weird,” I said, reverting to my little-girl self the way I often did around Lucy, and she with me.

  A second later the side door opened and Coach appeared in a Walker warm-up and baseball cap. I looked away as Lucy kissed him hello and reminded him why we were over.

  “Well, thanks, girls,” Coach said, his voice gruff and gentle at once. “I think it’s time …”

  We all stood there for an awkward, sad beat until the doorbell rang and Lucy said, “That must be your mom.” She went to the foyer, leaving Coach and me alone.

  He spoke first. “Did you call Smiley?”

  “Yes,” I said, relieved that I’d finally placed the call that morning. “And I broke up with Miller, too.”

  Coach raised his eyebrows and whistled.

  “Impressed?”

  “Very,” he said. “How do you feel?”

  I hesitated, then said, “Hopeful … Although right now I’m just thinking about Lucy.”

  He cleared his throat and poured a glass of tea. “You know, I don’t want to remove all traces of Connie—but I don’t think it’s good to keep a museum either. And, in the end, they’re just things. Stuff. Nice stuff that should be used and enjoyed. Connie would want it that way.”

  “Of course,” I said, dropping my gaze to the counter, wondering what was taking Lucy and my mom so long. I hesitated, then worked up the courage to ask, “And how are you?”

  He looked surprised by the question, then exhaled and said, “I’m okay. Mornings are tough. That’s when Connie and I always talked the most … The whole thing is just really hard to believe. It’s like …” He shook his head, searching for words. “It’s like an out of the body experience … I’m just ready for the season to start. Football really helps. It’s a distraction. Get busy living, you know?”

  “Yes, I know … I’m sorry, Coach,” I said, grief expanding in my chest. “I don’t know if I’ve really said that to you yet … but I am so … sorry.”

  “I know you are, girl,” he said, reaching out to cover my hand with his. “Thank you for asking.”

  His hand moved back to his side of the counter as my mother and Lucy walked into the kitchen.

  “Hellooo, Clive,” my mom said. She was the only person I ever heard call Coach by his first name. Even Connie had called him Poppins—although I didn’t know why. I once asked Lucy the story behind the nickname, and she said she couldn’t remember it—which boggled my mind.

  “Hello, Marie,” Coach said, kissing her cheek.

  “How are you?” she said, making the same question sound about as different as possible from the one I’d just asked. Whereas mine had been tentative, hers was bold, borderline condescending, going right along with the Tupperware containers of soup I had spotted in the fridge, all labeled with her handwriting and descriptions, such as “Basil tomato to warm your heart” and “Cream of mushroom for cozy nights in front of the television.”

  “Doing well. Hanging in there,” Coach said briskly. I could tell by his tone and body language that she got on his nerves, something I had observed for years. But I also knew he appreciated her loyalty, the fact that, unlike many, her love of him and his family wasn’t tied to winning football games.

  “Well, I’ll be in my office,” he said to all of us. “If you need me.”

  “Okay, Daddy,” Lucy said.

  “How do you think he’s really doing?” my mom whispered after Coach had walked out of the room.

  Lucy shrugged, frowned, and whispered back, “It’s hard to tell. He won’t talk about it.”

  Two long, draining hours later we had gone through only a fraction of Mrs. Carr’s closet, sorting her clothes, scarves, belts, and purses into three piles: take to Goodwill, save in the attic, and transfer to Lucy’s closet. My mother and I sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor as we waited for Lucy to emerge with a fresh handful of items, at which point we’d discuss and help Lucy make her designation. It was excruciating, every item unearthing memories, sometimes from three different perspectives. It occurred to me that few things tell the story of a woman’s life like her closet, as we pieced together a whole chronology and biography, a composite of good days and bad, big occasions and quiet moments. In the end, the second pile was by far the largest, Lucy deeming item after item too sacred either to give away or to wear herself.

  “Oh, Lucy, you should have this one,” my mom said, picking up one of Connie’s favorite jewel-toned Hermès scarves.

  “I could never wear that,” Lucy said, rubbing it between her fingers, her upper lip quivering. “It’s just so … her.”

  “But sweetie, it’s you, too,” my mom said—which really was the truth. As we got older, I could see Lucy dressing more and more like her mother. She had always been chic, but her look was becoming less trendy and more sophisticated, timeless. Even her shop was beginning to shift toward a slightly more mature demographic.

  Lucy wrapped the silk scarf around her neck and whispered okay, moving on to a long-sleeved pink poplin blouse.

  “Oh, that one brings back good memories,” my mom said.

  Lucy frowned and said she didn’t remember ever seeing it.

  “I
was with your mom when she bought it. At Neiman’s. She wore it to her last garden club meeting. The one at Lynn Odom’s house. That was a good day.”

  “Will you take it?” Lucy asked. “I hate the idea of anything going to strangers.”

  Blinking back tears, my mother said, “Okay, sweetie. I’ll take it … I can’t promise that I can bring myself to wear it, but I’d love to just have it.” My mother removed a monogrammed handkerchief she kept in her purse, a practice she’d picked up from Connie.

  Lucy motioned toward the Goodwill pile. “Anything else? Please?” she said, looking lost, her voice small and pitiful. Everything about her seemed fragile—in such contrast to her usual big personality. “I’d so much rather you have these things. Shea, you, too.”

  I hesitated. I really didn’t feel right taking any of Connie’s things, but desperately wanted to comfort Lucy, the way she so often did for me.

  My mother responded for us, stroking Lucy’s hair. “Listen, honey. How about I just take this whole Goodwill pile home with me for now? That way you could have some more time to decide … I will keep it safe for you. For now.”

  “Thank you, Marie,” Lucy said, giving my mom a long hug. The two had always been close, perhaps closer than I had been to Connie because their personalities were more similar. But it was clear in the past few months that they were becoming even closer—and that my mother was a great source of comfort to Lucy. A maternal figure, but also a real friend.

  “One more item and then we’re done for tonight,” Lucy said, pulling a shoe box and receipt out of a black Saks bag adorned with snow-flakes. She checked the date and said, “December of last year. Right before she got the news …”

  I held my breath as Lucy lifted the lid, revealing a gorgeous pair of black suede sling-backs. She removed the tissue wedged into one of the pointed toes, then flipped the shoe over, running her fingers across the pristine sole. I felt a lump in my throat. There was just something so tragic about that pretty pair of unworn shoes. I pictured Mrs. Carr trying them on, strolling along the plush carpet of the shoe department, debating whether to buy them. My mother must have been thinking the same thing because she said, “Maybe you could still return them?”