by Emily Giffin
“I won’t,” I said, even though I didn’t owe her my allegiance, especially not over Ryan. Yet I had the feeling that I was going to keep her secret—and didn’t have a good feeling about what that meant.
“I just want to move on with my life … But I had to tell you. I wish his girlfriend before me had said something … You know?”
I said I did, picturing Tish Termini, Ryan’s first serious college girlfriend, a petite Italian girl who was as beautiful as Blakeslee but in a slightly trashy way. I remembered her well, flaunting her toned, tanned body around campus, wearing colorful push-up bras under white tank tops, and Daisy Dukes paired with cowboy boots. Everyone knew they had a turbulent, on-again, off-again relationship, but I’d never heard a single word about him hitting her. I put it in the column of evidence suggesting that Blakeslee might be lying or exaggerating, realizing that, no matter what, I was going to feel guilty. Either guilty for denigrating Ryan without a chance to defend himself, or guilty for thinking that any woman would lie about something so serious.
“Well. Thank you again for calling, Blakeslee,” I finally said.
“You’re welcome,” she said. And then—“I’m so sorry.”
I said goodbye and hung up, thinking about her last words: I’m so sorry. There was something about them that was both poignant and telling. She really did sound sorry, although I wasn’t sure if she felt sorry for me, herself, or Ryan.
That afternoon, I went to Lucy’s shop to give her the update. I did not editorialize, reporting only the facts of the conversation. What Ryan said. What Blakeslee said. What I said.
The first question she asked cut right to the crux of the matter: “Do you believe her?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think so … But I wonder … I mean, he did get really jealous over Miller.”
“Lots of people get jealous,” Lucy said. “Especially at the beginning of a relationship, when people are at their most insecure. Neil used to get so jealous. We look back and laugh about it now. It was ridiculous …”
“I know. But this was different,” I said, remembering the look on Ryan’s face when he made me promise not to see anyone but him.
“Are you sure you’re not just saying that now that you heard all this mess from Blakeslee?” Lucy asked.
“Maybe,” I said.
“You have to remember … he’s probably been burned before. Girls constantly using him. Liking him for the wrong reasons. Just because he’s famous and gorgeous doesn’t mean that he hasn’t been hurt.”
“True.”
“So if that’s true, could you really blame him for being possessive? Or a little insecure? Maybe you should take it as a compliment that he cares.”
I nodded, definitely seeing her point.
“Besides, she really could be making the whole thing up,” Lucy said. “Don’t you have to give him the benefit of the doubt?”
“And assume she’s lying?” I said. “Assume that the woman is lying about domestic violence? That’s pretty dangerous terrain, Luce.”
“Well, isn’t that what our justice system is based upon? Innocent until proven guilty rather than the other way around?” she said, nailing all the highlights of my internal monologue.
I shrugged, staring out the window onto Main Street, a block I knew by heart, store by store, brick by brick.
“How about this for a plan?” she said, talking slowly in her takecharge voice. “How about you give him a chance? And the very first sign, the smallest shove or tiniest hint of a temper … you end things.”
“Okay,” I said, wondering how to define a hint of temper.
“Can I discuss this with Neil?” Lucy said. It was a question she always asked, and one I appreciated, but, at this point, it wasn’t necessary. I always said yes, viewing Neil as an extension of Lucy in almost all respects.
“Of course,” I said.
“And maybe you should talk to Daddy?” Lucy said. “Maybe he has some insight into Ryan.”
“Yeah. I don’t think so,” I said. I was all about finding excuses to talk to Coach, but not about Ryan. And definitely not about this. I wasn’t sure exactly why—if it had more to do with unfairly casting aspersions against one of his former players or if I simply didn’t want Coach to know the details of our relationship. “I don’t want to spread this stuff around—if it’s not true,” I said.
“Yeah,” Lucy said. “And I’m sure it’s probably not.”
“Me, too,” I said, thinking that so much of how we see the world is a matter of interpretation. A matter of wishing and wanting and hoping rather than really deep-down believing.
Twenty-four
I decided not to worry about Ryan for the time being and focused all my wishing and wanting and hoping on the rest of our season. After beating FSU in Tallahassee, we were so close to reaching the promised land, with only Stanford and Texas in our way. A few days later, we were halfway there, having eked out a 44–41 victory over the Cardinal.
“Great win,” I said to Coach Carr outside our locker room. I was headed to the pressroom but had stalled here on purpose, hoping I’d see him.
“You like that?” he said, angling his shoulder toward me in a thirty-second private sidebar. The favoritism was obvious to anyone even half paying attention, but nobody was. In my peripheral vision, I could see a well-known writer for Sports Illustrated barreling toward us, so I kept a stoic expression, nodding, scribbling on my pad as if getting a quote from Coach.
“Call me later,” he said.
“What?” I asked.
“You heard me.”
My heart fluttered. “You mean tonight?”
“Yes. Tonight.”
I was already warm from the lights and crowds and my hustling move to get down here, but my whole body heated up a few more degrees as I nodded, promising him I would.
Three hours later, after the press conference, and after I had written and filed my story, I called Coach. He didn’t answer, and the weight of the disappointment was like a great check and balance to the high of our earlier exchange. To distract myself, I called Ryan, who had just hunkered down in his hotel room in D.C. I had only seen him a couple times since talking to Blakeslee, both evenings pleasantly uneventful, and Lucy and I were both beginning to believe that, at the very least, Blakeslee had exaggerated his temper. I had decided not to tell him about the conversation, coming up with a bunch of rationalizations, including that I knew he had to stay mentally focused, in the zone, during this part of the season. With this in mind, I asked him about the Redskins game tomorrow, how he was feeling, if he was ready. He informed me that his knee was feeling pretty good, only a little tight, then asked if I’d finished my story. He knew we had won but hadn’t caught any of the game, so I filled him in on some of the highlights. Then he told me he missed me, and I said I missed him, too. We still hadn’t said I love you, but I could feel it coming soon. For the most part, I was ready.
After we hung up, I watched an hour or so of ESPN before my stomach started to growl, and I remembered that I hadn’t eaten dinner. My refrigerator was close to bare, par for the course, so I got in my car to find food, the faster and greasier the better. As I drove through town, my thoughts kept returning to Coach. It bothered me that he hadn’t picked up or called me back—but it bothered me more that I cared so much. Then, just as I was pulling into the Taco Bell drive-thru, his name lit up my phone. My heart racing, I pulled out of line, into a parking spot. I simply couldn’t do two things at once when one of them involved Coach Carr.
“Sorry I missed your call. I must have been in the shower,” he said.
The update felt intimate, and all I could say was “Oh.”
“Did you file your story?” he asked.
“Yes … And what about you? How much Texas–Nebraska tape have you watched since you got home?” I asked. The game had kicked off about the same time as ours, the score about the same, Texas coming out on top.
“How’d you know?”
“Lucky guess,” I said, feeling my chest rising and falling with excitement. “Where are you now?”
“My back porch …”
“Eating chocolate cake?” I said, thinking of our night on the track, and how much happier he sounded now. The score was just as close, but we had played so much better. Probably the best we’d played all year.
He laughed and said, “That was earlier. For dinner … Where are you?”
“Taco Bell,” I said.
“Now, that sounds good,” he said.
“You want me to get you something?” I blurted out before I could think better of it, stop myself from being too forward.
But before I could really regret it, he replied, “I’d love a couple of beef tacos. And some of those cinnamon things.”
“Okay,” I said, staring at the drugstore across from the Taco Bell.
There was a stretch of silence as I considered the awkward logistics. “Should I … bring them over … there?” I finally asked.
“Sure. Unless you think that’s a bad idea?” I heard hesitation in his voice as if he, too, registered that a late-night food delivery was a bit unorthodox, if not inappropriate. “I mean, could you … get in trouble with Smiley?”
“For bringing you tacos?” I laughed nervously. “I don’t think so. Besides. No one would know. It’s dark.” I shook my head, regretting the comment as soon as it was out. Too shady, conspiratorial.
Then he asked if I’d talked to Lucy tonight, and I realized he was right there with me, thinking the same way I was.
“Yes,” I said.
“And what’s she up to?”
“She was going to bed when we last spoke.”
There was a long pause, and then he said, “Well, just to be on the safe side … why don’t you park in the garage?”
“Okay,” I said quickly. “I’ll be right over.”
Twenty-five
The house was completely dark when I arrived, but, as I pulled down the driveway, I could see that the garage door was open, and Coach was standing inside, illuminated by my headlights. He was wearing a Walker warm-up suit and a teal baseball cap, his feet uncharacteristically bare. The turn from the end of the driveway was a tight ninety-degree angle, and the two-car garage felt more like a one-car with all the shovels, rakes, mowers, and old bicycles lining the perimeter. I cut my wheels as hard as I could, inching forward as Coach motioned for me to keep driving, until he finally held up his palm to stop, then gave me a thumbs-up. It occurred to me that, of the hundreds of times I had driven to the Carrs’, I had never pulled inside their garage. I nervously offered this observation after he walked around to my door and opened it.
“Yeah, it’s not an easy turn,” Coach said.
“Not easy at all,” I said, remembering that Lucy wasn’t allowed to go anywhere near the garage when she first got her license. I also recalled that Connie had banged up her car a time or two over the years, but I certainly wasn’t going to bring that up now. I reached for our bag of food on the passenger seat and got out of the car. We had yet to make eye contact.
“Speaking of driving … You really need to get that thing fixed,” he said, gesturing toward the dent in my fender. I glanced at him, then quickly away. His face was serious, and I could tell he was nervous, too. Maybe even as nervous as I was. I hoped he wasn’t regretting the invite and commanded myself not to be awkward. If I could somehow manage to keep things natural, maybe we could make a habit out of spending time together.
“I know,” I said, my voice coming back faint. Embarrassed, I cleared my throat and said the words again, stronger.
“Take it to my guy,” he said, bending over to run his right hand along the metal groove. He patted it twice before standing up and taking the two steps back to my door. “This thing will start rusting soon if you don’t.”
“Who’s your guy?” I asked, even though I already knew he went to Lloyd at Performance Auto. Just like I knew where he went to the dentist, where he got his suits cleaned, where he picked up his prescriptions.
“Lloyd Hardy,” he said.
“Looney Lloyd?” I smiled.
“Yeah, ol’ Lloyd’s missing a few screws for sure,” he said with a laugh. “But he’s the best when it comes to cars. And guns.”
“Does he know football?” I asked. I could tell we were both stalling, neither of us in a hurry to go inside.
“Nope. Just NASCAR. But he likes me pretty well and pretends to care about Walker. Tell him I sent you. He’ll give you a deal.”
“I’m sure he will,” I said. Coach reached past me and pushed my car door shut, his arm brushing mine.
“All right, girl. Let’s go in,” he said, turning toward the house. I trailed after him, pausing as he hit the button to close the garage door, then following him inside. We walked past the laundry room, where “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers” was playing on his portable radio. The thing was at least as old as Lucy and me, now bound with duct tape, Coach’s favorite building material. A roll of tape could often be found in his office or car, along with a wealth of rubber bands in all sizes and colors, the full extent of his handiness.
“Barbra Streisand?” I teased.
“And Neil Diamond,” he said. “Don’t forget Neil.”
“You going soft, Coach?”
He laughed. “Soft? Is that what you call beating Stanford?”
“Good point,” I said as he ducked into the laundry room and switched off the radio. A pile of T-shirts and boxers were sloppily folded on the dryer along with one lone tube sock. The sight of his clothes, especially that sock, gave me a stab of intense sadness. I hated the idea of him doing his own laundry, being so alone.
I followed him past the pantry and into the kitchen, noticing details that I normally overlook. The tall baseboards, the slight sheen of the taupe walls, the distinctive smell of this house—a clean, and somehow old-fashioned, white-vinegar and woodsy scent. I caught Coach following my eyes, then misreading my thoughts. “I know. It’s messy. Lorna doesn’t come on the weekends.”
“It’s not so bad,” I said, though it was pretty messy. Dishes, several piles of mail, and an open box of raisin bran sat on the counter.
“I was just straightening up when you got here,” he said, closing the box of cereal and sweeping a few flakes from the counter into the cupped palm of his hand. He deposited them in the sink as I pulled our food out of the bag, unwrapping our tacos to determine which were his beef and my chicken.
“Want some plates?” he said.
I shrugged and said that wasn’t necessary, then thought of how refined Connie was, and changed my answer. “Actually, plates might be nice,” I said, reaching up and getting two from the cupboard, thinking that no other woman would know where everything was in his house. Except for Lorna and Lucy, and they didn’t count. I arranged the tacos as artfully as I could, putting his cinnamon twists aside for later, then grabbing a couple of napkins from a drawer next to the flatware.
“I didn’t get drinks,” I said. “Figured you’d have something here.”
Coach nodded, then pulled two frosted mugs out of the freezer, along with a liter of A&W root beer from the fridge. “Or would you rather have a real beer?” he said.
I smiled and said, “Root beer’s perfect.”
“Scoop of vanilla ice cream?” he said.
I laughed, shook my head, and said, “With tacos? No thanks.”
“Vanilla ice cream goes with anything,” he said, pouring the root beer. “But in light of the chocolate cake and cinnamon twists, I’ll skip it, too.”
We both smiled as he carried the glasses over to the family room. He put one glass down on his drink stand, the other on the coffee table, then sat in his usual armchair. I followed him with our plates, handed him his, and sat diagonally next to him on the sofa.
“What a satisfying win,” I said.
He tore open a packet of hot sauce, put it on one taco, and said, “Yeah. Those boys did a fine job today. Executed the pla
n to near perfection. Now—”
“—if we can beat Texas,” I finished for him.
He nodded, indicating that I got it right, as he flipped the television from Georgia–LSU on ABC to Cal–Oregon State on ESPN, then back to ABC, the tighter of the two contests.
We chatted about both games and the other scores of the day, spending a good ten minutes on Texas. I had only seen the highlights, but Coach filled in the details on their balanced offensive attack and stingy defense.
“It’ll be tough to beat them,” he summarized with a long sigh.
“We’ll get ’em,” I said, wondering if Smiley would fire me if he could see and hear me now. Then again, he had known Coach and I were close when he hired me. He had to have realized I wasn’t going to flip a switch and become unbiased and estranged from all my former friends. And as long as I wrote objective pieces, and kept up public appearances of being impartial, wasn’t this okay? It crossed my mind that Ryan might have the bigger issue with this moment, but I quickly discredited that thought, too. Miller was one thing, but there was no way Ryan would be jealous of his college coach. He loved the man almost as much as I did.
A few minutes later, Coach asked if I’d heard anything more about the investigation.
“Not really,” I said. “Just the usual chat board rumors and speculations … J.J. and Galli seem hopeful that the case will be closed for lack of evidence.”
“That would be nice,” he said.
“Don’t you think this whole thing was cooked up by fans of another team?”
“I do,” Coach replied quickly.
I looked at him, thinking of the alternative theory, and said, “Ryan thinks that all winners, at some point, cheat.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Does he cheat?”
I smiled. “That’s what I asked him.”
“And?”
“He said he doesn’t have to.”
Coach rolled his eyes, flipped the channel, flipped it back.
I hesitated, feeling a little uneasy as I continued. “Ryan said that someone bought Cedric Washington that Escalade he drove back in college. He implied that it was a bribe. So that he’d come to Walker …”