The One and Only

by Emily Giffin

  “Is that your final answer?”

  “No, sir,” I said. “I wrote that when I was in college. Writing for the Walker paper. That was a different job description. I can be objective. I know I can.”

  “Good. Because if a reporter so much as lets out one cheer in the press box, he’s done. He—or she—is history in this business.”

  I nodded and said I understood, surprising myself by how very much I wanted the job, even if it involved a whole lot of bile orange.

  Nine

  After lunch, I headed to the Lea Journo Salon, where Lucy had booked me a blowout with her favorite Dallas stylist—a heavily tattooed, ripped gay man named Ricardo.

  “Do you want sleek, big, or something in between?” Ricardo asked, as he unharnessed my ponytail and tousled my long hair.

  I told him to go big, silently finishing the sentence with Coach’s words: Or go home.

  “Old Hollywood big? Victoria’s Secret big? Cindy Crawford–throwback big? Or Miss America big?” Ricardo pressed.

  “Whatever you think,” I said. “Just make me … glamorous.”

  “Oh, honey, glam is a given in this chair,” he said, turning to tell his mousy, bespectacled assistant that I was ready to be washed—and that we were going to need a truckload of Velcro rollers.

  “The purples?” his assistant asked.

  “No, girl. The blues! You heard the lady! We’re going to make her big! Pow! Shazam!”

  A full forty minutes later, after my hair was mostly dried, Ricardo put his turbo dryer down and said, “Honey, you’re making me work. Good gawd, you have a lot of hair!”

  I smiled, knowing that was a compliment, and thinking that it was nice to have at least one outstanding feature. Two if you counted my collarbone.

  “So I take it you have big plans tonight?” Ricardo asked as he began to wrap my hair into the rollers.

  “Yeah, I’m going to a charity function at the Ritz,” I said.

  “Love that Ritz!” he said. “A lot of folks swear by the Crescent Court, but it has nothing on the Ritz. Such a classic. And do you know that they have their own nightly guacamologist? How divine is that?”

  “Quite divine,” I said.

  Then, wondering how so many gay men had the knack of making you feel like you were their best friend within an hour, I caved and said, “So. Guess who I’m going with?”

  He took the command seriously by saying, “Oh, I love guessing games! Tycoon, politician, chef, actor, model, or … stylist to the stars?”

  I laughed and said, “None of the above. Athlete. Football player.”

  “Gurrrl,” he said. “Don’t even tell me. Don’t even! That Dallas Cowboy stone cold fox? What’s his name? James Ryan?”

  “Ryan James,” I said.

  I watched Ricardo’s assistant perk up slightly and realized that I was doing the very thing that would get me excommunicated by A-listers in any field. I was kissing and telling even before I had kissed. So I tried to backtrack, explaining that Ryan and I were just friends. But Ricardo was off to the races, speed-dialing the salon’s resident makeup artist and asking her if she could come in on her day off and do a face for his new BFF.

  She must have said no because he said, “Adela! This is a total beauty emergency! She’s going on a date with Ryan James … Um, ye-esss. The Ryan James … and what if they fall in love and get married? Don’t you want to do their wedding? Hmm? Or do you want to get cut out of the action because you couldn’t tear yourself away from Ellen DeGeneres?”

  He hung up and said, “Okay. You so owe me. Adela’s on her way. She is a genius and will smoke the hell out of those eyes! Shazam! … Now. Let’s talk wardrobe. What are we wearing?” he asked, eyeing my shoes with disdain.

  “Not these. Don’t worry,” I said and explained I had come from a job interview and had stilettos in the car.

  “Gurrl, I was going to say! Those shoes are just not okay. They might not even be okay for an interview! Unless it was at a convent!” he said, cracking himself up.

  Ricardo’s assistant said his name under her breath, looking aghast but amused by his blunt assessment of my footwear.

  “Shea and I are besties,” he said to her. “She knows I can’t lie. I’m like Abe. Yes, I most certainly did chop down that cherry tree.”

  “That was George Washington.” I laughed.

  “Whatev. Abe was honest, too. And so am I. And those shoes gots to go!” He laughed and said, “So tell me about the interview?”

  “It was with the Post,” I said. “Covering sports.”

  “A newspaper reporter! How quaint. And? Did you get the job?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “That’s the attitude! Now apply that mentality to Mr.-James-if-you’re-nasty and you will get him, too. Especially with these drapes,” he said, puffing my hair. “He is going to be all yours tonight, but, honey, do you even want him?”

  “As a matter of fact,” I said, “I think I do.”

  At five o’clock sharp, our designated meeting time, I walked into the lobby bar at the Ritz, with big hair, smoky eyes, heels that put me over six feet, and my little black dress that seemed way littler than it had in the dressing room at Lucy’s shop. The effort and money spent seemed worth it, as I decided that it was pretty much the best I was capable of looking, a feeling that was corroborated by the double takes I drew from a few men in nice suits clustered by the entrance of the bar. It even started to cross my mind that I had overdone it, tried a little too hard, until I spotted Ryan, dazzling in a charcoal suit and slim silver tie. He was lounging on one of the low leather sofas near the front windows, chatting with an attractive couple about our age. He spotted me almost immediately, his face lighting up as he sprang from his seat and sauntered over to me, his gait easy, cocky, sexy. Even if he didn’t play football, it was the kind of walk that made girls go to bed with you, no questions asked.

  “You look phenomenal,” he said, leaning down to kiss my cheek, his hand on my back. “Wow.”

  “Thank you. You look great, too,” I said, shaking off my pregame jitters, as he guided me over to the couches and introduced me to his friends, Sandy and Barry, explaining that Barry was on the board of the autism charity, and Sandy was last year’s gala chair. I said hello as Barry stood and shook my hand, and Sandy complimented my dress. I told her I loved hers, too, as we all sat down and Barry asked what I wanted to drink. I glanced at the low cocktail table between us, noting that the guys were drinking scotch, Sandy white wine. I hesitated, the way I always did when it came time to order a drink, thinking that, at thirty-three, it was high time I had a go-to signature beverage, like Lucy. “Belvedere and soda with a twist,” she always said so decisively, prettily. No floundering about or jumping around from beer to wine to tequila.

  “Shea drinks whiskey,” Ryan proudly announced.

  “How did you know about my whiskey habit?” I said under my breath.

  He winked and said, “That’s one of those things you don’t forget. Girls who drink whiskey. Girls who pack heat. Girls who go commando. Girls who truly understand the game of football.”

  “Good Lord, Ryan,” Sandy said, laughing. “That’s quite a list!”

  “Yeah. But I think there’s a difference between understanding the wishbone formation and packing heat without panties,” I quipped.

  “Nah. I’m with Ryan. Significant overlap,” Barry said.

  “I’m wearing underwear,” I said.

  “That’s too bad,” Ryan whispered in my ear.

  I smiled and asked Barry what he was drinking.

  “Macallan thirty,” Barry said, holding up his rocks glass. I could tell he knew it would impress me, but it wasn’t off-putting. Not nearly as offensive as those who casually name-drop a vintage.

  “Thirty?” I said, wondering how much that set him back, and if it could possibly be worth it.

  “Yep. It’s crazy smooth,” Ryan said, while Sandy quizzed me on how I could stand something so strong. “It�
�s like drinking … nail polish remover.”

  I laughed and said it was absolutely nothing like nail polish remover—but that I should probably stick with wine tonight. Ryan ignored me and told the waitress that I’d like a double shot of “this good stuff.”

  “On the rocks?” she asked, giving me a once-over.

  “No. Neat,” Ryan answered for me, which puzzled me a little since he and Barry were both drinking theirs on ice.

  Thinking he had his reasons and I wasn’t going to nitpick, I smiled and thanked him, reminding myself to be careful. I had an hour drive home tonight, and ending up on Ryan’s couch was out of the question. His bed was even more out of the question, which Lucy had taken great pains to remind me of. She had already sent me two texts. One simply said: Do NOT get wasted; the other: Guys like girls they have to work for. Don’t be a lobby ho. I laughed after I read that one, remembering that it was I who had taught her the terminology, coined for the girls in low-cut tops and knee-high boots who sat around in the players’ hotels, waiting for them to come down for the team bus.

  “So. Ryan tells us you went to college together,” Sandy said as I noticed that her accent was the girl version of Ryan’s. High-class all the way. So high-class that she could afford to skip the airs. I decided I liked her.

  “Yes,” I said. “We met in our freshman comp course.”

  “But we knew each other through football, too. Shea’s best friends with Coach Carr’s daughter,” Ryan said.

  “And you’re from Walker?” Sandy asked.

  I said yes, all my life except for the first two months.

  “Shea works for Walker now,” Ryan added. “In the athletic department.”

  I nodded, then confided that I had had an interview with the Post earlier today. “And get this,” I said, turning to fix my gaze on Ryan. “It’s for the Longhorn beat.”

  Ryan slapped his thigh and belted out, “Traitor! Damn traitor!” He laughed a big, confident laugh. “Does Coach Carr know about this?”

  I said yes, but didn’t tell him that it had been Coach’s idea in the first place and instead asked Barry and Sandy where they had gone to school.

  “I went to SMU, Barry went to Rice,” Sandy said, adding that they were Walker fans, too, because of Ryan.

  I refrained from telling them my opinion: if they were fans of all, they were fans of none. Instead I stuck to safer terrain and asked where they had grown up.

  “Right here in Dallas,” Barry said. “We both went to Highland Park High.”

  I smiled and nodded, very familiar with the crowd from Highland Park, the wealthy section of Dallas where my socialite friends from Walker had grown up and returned after college, most with husbands they had known all their lives. In towns like Walker, marrying someone from home had a sense of settling, throwing in the towel because what else were you going to do? In Dallas, though, marrying your high school sweetheart had an aspirational, arranged-marriage feel. And Sandy and Barry seemed to be a prime example of combining family money and good genes.

  Our waitress returned with my drink. I thanked her, then Barry, picking up the glass and taking my time before I raised it to my nose. I parted my lips, careful not to inhale too abruptly, having learned that this deadens your sense of taste. I breathed in spicy caramel, then closed my eyes and took a heavenly sip.

  “You weren’t kidding,” I said, mostly to myself. “This stuff is good. Damn. It’s almost twice as old as the best Macallan I’ve ever had.”

  “And twice as good,” Barry said. “Worth every cent.”

  Ryan raised his glass, and said, “Life’s too short for cheap whiskey.”

  I laughed and said, “Spoken like a Dallas Cowboy. Not sure everyone can afford that philosophy.”

  Grinning, Ryan put his arm around me, pulling me closer. I dropped my head to his shoulder for one flirtatious beat, aware that people were watching us. I felt special, lucky, even though I knew that it was all a mirage. I really wasn’t that girl. It was the hair, the dress, the red lipstick. Or maybe it was just the Ryan effect—his bright light radiating onto everyone in his company. I kept sipping my single-malt scotch, feeling warmer and happier by the second, wishing we didn’t have to get up off these couches. But the hour passed quickly, along with another round, and, at six o’clock, Sandy declared that it was time to go raise some money for charity. We all stood, and Ryan took my hand and led me out of the bar. On our way to the elevators, he was stopped twice by strangers, and asked to sign autographs and pose in front of the enormous arrangement of calla lilies displayed on a round table in the middle of the lobby. While Sandy and Barry went to the restroom, I watched at a slight distance for a few seconds, then pulled my phone out of my clutch and took my own surreptitious selfie, with Ryan in the background. I sent the photo off to Lucy, amusing myself with the caption Ain’t nuthin’ but a lobby ho. I smiled when I saw Lucy’s response—an all-caps LOL—but knew it wasn’t entirely a joke given my sudden, whiskey-induced judgment that spending the night at Ryan’s might not be the end of the world.

  The rest of the night was a blur. Talking to couples interchangeable with Barry and Sandy. Posing for professional photos with Ryan. Bidding on silent auction items—laser hair removal, a malachite cuff, a hot-air balloon ride—not because I really wanted them but because they seemed like “good deals.” Dancing on a slippery parquet dance floor to a doo-wop band. Losing my stilettos, then finding them, then losing them again. And sipping a never-ending glass of pinot noir.

  Then my memory skips to watching Ryan disarming his security system … walking through his sleek, contemporary compound … making out with him in his sparkling marble kitchen … going upstairs to his bedroom. Then nothing … until I awoke in his bed, wearing only my underwear and a very large Cowboys T-shirt. I got up, the room spinning as I frantically looked for my clothes and cellphone.

  Without lifting his head off the pillow, Ryan’s voice came back muffled. “Morning, babe.”

  “What time is it?” I asked, my head pounding.

  “Six-thirty,” he said.

  “Where’s my phone?”

  “In my bathroom. You were charging it.”

  “I was?”

  “Yes.”

  “What else did I do?”

  Ryan rolled over and looked up at me, smirking. “You don’t remember?”

  They were pretty much the worst three words you can hear after a first date, particularly when you’re standing in the guy’s bedroom, wearing his clothing, with a bad hangover.

  “Sort of,” I lied, stumbling over one of his boat-size loafers, looking for the bathroom.

  “Other way,” Ryan said, pointing to his side of the bed.

  “Right,” I said, following the light to a bathroom larger than my bedroom. I had no recollection of ever seeing the room before, let alone plugging in my phone. I pulled it from the charger. Four missed calls from Lucy and several texts from her, asking what was going on. I took a deep breath and checked my call log, with the sinking dread of what I was going to find. And there it was: two outgoing calls to Coach Carr.

  Shit, I said aloud, now vaguely remembering placing the calls.

  Ryan heard me and said, “You okay?”

  I walked back to the bed, my phone in hand, and said, “Did I talk to anyone last night?”

  Ryan laughed and said, “Yeah. You called Coach. You were hilarious.”

  “Hilarious how?” I asked, my heart racing as I saw that one call to Coach Carr had lasted nearly eleven minutes. I crossed my fingers that I was funny-hilarious, not foolish-hilarious as I got back in bed and pulled the sheet over me. “What did I say?”

  “On which topic?” Ryan said, sitting up, exposing a torso so cut that it didn’t look real. “Your tirade against the Longhorns? Your stance on women in the locker room? Or your declaration of undying love for him?”

  “What?” I said, my voice hoarse. “I said that?”

  “You said he was your favorite person in the world. Somethi
ng like that.”

  “I don’t love him in that way,” I said.

  “Well, no shit. He’s an old dude.”

  “He’s only fifty-five,” I said.

  “Well, still. I knew what you meant.”

  “But I really said that to him?” I said.

  “Yup,” Ryan said, seemingly enjoying my misery as he imitated my slurred voice. “ ‘Yermyfaaaavoritepersoninthewholewiiiiideworld.’ ”

  “Oh, God. Why did you let me call him?” I said, burying my face deeper into the covers, every part of me burning with humiliation.

  “There was no stopping you. You were on fire.”

  “On fire? What else did I say?” I asked.

  “You went through pretty much every Heisman Trophy since Jay Berwanger won the damn thing in 1935 and asked Coach who he thought really should have won. You put him on speaker for that segment.”

  “Did he …?”

  “Play along? Oh, yeah. He played your little game. Let’s see … You both agreed that Herschel Walker should have beat out George Rogers in ’eighty-two.”

  “ ’Eighty,” I corrected. “He did win in ’eighty-two.”

  “Right. Whatever. But according to you, he shouldn’t have won that year. Eric Dickerson should have … And you thought Chuck Long should have beaten Bo Jackson, but Coach disagreed on that one … You said Ki-Jana Carter or McNair should have beaten Salaam, and you both agreed that Peyton Manning should have won in ’ninety-seven.”

  “Did we discuss you?” I asked.

  “Nope. I was a complete footnote. Until after you hung up,” he said, peeling back the covers and kissing the side of my face. His breath was warm in my ear, and I couldn’t help feeling aroused even as my focus remained singular.

  “What else?” I said. “What else did I say to Coach?”

  “You talked about the job. For the Post. Coach told you that you were crazy not to take it. You said you didn’t get it yet. He said you would. You said you didn’t want to leave Walker. God knows why. He said you could commute back and forth between Walker, Dallas, and Austin. Blah, blah, blah. Then I told you to say goodbye.”