The One and Only

by Emily Giffin

  I opened my eyes and smiled, then did what I was told.

  Twenty-eight

  I never called Ryan.

  It was the first thought I had when I snapped awake the next morning. Followed by: How am I going to get my car? Followed by: I’m never going to drink again. I reached up for my phone on the nightstand, my temples throbbing and my heart sinking as I saw six missed calls and seven texts, all from Ryan, each progressively more agitated.

  8:30: Heey babe. Just called u. Hit me back.

  8:42: Going to bed in a few. Miss u. Call me.

  9:05: Where are u?? Why aren’t you picking up?!

  9:38: Worried. Hope u r ok?

  10:07: You must be out. Turning phone off. GN Shea.

  10:43: Nothing? Wow. Ok …

  11:21: Can’t sleep. This sucks. Hope it was worth it.

  I stared at the screen as I tried to form my defense. I was drunk? I lost track of time? I forgot? I fell asleep? Poor cell reception … dead battery … lost phone? The truth? What was the truth? That he hadn’t crossed my mind except to field a few questions about him from old classmates? That Coach had been the one I wanted to call—and did call?

  I forced myself to dial Ryan’s number now, having no idea what I’d say if he answered. It rang once and rolled right to voice mail, as I began my rambling message. Hey, Ryan. I’m really sorry about last night. Will explain what happened when we talk … but obviously I know you’re only focusing on the game at this point. Good luck … I can’t wait to watch with your parents … I’m sorry.

  I hung up, awash with mixed feelings. On the one hand, I really was sorry. I’d told Ryan I was going to do something—and I hadn’t done it. I had been on the receiving end of such empty promises with Miller and others before him, and knew how frustrating it could be. I also knew how much Ryan liked to control everything that happened on the night before a game, so I was sure his nerves had compounded his irritation. Bottom line, I had been insensitive and thoughtless.

  At the same time, though, it all seemed a bit overblown. So I hadn’t called him during a two- to three-hour window on one random night? Big deal. Why couldn’t he just say good night and go to bed, already? Was it really necessary to leave that many messages? Was it really worth getting that upset?

  As the room began to spin, I moved more squarely into the defensive camp. It wasn’t like we’d had firm plans that I had blown off. I just forgot to call him. I mean, seriously, didn’t he have more important things to worry about? Like the Philadelphia Eagles? Get over it, already.

  My phone rang, and I scrambled to answer, expecting it to be Ryan and dreading the confrontation. Instead, I saw CCC lighting up my phone. My stomach kept fluttering, but now for a very different reason.

  “Hello?” I said, my voice hoarse.

  “Well, well, well,” Coach said. “Someone doesn’t sound quite as peppy as she did last night.”

  I tried to laugh, but my throat was too dry and it came out a small groan. “Yeah. I guess not.”

  “You feeling okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m sorry about last night.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” Coach said—which somehow made me resent Ryan’s guilt trip more. If anything, Coach should be the one annoyed with me. Would Ryan have preferred a nice drunk dial at midnight? “We just need to get your car.”

  “We?” I said, curling into a ball and feeling overcome with that dreamy feeling he always gave me, especially when he used pronouns like we and us.

  “Yes. We. That is, if you’re okay to drive now?”

  “I didn’t have that much to drink,” I said. “You must think I’m a total lush …”

  “Nah. Two benders in eight months does not a lush make.”

  “Two?”

  “Heisman Trophy night. Was that the last one?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said, no longer embarrassed about that call. “Yeah. That was the last one.”

  “So. Let’s schedule the next one for after the season. You and me. In January.”

  “Okay. Yes. January,” I said, thinking of the national championship game. I reached over and knocked on my wooden nightstand. “It’s a date. Just you and me.”

  I could feel his smile coming over the phone, and I beamed back at him.

  “Okay,” he said after a few intimate seconds. “I’ll be over around nine.”

  “You will?” I said, excited.

  “Yeah. Someone has to take you to get your car. Don’t you need it today? To get to the game?”

  I said yes, sitting up and checking the time. It was nearly 8:30—which gave me thirty minutes to look presentable.

  “Okay. Get up,” he said. “Get the blood pumping. You’ve got a big day ahead of you. Big game. Big meeting.”

  “Right,” I said, wondering how I was going to get through it all.

  Thirty minutes later, after I had showered, thrown on some jeans and a sweatshirt, and half dried my hair, there was a brisk knock at the door. I ran to open it and found Coach, wearing a Walker warm-up suit and a ball cap, holding a large coffee from Bunki’s.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, girl,” he said, raising the coffee.

  “Oh, right. I forgot. Happy Thanksgiving,” I said, taking the hot to-go cup from his outstretched hand. “Thank you.”

  “Figured you needed some coffee but then realized … I don’t even know how you take it.”

  Even. The word suggested that he should know, that we had passed that point in our relationship.

  “Plain. Black,” I said, which was the way he drank it, too.

  “Well, you’re in luck … I hope I got the donuts right, too,” he said, holding up the bag, then placing them on the small table right inside my door.

  “Glazed?” I guessed, knowing that was his favorite.

  He winked and patted the bag. “Yep.”

  “Do you wanna come in for a second?” I asked, still feeling forward but not nearly as bold as last night.

  “I would, but we need to hurry. You need to be on the road soon for a one o’clock kickoff.”

  “I know,” I said, grabbing my keys and purse as we headed out the door. He took my coffee as I locked the door, then handed it back to me as we walked down the flight of stairs, our footsteps echoing in the stairwell. Once on the sidewalk outside my building, he glanced around, then lowered the bill of his cap.

  “Are you worried someone will see you?”

  “Not really,” he said, giving me a sideways smirk. “I sort of got over that one last night. Waltzing over here at midnight like I did.”

  I smiled and said, “Right. But … we’re allowed to be friends.”

  He gave me a purposeful look as we reached his car. “We’re allowed to be any damn thing we want to be. Right?” he said, as he opened the door for me.

  “Right,” I said, my voice and hands unsteady. I ducked my head to climb inside his car as his hand dropped to my shoulder, guiding me. I had to catch my breath as he went around to his side, got in, and put his key in the ignition. Right before turning it, he looked at me again and said, “Do you know what’s going on here?”

  I froze, trying to interpret the question, wishing my head were clearer.

  “With us?” I clarified, the word filling the space between us, shrinking it further. I could smell his skin now, see individual whiskers on his face, pick out the few salt among the pepper.

  He nodded, holding my gaze. “Yes,” he said. “With us.”

  “I have an inkling,” I said, my pulse quickening further.

  He flashed me a full-on, crinkly-eyed smile and said, “All right. Just checking.”

  Then, as he fixed his attention on the road, I looked out my side window, my thoughts racing. We did not speak again, nor did we look at each other, until I directed him to my car, crookedly parallel-parked about fifty feet beyond the bar.

  “So,” he said, pulling up behind it. “Here we are.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Here we are.”

  He squar
ed his shoulder to me and reached out for my free hand. I gave it to him, and he squeezed my fingers between his. “Happy Thanksgiving, girl. Hope your Cowboys get a win,” he said, his hand warm and strong.

  “They’re not my Cowboys,” I said, staring into his eyes. “I only have one team.”

  “Oh, come on,” he said, releasing my hand, then reaching up to adjust his cap. “You know that’s not true.”

  “It is true,” I said.

  We sat that way for another few seconds, holding on to the moment, whatever it was that was happening between us. I broke the spell by saying, “Actually, Ryan’s pretty ticked at me. So today should be interesting …”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I didn’t call him last night.”

  “Is that mandatory?” he retorted. “That you check in?”

  “Last night it was. He asked me to call him by nine.”

  “He gave you a deadline?”

  “That’s when he goes to bed. Before games.”

  “I see.” Coach nodded, clearly aware of such practices, as the enforcer of his own rules about sleep before games. His next question was neutral enough. “So why didn’t you?”

  “Because,” I said. “I had other things on my mind.”

  “Oh?”

  I nodded. “I wasn’t thinking about Ryan. At all.”

  “Well …” he began, then stopped.

  “Well, what?”

  “If you broke your promise, then just apologize …”

  “I already did.”

  “You spoke?”

  “Voice mail.”

  He nodded. “So that’s that. You apologized … Don’t grovel.”

  “I won’t.”

  “And don’t …” Coach began, looking down at my hand again. He seemed to be on the verge of holding it again but stopped himself. “Don’t let that boy control you.”

  “What do you mean?” I was pretty sure I knew what he meant, but I wanted clarification, as much information as I could gather.

  “Ryan is used to getting what he wants. He fully expects to get what he wants … And, because of that, he usually does.”

  I nodded, thinking that it was an excellent summation of Ryan, but was still unsure of where Coach was going with the point until he looked at me and said, “Just make sure it’s what you want.”

  I stared back at him, my hangover making my thoughts hazy but also emboldening me. It was an odd, scary combination. “I know what I want,” I said.

  Coach held my gaze. “Good,” he said. “That’s a very good start.”

  “Yes. It’s a start …” I said, then hesitated. I felt disloyal to Ryan saying anything more but managed to overcome that feeling, rationalizing that we were still speaking in generalities. “I just have to figure out how to get it.”

  “Well,” Coach said, a hint of a smile appearing on his lips. “In my experience …”

  I raised my brows, waiting for some philosophical gem. But instead, he finished his sentence with “The Big Red at the Parkit Market never hurts.”

  I smiled and said, “So I’ve been told.”

  Thirty minutes later, after I’d changed into black leather leggings, suede boots, and a Cowboy-blue sweater with a deep V in the back, I was on the road to Dallas. I checked my phone on and off the whole way, hoping to hear back from Ryan, while obsessing over my last exchange with Coach. When I pulled into the driveway at the Ritz, I was only ten minutes late, a small miracle, and spotted my dad and his family preening by the valet stand. Astrid, Bronwyn, and her husband, Wiley, who reminded me a lot of my dad, were all wearing black or shades of gray and charcoal, a cluster of brunette Manhattanites. Bronwyn and Astrid had the same long, slippery, stick-straight hairstyle but Bronwyn had cut side-swept bangs that I couldn’t decide if I liked or hated—or, perhaps most accurately, hated because I actually liked.

  I got out of the car and waved, feeling unpolished and sloppy, an effect this group almost always had on me. In their company, no matter how much effort I put into my appearance, my hair always felt too wild, my clothes and lipstick too bright, my body large and graceless. Sort of like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, before her makeover. But I reminded myself why we were all here today, and that Ryan James had legitimized me just as Richard Gere had done for Julia.

  “Hey!” I said, smiling, probably showing too many teeth and wishing I had remembered to spit out my gum in the car. “Welcome to Dallas!”

  Too loud, I thought, adding it to the list as Astrid and Bronwyn gave me stingy finger waves and prim smiles.

  “Hello,” Astrid trilled. “Love the boots. Don’t you look fab!”

  “Thanks,” I said, the awkward recipient of her double-cheek kiss.

  Bronwyn moved in next, but I snubbed her at the last second, turning toward my father, wishing we could have even one moment alone, unobserved by Bronwyn and Astrid.

  “Hi, Dad,” I said.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, honey,” he said, giving me a big hug.

  “You, too,” I said, hugging him back.

  I greeted Bronwyn and Wiley next, exchanging cool pleasantries, noting, not for the first time, that they seemed to equate aloofness with refinement. I had to give it to them, though. They were refined, with impeccable grooming and etiquette and clothing, right down to the shiny buckles on his Gucci loafers and the black-patent bows on her five-inch pumps. I couldn’t imagine either of them ever having a hangover—or drinking too much in the first place.

  “Are y’all excited about the game?” I asked, the y’all escaping my lips before I could remember to change it to the proper you all.

  “Yes,” Bronwyn said with a tight, Botoxed smile.

  “Certainly,” Wiley chimed in. “This is wonderful. Thanks for arranging everything, Shea.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “I didn’t do much. Ryan did …”

  “So how is Ryan?” Astrid said, linking arms with me as my father gave the valet his ticket.

  “He’s fine,” I said, a fresh wave of guilt and worry washing over me. I had yet to hear from him and clearly wasn’t going to at this point, with the game kicking off in less than an hour.

  “And you’re … really dating him?” she said, about as transparently insulting as a question could be.

  I gave her a long look and said as pointedly as I could, “Yes. Why? Does that surprise you?”

  “Of course not,” my dad answered for her, picking up on the nuance. He had to have at least thirty IQ points on her—and so, for that matter, did my mother, a small source of comfort.

  Astrid didn’t take the hint. “So it’s really getting serious? Or are you just casually seeing each other?” she pressed.

  “We’re sitting in his parents’ box at the game,” my dad said to her with a tinge of irritation that delighted me. “You do the math, honey.”

  “Astrid can’t do math,” I said, smiling and quickly adding, “Just joking!”

  “She actually can’t, though,” Bronwyn said. The only thing that redeemed my half sister was that she seemed almost as bothered by her mother as I was, and I was reminded of the odd fact that I actually liked Bronwyn more in person than I did in theory. She was infinitely more interesting than Astrid, having inherited my father’s intelligence.

  The valet pulled up with their rental SUV, and we all piled in, Wiley, Bronwyn, and me in the back, Bronwyn in the middle. I glanced down at her hands, resting on her thighs, noticing her huge diamond ring and fresh manicure. I made two fists, hiding my own ragged cuticles, and did my best to make small talk. How was New York, their work, their new house in the Hamptons? Bronwyn’s answers were either succinct or modest, depending on your interpretation, not leaving much room for follow-up, and, to her credit, she tried to turn the conversation back to me, and seemed more interested in my new job than in Ryan.

  “Do you like it?” she began. “Is it what you thought it would be?”

  “Yes—and pretty much,” I said as everyone listened to my answer. “It’s to
ugh operating on such tight deadlines, but I really do like it. I like concentrating on one sport, one team.”

  Bronwyn nodded, and I could hear respect in her voice when she said, “How many other women sports reporters are there?”

  “At the Post, specifically?”

  She nodded.

  “None,” I said.

  I caught my dad’s proud smile in the rearview mirror—which pleased me more than it should have.

  “Did Ryan help you get the job?” Astrid chimed in.

  “No,” I said. “He had nothing to do with it.”

  Wiley asked a few questions about the quickly growing obsolescence of newspapers—and whether I thought we’d be completely online at some point in the near future—until Astrid managed to hijack the conversation and manipulate it in a completely unrecognizable direction. As she blathered on, I reread Ryan’s messages, trying to detect aggression in them, relieved not to find any. They were decidedly controlling, high-maintenance, and self-righteous, but I didn’t see any of Blakeslee’s accusations embedded anywhere. Of course I still hadn’t listened to his voice mails, and wondered why this was. Did I not want to find damning evidence right before meeting his parents? Was I just too exhausted? Or did I simply not care enough? As I stared down at my phone, a new message popped onto the screen. It was from Coach: Tell your dad I said hi.

  I typed back: Will do.

  I kept staring at my phone, willing another message to appear. It finally did. How do you feel? Any better?

  Me: Yes, much. The coffee and donut helped. Thanks again.

  CCC: Of course. You at the stadium yet?

  Me: Almost.

  I looked up from my phone and said, “Dad. Coach Carr says hi.”

  “How is he doing?” Astrid asked with exaggerated sympathy.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Is he dating yet?”

  I told her no as tersely as I could.

  “What about your mother?”

  “What about her?” I snapped.

  “Do you think they’ll get together?”

  “God, no.”

  “I told her that already,” my dad said.

  “Why not? They’re close friends—and I have always thought he was so sexy.”