The One and Only

by Emily Giffin

  “Tell her we’re not talking about who has the most tabloid press,” I said with as much disdain as I could without being outright rude.

  My dad laughed, then asked about my job. “I’ve been reading some of your stuff here and there. It’s really good.”

  I made a face at the phone, thinking that these were the first and only three words of feedback or praise my father had offered on my fledgling career in journalism.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said. “It’s been fun.”

  “I bet,” he said. “Like a dream job for you.”

  “Like a dream job?” I said. “It is my dream job.”

  “Right, right,” he said. “That’s what I meant.”

  “And speaking of dreams,” I said, making an awkward but still satisfying transition. “I’m sort of dating the dream guy, too.”

  “Oh?” my dad said as I heard Astrid clamoring in the background: What’d she say? What’d she say?

  My father didn’t even try to mute the phone or cover the receiver. She said she’s dating her dream guy.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m actually dating the best quarterback in the NFL.”

  “Come again?” my dad said.

  “Ryan James,” I said, smirking to myself. I could practically hear the drum roll. “I’m dating Ryan James.”

  Silence.

  “He wants to meet you when you come down. He invited us to sit in his box with his parents for the game. On Thanksgiving.”

  More silence except for Astrid, peppering him with questions.

  “Dad? Did you hear me?”

  “Are you joking?”

  “No, Dad. It’s not a joke. He’s my boyfriend. He gave me diamond earrings. Big ones. We’re pretty serious.”

  By now, I was fist-pumping, and Astrid was frenzied. I heard him relay everything to her, down to the size of my studs. Big diamonds.

  Astrid suddenly was speaking directly in my ear, obviously having ripped the phone away from my dad. “Are you really dating Ryan James?” she said.

  “Yes, Astrid. I am, in fact.”

  Her voice became higher, more stilted than usual. “Well, tell us! How did this happen? Where did you meet?”

  “We went to school together, Astrid,” I said. I liked punctuating my statements with her name, and the weary effect it created.

  “And he gave you diamond earrings?”

  “Yes, Astrid. They’re gorgeous.”

  “Send us a photo. Wow,” she said, but her voice was flat. She was either in shock or jealous—both, I hoped.

  “Sure, Astrid. I’ll do that, Astrid,” I said, savoring the moment, thinking I win. No matter what happened in the long run, for one moment in time, my mother’s daughter was finally winning.

  Twenty-three

  When things seem too good to be true, they usually are. It was yet another of Coach Carr’s favorite statements—a sentiment that seemed pretty on the money as we cruised past our bye weekend and geared up for Florida State, Stanford, and Texas—our final three, and by far toughest, opponents of the regular season.

  So I shouldn’t have been surprised when Ryan said, out of the blue one night, as I was on the verge of falling asleep, “I just want you to know that you might be hearing some things about me and they aren’t true.”

  “What things?” I said, now wide awake, though my eyes were still shut.

  “Blakeslee knows I’m seeing you,” he said. His face was so close to mine that I could feel his breath on my cheek. “And I’m worried that she might lash out.”

  “Lash out? At me?” I asked, my eyes snapping open. I blinked, adjusting to the dark, waiting, thinking of that picture in the magazine that I had never asked him about.

  “Not at you. At me,” he said. “I think she’s upset. And she can do stupid shit when she’s upset.”

  “Why is she upset?” I said, thinking that she had no right to be upset when they were divorced. Of course I knew emotions—and divorces—didn’t always work that way, and that sometimes there was no such thing as closure.

  “She heard about your earrings,” he said.

  “How?” I said, increasingly uneasy. “Who could have possibly told her about my earrings?”

  “Well … I did.”

  I tried to process this information, piece together what the conversation might have sounded like, as he offered a flimsy, unprompted explanation. “We still talk occasionally.”

  “Oh,” I said, a knot growing in my chest. “Yeah, I saw that picture of the two of you. This summer.” I suddenly felt foolish for never asking about it.

  “That was nothing,” he answered, almost too quickly. “She was in California for work. And we had lunch. That was it.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “So how often do you talk to her?”

  “Not often at all,” he said. “I swear.”

  “I believe you,” I said, although I wasn’t sure that I did.

  “But we did speak a few days ago … And she asked me if I was seeing anyone. I told her about you … and it sort of deteriorated after that.”

  I still couldn’t quite figure out how my earrings factored into the whole conversation, but I just nodded, taking it all in.

  “Are you mad?” he said.

  “No,” I said, although I was irritated by Ryan’s double standard. Why was it all right for him to stay in touch with Blakeslee, when I couldn’t talk to Miller?

  Thirty seconds or so passed before he said, “Are you sure you aren’t mad?”

  I rolled over, fumbling for the ChapStick I kept in the nightstand next to his bed, taking off the top, and applying it as I mumbled that I wasn’t mad. But I didn’t sound convincing. I didn’t even try to sound convincing.

  I glanced at Ryan, making out his face in the dark. His expression looked vaguely disappointed, corroborating a theory I’ve always had—the more jealous a person is, the more he wants you to feel the same. In fact, maybe that was why he’d told Blakeslee about the earrings in the first place. Maybe she was seeing someone new and it bothered him enough to want to make her jealous.

  I said I was exhausted and that we both needed to get some sleep. He agreed, but after a few more minutes said my name again.

  “Yes?” I said, waiting, staring up at the ceiling.

  “I only want to be with you,” he finally said.

  “Good. I only want to be with you, too,” I said.

  But before I fell asleep for good, it occurred to me that it wasn’t the kind of thing you said if it was completely true—and maybe we were both trying to convince ourselves as much as each other.

  The next morning, Ryan surprised me with breakfast in bed. Scrambled eggs, wheat toast, and mixed berries on a black lacquered tray. There was even a sprig of parsley on my plate.

  “Thank you,” I said, although I’ve always thought breakfast in bed was far better in theory than in practice, especially when the meal is sprung on you seconds after waking. As I sat up, Ryan positioned the tray over my lap, then stretched out beside me. I had no appetite, probably because I was still thinking about Blakeslee, but took a bite of the eggs and told him they were delicious.

  “Did you already eat?” I asked.

  “Just a protein shake and oatmeal,” he said. I could feel him staring at me and had the feeling he was thinking about Blakeslee, too. The mood was definitely subdued, if not downright awkward.

  I took a dainty bite of toast, trying not to make crumbs in his bed, thinking how much I needed to go to the bathroom but didn’t want to go through all the upheaval of moving the tray.

  “What are you doing today?” he asked me.

  “Remember that little kid with brain cancer I told you about?” I said. “The one obsessed with Walker football?”

  Ryan nodded. “Yeah. Isn’t his name Max?”

  “Yes,” I said, noting once again what a good listener he was. It was as if he was never not paying attention—highly unusual for a man. “Coach invited him to be on the sidelines with the team against Stanford.
So Smiley wants me to do a feel-good story on him …”

  “Smiley wants feel-good?” Ryan said, laughing a little too hard, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

  “I know, right?” I said, running my hand over a crystal goblet filled with freshly squeezed orange juice, refusing to laugh.

  “What are you thinking, babe?” he said.

  So I told him exactly what I’d been thinking. “I was wondering whether this was a wedding gift,” I said, tapping on the glass.

  Ryan hesitated, then nodded gravely, as if making a somber admission.

  I picked up the silver fork in an ornate pattern. “And this?”

  He nodded again, then sat up.

  “Why did you keep them?” I said, more curious than anything else. “Doesn’t the girl usually keep this stuff?”

  He shrugged and told me Blakeslee didn’t want them.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. She just didn’t.” His forehead went from smooth to furrowed. “Her taste changed, I guess.”

  “In one year? Her taste changed in one year?”

  “She changed her mind about the marriage. So why not the crystal and silver?”

  It was a fair point, but I still felt confused, agitated. I said nothing, a trick of good reporting. Silence keeps them talking.

  It worked, as Ryan offered up more information. “I picked most of this stuff out anyway.”

  “You handled the registry?”

  “Well, we went together. But she let me pick most of the stuff.”

  “Huh,” I said, thinking: That’s weird.

  “And besides … things ended badly … So she said the gifts were tainted …”

  “I thought you said you were still friends?”

  “We are. Now. Sort of.”

  “Even though it ended badly?” I tried to sound breezy but spoke too quickly, giving the question a cross-examination feel.

  He gave me a circumspect look and said, “I knew it. You are pissed.”

  “No,” I said with a purposeful shrug. “I’m really not.”

  “It seems like you are.”

  “It seems like you want me to be.”

  A chilly standoff ensued, each of us staring at the other, neither speaking until he said, “Look. Let’s not talk about her anymore, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, thinking that it would be just fine if I never heard her name again.

  No such luck. Because later that morning, just as I finally got Blakeslee out of my mind, the phone in my cubicle rang, an unknown Houston number on the screen.

  “Shea Rigsby, Dallas Post,” I answered, thinking that it hadn’t worn off yet. Every time I said my title, I felt a little thrill.

  “Hi, Shea,” a woman’s voice on the other end of the line said. I tried to place it, but it didn’t sound familiar. “This is Blakeslee Meadows. I don’t know if you remember me?”

  “Yes,” I said, my heart pounding. “How are you?”

  “I’m well,” she said. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, as it occurred to me that we had never actually had a conversation, only a few passing hellos in college. She had always made it clear that I was beneath her—and I wondered if she felt the same now.

  “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

  I murmured my agreement, trying to anticipate where she’d possibly go from here just as she said, “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m calling you.” Her voice was soft and hesitant, and didn’t match my memories, her polished photos, or her confident public persona.

  “It’s about Ryan,” she continued.

  “Yeah. I figured,” I said, lowering my voice and glancing at the cubicles surrounding mine. Murphy’s law had quieted the floor down in the one moment that I needed privacy.

  “He told me he was seeing you,” she said.

  “Yeah. He told me that he … told you,” I stammered as Gordon glanced my way. Ever since I’d told him about Ryan, I had the feeling he was more interested in my conversations.

  “Right. Well. I debated calling you … And I know your relationship is none of my business.”

  I said nothing, thinking this was a pretty major understatement.

  “But I just … I had to …” Her voice cracked, making her sound both sad and desperate, and I felt an unexpected stab of sympathy. In one instant, she was no longer competition, just a girl who had lost her husband, perhaps the one man she’d ever loved. Maybe she still loved him. Maybe that’s what this was about. Her trying to get him back. Maybe she was actually manipulating me.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, feeling disoriented.

  “Yes. Thank you, Shea. I’m fine …” I heard her take a few deep breaths, and, when she started speaking again, I had the feeling she was reading from a script. “As you know, Ryan and I got divorced about a year ago. It was really hard and very, very sad. I loved him a lot … and we both really wanted things to work. But they just didn’t. They couldn’t.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, waiting for her to continue.

  “Thank you … So anyway … I know that he started seeing you this summer … And again, I know your relationship is none of my business … But … God … this is a really hard thing to say … And I feel really shitty for telling you this …”

  “You can tell me,” I said, feeling certain that she was about to confess that he’d cheated on me with her.

  Instead she said, “What I’m saying is that Ryan has a really bad temper. Like … really bad.”

  “Okay,” I said as calmly as I could, mentally switching gears.

  “Our divorce is sealed … confidential … for privacy … and I don’t want to spread rumors about him, especially since I know you work for a paper now. I would hate for this to get out and hurt his career or reputation or endorsements … Or even what he has going with you … But I just had to tell you …”

  I nodded, now in full-on reporter mode. “Wait. Let’s back up,” I said slowly. “When you say temper … what exactly do you mean?”

  “Most of the time he’s a great guy. Really sweet and … wonderful,” she said, clearly evading the question. “But … he has a temper.”

  I waited.

  “He gets it from his father,” she continued. “Not that that’s an excuse. But … have you met his dad?”

  “No. Not yet,” I said, thinking of our Thanksgiving plans.

  “When you do, watch how Mr. James talks to Ryan’s mom. Really to all women,” she said. “He’s a classic misogynist and a horrible father. He put crazy pressure on Ryan when it came to football. If Ryan had a bad game, he’d chew him out. Throw his cleats in the dumpster behind the school. Make Ryan walk home. Five miles in one-hundred-degree heat … And that was the least of it … Have you ever asked him about that scar he has on his forehead?”

  I knew exactly the one she was talking about. “The one he got the night of the high school state championship. His senior year,” I said, showing her how much I knew about him, how close we were.

  “Oh, he did get it that night,” Blakeslee said. “Because they lost the game. And his father thought the quarterback was to blame.”

  “Shit,” I said under my breath, feeling sure that she was telling the truth about at least this part of the story.

  “And so … and so it’s not all his fault that he is the way he is,” she concluded.

  “What way is that?” I said, needing her to spell it out for me.

  Blakeslee was so quiet I thought we had gotten cut off. But when I said her name, she said, “When he gets angry, he can be really mean. And violent. And scary.”

  Mean, violent, scary. The words swirled around my head as I reminded myself that Ryan was innocent until proven guilty. I clung to the hope that she wasn’t really saying what I thought she was saying, but there wasn’t a lot of wiggle room with that lineup of adjectives.

  After a long pause, she said, “Has he shoved you yet? Grabbed you too hard?”

  “No,” I quickly replied. “N
ever.”

  “Well,” Blakeslee said quietly. “Maybe he has changed. If you believe that people can. I don’t think I believe that, though …”

  I waited, as she threw out another loaded question. “Has he asked you to change your clothes? Or gotten upset at you for wearing tight pants or short dresses or low-cut tops?”

  “No,” I said, comforted by the question, telling myself that she was only being a drama queen. Trying to stir the pot. Were we really discussing cleavage?

  But just as I was dismissing her as crazy, she said, “Okay. Well, has he gotten crazy, psycho jealous over … nothing?”

  I thought of Miller, but didn’t answer.

  “He has, hasn’t he?” she said softly.

  “Not really. I mean, he can be jealous. But not psycho jealous. Nothing like that,” I said.

  “Well, be careful, Shea. Because that’s how it starts … You know … I thought it was me for a long time. Because I wasn’t perfect either. I got really jealous over all the girls who are always after him. And sometimes, at first, I tried to make him jealous back … I told myself that it was my fault for starting trouble. And if I tried harder to be more secure … or more tolerant … or just the perfect wife, I could keep him from getting mad. But it didn’t work that way. And I know now that it wasn’t my fault. And it isn’t his dad’s fault. It isn’t anyone’s fault but his own. And I can’t believe I’m the only one he’s done it to.”

  Done what to? I wanted to ask. But I didn’t because the question felt too personal, the answer too obvious. Instead I said, “Well, thank you for calling and telling me this.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Silence. And this time she outwaited me as I babbled, “I … I guess I don’t know what to say …”

  “You don’t have to say anything,” she said. “And please believe that I’m not trying to hurt your relationship. This is about helping you. And him.”

  “Okay,” I said, now desperate to get off the phone.

  “Can I ask you for one favor?” she said.

  “Okay,” I said again.

  “Please don’t tell him I called you.”