The One and Only

by Emily Giffin

  “Hi,” I said as softly as I could without whispering. “I’m really sorry …”

  Ryan nodded, as if accepting my apology, then smoothly handled the first introduction himself, shaking my dad’s hand, his voice becoming robust. “Mr. Rigsby! I’m Ryan James.”

  “Walt,” my dad insisted firmly.

  “Walt. Okay, then. Good to meet you, sir!” he said, turning to the others. “And you must be Bronwyn, Wiley, and Astrid.” He pointed as we went, shaking their hands, too. Astrid beamed, then, unbelievably, asked if they could take a photo together before we sat down.

  I think I gasped, and Bronwyn looked horrified, as her mother handed me her iPhone. But Ryan handled it well, smiling, posing, even letting Astrid check my work to make sure she liked the photo. Meanwhile, my dad, Bronwyn, and Wiley made small talk with Mr. and Mrs. James.

  “Did I blink?” Ryan asked when I handed Astrid her phone. “I always blink.”

  “No. It’s perf,” Astrid said.

  “Great!” Ryan said with such jocularity that I wasn’t sure if I was impressed or disturbed that he could fake things to this degree.

  We sat down as my father grew grave and said, “We’re really sorry about the game, Ryan. How’s your knee?”

  “It’s okay,” Ryan said. “I just twisted it a little.”

  “How’d you do that, anyway?” Mr. James said.

  “What do you mean?” Ryan said, the tension palpable. “How does one ever twist one’s knee?”

  Mr. James mumbled something unintelligible as the waiter came in with his spiel about the prix fixe meal and took our drink orders. For a few minutes, the atmosphere lifted, as everyone but Mr. James made polite small talk.

  But by the time our wine and whiskey arrived, Ryan’s dad had picked right back up with his veiled insults. Ryan ignored them until he seemingly couldn’t take it another second.

  “Dad,” he said, staring ahead, “can we please change the subject?”

  “Sure. What would you like to talk about, son?” Mr. James said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s your day.”

  My father raised one brow and looked at me.

  “Anything. But. Football,” Ryan said, his nostrils flaring.

  Mr. James pushed on. “Such as?”

  “Such as … anything,” Ryan said, raising his voice slightly.

  “Okay. How about this Walker investigation? Shea—I saw your story … Anything to that?”

  I opened my mouth to answer as Ryan dropped his palm to the table. “That’s football, Dad.”

  “But at least it’s not about your god-awful game today.”

  “Honey. Don’t,” Mrs. James whispered to her husband as Ryan threw back his whiskey.

  “How’s the investigation going?” Mr. James pressed, not letting me off the hook.

  “It’s … going,” I said as Ryan touched my leg under the table, giving me strength to continue. “I guess. I really don’t know. The NCAA won’t comment. Walker won’t comment. My sources won’t be named … Which is actually a relief for me. Means there’s nothing to write about.”

  “And? Do you think they have anything on us?”

  I wanted to tell him he wasn’t any part of us. I wanted to tell him to shut the hell up. Instead, something inside me snapped and I said, “Well, I don’t know, sir. I did hear that you bought a car for Cedric Washington. Is that true?”

  I glanced at Ryan, who gave me a small nod, though I wasn’t sure if he was confirming the rumor or giving me moral support.

  In any event, Mr. James remained perfectly calm as he said, “What’s the statute of limitations on that?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, then pressed, “So you did? Buy him a car?”

  “I might have,” Mr. James said.

  “Honey,” Mrs. James said again.

  “What?” he snapped back at her. “Shea asked me a question.”

  My father started to whistle, a nervous habit, and even Astrid had caught on that the situation was becoming dire, as she began murmuring to herself how much she loved the wine, then turned to ask Wiley what he had ordered. Wiley filled her in on the vintage and vineyard. He’d been there, of course, with Bronwyn, who also chimed in. Ordinarily it was the sort of thing that irritated me, but I could tell everyone was doing their very best to cast a lifeline to Ryan and me. It was almost touching.

  “Where did you hear that, Shea? Or do the questions only go one way?” Mr. James said with a big, fake laugh.

  I smiled and said, “I can’t reveal my sources.”

  “C’mon. Did you talk to Ced?”

  “It’s just a rumor. Just like this entire investigation is built on rumor, conjecture. It’s a house of cards. Like everything else the NCAA is doing these days.”

  It was the right thing to say because there was a perceptible shift after that. Or maybe the whiskey was just doing the trick.

  “Couldn’t agree more,” Mr. James said, raising his glass.

  I didn’t like the idea of being on the same side of an argument with him, but I was more intent on getting through the meal without a full-on explosion, so I kept on with my anti-NCAA rant, lifted mostly from Coach. Meanwhile, Ryan retreated into a dark silence, speaking only when spoken to. I couldn’t blame him, though, and was sure nobody else held it against him either. If anything, as we muddled through dinner, I felt myself growing ever more protective of him—almost as if he were still a little boy getting bullied by his father.

  By the end of dinner, when my father suggested that we all return to the Ritz for a drink, I quickly declined. “Ryan needs to get home to rest,” I said.

  “Yeah. I need to ice this knee,” he said, as conversation hit another major lull, a rarity with that many people at the table.

  When the bill came, all the men fought over it. Mr. James won, and the other three quickly relented, likely accepting it as repentance for his awful behavior. Then we all got up and made our way back to the valet. They brought Ryan’s Porsche first, even though he’d lost his ticket, and Ryan discreetly tipped the valet a twenty. Only then did he turn to me and say, “What are you doing now?”

  “What do you want me to do?” I whispered.

  “It’s up to you,” he said.

  “Do you want to be alone?”

  “No,” he said. “I want you to come over.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll go get my car at the Ritz and come over.”

  Ryan nodded. Then I watched him dig down and scrounge up a last scrap of charm.

  “Really great to meet you, sir. And next time,” he said, shaking my dad’s hand, “I’ll make sure you guys see a win.”

  “At least give ’em a good game,” Mr. James said. “And not a woodshed beating.”

  Ryan ignored his dad but kissed his mother, then Astrid and Bronwyn, and went on to shake Wiley’s hand. Finally he turned to me. “See you in a few?”

  “Yes,” I said, leaning up and kissing him, partly for effect, partly because I wanted to, but, more than anything else, because I actually felt sorry for the great Ryan James.

  Thirty

  Within five minutes of arriving at his house, Ryan transformed into a different person than the one I’d kissed goodbye at the Four Seasons. It was as if he’d flipped a switch, going from forlorn and formal to furious. He was angry at himself, angry at his teammates, angry at his coaches, angry at his father. He wasn’t animated or upset but caustic and cold, as he launched into one articulate diatribe after the other, like a character in an Aaron Sorkin television show. And he did it all from a reclined position on his white sofa, shirtless, with a bag of ice on his bad left knee while I sat on an armchair across from him.

  He saved me for last. “And where the hell were you last night?” he asked. “You’ve conveniently managed to evade that question all day.”

  “No, I haven’t,” I said, staring at the lines of his oblique muscles, dipping down into his blue mesh shorts. “This is the first you’ve asked me that question.”

 
“Well, I’m asking it now,” he said, as I tried to determine if he had a six- or an eight-pack. I silently counted to eight, while deciding that lying wasn’t the way to go.

  “I went to the Third Rail,” I said, careful to maintain eye contact.

  “So you went out to a bar even though you told me you were going home?”

  “I changed my mind,” I said. “I wanted to see some old friends.”

  “Old friends?”

  “Yes. From high school. A girl named Michelle. She lives in California. Came home for Thanksgiving.”

  “Who else was there?”

  “Well, there were a lot of people out … You know how it is before holidays …”

  “No, I’m actually not familiar with that phenomenon … since I’m usually locked up in a hotel room.”

  “Right,” I said, thinking that it was hardly the jail sentence he was making it out to be.

  “So who else?”

  “You want me to name names?”

  “Was Miller there?”

  I shook my head, making a split-second decision to abandon my truth-telling strategy. As I tried to keep my gaze even, it occurred to me that there was an absolute reason that lie detector testing worked so well. Nothing in my body was operating the way it had only seconds ago.

  “He wasn’t there?”

  “No.”

  “So you didn’t see him?” Ryan pressed, staring at me, making me wonder if he somehow knew the truth. Either way, I had to stick to my story.

  “No,” I said. “He wasn’t there, and I didn’t see him.”

  I should have just ended my reply there, but I kept going, the way liars often do. “But so what if he was there? Big deal. Ryan, what is your obsession with Miller? I’m not obsessed with Blakeslee, and you were married to her.”

  “Yes,” he said. “And then I divorced her. That’s pretty final.”

  “It wasn’t final for my father,” I said, the only time in my life I was grateful for Astrid.

  “Well. It is for most. It is for me.”

  “And I’m just as sure that I’m never getting back with Miller.”

  “Is he still with that professor chick?”

  “No … I don’t think so … I’m not sure.”

  “You’re not sure? What does that mean? You either heard that they broke up or you didn’t.”

  “What are you? A lawyer or a quarterback?”

  “I’d probably make a better lawyer.”

  “You had one bad game. And even today, you made some amazing plays,” I said, hoping to change the subject.

  But Ryan wasn’t finished. “Back to Miller,” he said.

  “Jesus,” I said under my breath.

  “When did you last talk to him?”

  “C’mon, Ryan,” I said, trying to avoid another outright lie. “This is ridiculous. Miller is … ancient history.”

  “Well, it might seem ridiculous to you. But I couldn’t sleep last night because I kept picturing you with him.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because you didn’t call me.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “I couldn’t sleep, Shea. And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how important sleep is to performance.”

  There it was, out on the table; he was blaming me for his bad game. But just to confirm the accusation, I said, “Are you saying that … today … was my fault? You threw interceptions because I didn’t call you?” The question was a little mean, but so was his implication.

  “No,” Ryan said. “I played like shit on my own. But you not calling last night certainly didn’t help.”

  “Wow.”

  “All you had to do was call me, say good night, do what you promised you’d do. Then you could have gone out, had a big time at the bars. I never would’ve known about it.”

  “C’mon. That’s not fair,” I said, my voice starting to rise.

  “Neither is breaking your word the night before a big game.”

  I heaved a weary sigh, then said, “I just … lost track of time.”

  “All night long?”

  “By the time I got your messages, it was too late to call.”

  “You sure you don’t mean that it was too early to call? What time did you get in, anyway?”

  “Ryan. Please. I’m truly sorry,” I said, for what felt like the hundredth time. “I had too much to drink …”

  “What other mistakes do you make when you drink too much?”

  “Well, let’s see … I left my credit card at the bar.”

  “You had a tab open?”

  “Yes. Is that a problem? Isn’t it better to start my own tab than to have guys buying my drinks?”

  “What guys were you talking to?”

  I crossed my arms, shook my head, and stared him down, refusing to answer another question. Meanwhile, Ryan lifted the bag of ice and examined his knee, his skin red with cold. Then he tossed the bag onto the floor, sat up, and said, “Look. If you’re my girl, I need you to be my girl. And part of being my girl is supporting me the night before a game. I needed you last night. I needed to hear your voice—and you obviously didn’t give a shit—”

  “Don’t say that. You know I care. Very much.”

  “It doesn’t seem that way. If you cared, you would have called. Period.”

  It was the closest he’d come to making a reasonable, calm point—a far cry from Blakeslee’s characterizations of his jealous rages. But I still felt unsettled. There was something off about the whole inquisition, and I could only imagine how much worse it would be if he knew Miller really was at the bar.

  “You gotta be all in or all out,” Ryan said, one of Coach’s lines.

  I nodded.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what? I heard you!”

  “And? Are you in? Or out?”

  I hesitated, just long enough for Ryan to shake his head, disappointed. “That’s what I thought.”

  “I didn’t say anything!” I shouted, my frustration building. “Why are you doing this? I know you had a bad game … but that just happens sometimes. You’re still one of the best quarterbacks in the entire league! Don’t tell me you let your father get in your head.”

  “I let you get in my head. The fact that you couldn’t take a few minutes to call me.”

  I stared at him, incredulous that we were really going around in the same circle again. “Okay. Ryan. Once again, I’m sorry. I gave you my word and I didn’t follow through. You have a right to be irritated. Even mad. I’m sorry I made you feel bad. It won’t happen again.”

  He stared at me for a long time, then said, “Shea. I love you.”

  I stared back at him, shocked, my heart racing. I hadn’t seen that coming. Not one little bit.

  “Are you sure about that?” I said, stalling, but also thinking that part of loving someone was having faith in them.

  “Yes. Do you love me?” His voice was quiet, with a needy, insecure edge. It was unfathomable, a complete reversal of anything anyone in the world would imagine was happening between us.

  Rather than answer, I stood up and walked over to the sofa, sitting, facing him, one hand on his shoulder, as if the physical contact might suffice as my answer.

  It didn’t.

  “Do. You. Love. Me?” he repeated. “It’s a very easy question.”

  “Yes, Ryan. I do love you,” I said, feeling cornered, thinking that it had to be in the running for the least romantic first utterance of I love you of all time. And the worst part was, I was pretty sure I had told another lie. A whopper bigger than pretending I hadn’t seen Miller the night before. I nervously dropped my gaze to his knee and said, “Well. Now that we settled that. Do you need more ice?”

  He shook his head, then exhaled. “But I do need you, babe. C’mere.” He pulled me closer to him, so that my head was on his chest, my body across his. As I listened to his heart beat, I found myself wondering what exactly he needed from me. Because I could remember to call on the nights before ga
mes. And I could avoid the Third Rail and contact with Miller. I could probably even learn to love him. But there was one thing I couldn’t change and would never give up. Not now, not ever, and I could feel myself starting to panic with every breath he took.

  He finally broke our silence and said, “So my dad’s a real asshole, isn’t he?”

  I turned my head so I could see his face, at least half of it. “Yeah,” I said, as there was really no way to sugarcoat it. “He sure is.”

  “And by the way, you were right. He totally bought Cedric’s car.”

  “I figured,” I said, relieved that he didn’t ask me my source. For the first time, I worried about the ethical implications of not chasing the story, no matter how stale it was.

  “And he didn’t buy it because he wanted to help Cedric out.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “He controls people with his money. It’s sick.”

  “He can’t control you, though. Not anymore,” I said, feeling my loyalty shift back to Ryan. Maybe I did love him. At least a little bit.

  “Yeah,” Ryan said, with a faint smile. “I have more money than he does. I think that kills him.”

  I rolled over so I could see more of his face, propping myself up with one elbow, my eyes resting on his scar. He caught me looking at it and said, “What?”

  “How’d you get that scar?” I asked.

  He swallowed, then said, “I told you—I got it the night of the state championship. In high school.”

  “Right. But how?” I said.

  He looked at me, and I could tell he was debating whether to tell the truth. Part of me hoped he wouldn’t. Because it would make me feel better that I had just lied to him. But I also wanted him to feel better, and I was pretty sure that the truth always brought you closer to peace.

  Another few seconds passed before he said, “My dad threw a cleat at me. After the game.”

  “Oh, Ryan,” I said.

  “I didn’t want to tell you before … But that’s what happened.”

  “I’m so sorry, honey,” I said, imagining him that night in the emergency room, getting stitched, lying to the doctor about how it happened, likely with his father right in the room, supervising the whole thing. “That’s awful.”