The One and Only

by Emily Giffin

  “Yeah,” he said. “It’s okay … I guess I’m lucky he didn’t hurl anything at me tonight.” He laughed bitterly.

  I reached up to run my finger across his brow, then murmured, “I first noticed it in college … and I always loved it.”

  Ryan looked touched. “Why?” he said.

  The real reason, at least at the time, was that I always think a vivid scar on a guy is sexy, especially when he’s athletic, because you assume it’s a battle scar from a game. But tonight, I liked it for more than that.

  “Because,” I said. “It’s part of you. Part of who you are.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I guess it is.”

  He put his hand on my neck, brought my face to his, and gently kissed me. I drew back and looked at him.

  “Thank you,” he said. It was as if he got the deeper point I was making, that he was connected to his dad, no matter how much he didn’t want to be, just as I was connected to mine and to Astrid and to my mother. Neither of us could help our stories, only what we did with them. “Thank you for accepting my flaws …”

  “You don’t have to thank me for that,” I said. “You know, I might actually love you more when you’re throwing an interception than a touchdown.”

  He smiled but said, “Don’t say that.”

  “But I think it’s true,” I said.

  “Well, that’s where we differ,” he said, his smile growing wider. “Because I love you more when you don’t drop the ball. So to speak.”

  “Got it,” I said. “No more turnovers.”

  My father and his crew were scheduled to depart the following afternoon, and I hadn’t planned on seeing them again, having said my formal goodbyes the night before. But the next morning, as Ryan was leaving for his MRI, my dad called and asked if I had time to meet for brunch or coffee. As I opened my mouth to decline, blame it on work again, he added “Just the two of us.” Pleasantly surprised, I told him that would work out just fine.

  Thirty minutes later, I arrived at Buzzbrews Kitchen, his suggestion but one of my favorites, and found him already seated in a corner booth, sipping coffee. He looked up from his menu and smiled as I slid in across from him. “Hey, Dad,” I said.

  “Hi, honey,” he said, taking off his reading glasses and slipping them into the monogrammed pocket of his starched, blue and white checked button-down shirt. “You hungry?”

  “I’m always hungry. I’m your daughter who actually has an appetite. That’s how you can tell us apart,” I deadpanned, hoping the comment sounded more self-deprecating than snarky, especially given that I’d actually liked Bronwyn the day before.

  My dad laughed, and I observed how different he seemed today, more relaxed and natural. “There are a few other differences between my daughters,” he said, taking another sip of coffee.

  “Yeah. I guess there are,” I said, ticking through some of them in my head, plagued by my standard inferiority complex. Although there was really no concrete evidence to suggest that my father compared the two of us, I was pretty sure he did. Dating an NFL quarterback and writing for an esteemed paper helped make up my usual shortfall, but she still had me beat by a comfortable margin.

  A few seconds later, a waitress came by to take our order. I had the menu memorized and went with my usual Blazing Huevos, a single banana nut pancake, and a cup of coffee. My dad pretended to be tempted by my selection, murmuring that it sounded really good, but then ordered two scrambled eggs and a side of bacon, no toast or hash browns.

  When our waitress departed, I said, “Are you back on Atkins?”

  “Always,” he said. “As I’ve said many times, the only way to stay trim is to eat bacon.”

  I laughed and said, “You’re still a little bit Texas, aren’t you?”

  “Definitely,” he said, drumming on the table to the beat of a Vince Gill song playing in the background, as if to tell me that he appreciated country music. He had lived here just long enough for Texas to get in his blood, but not long enough to never want to leave.

  “So,” I said. “Did you have fun yesterday?”

  “Yes. I had a very nice time,” my dad said. “Although it would have been a lot nicer if we’d won.”

  I smiled and said, “We, huh? Thought you were a Giants fan.”

  “Yes. But Dallas is America’s team, right?” my dad said.

  “Right,” I said, even though it was an expression that had always annoyed me. “So can you believe Mr. James? How awful he was about the loss?”

  My dad whistled, then shook his head. “Holy smokes. I really can’t … I feel sorry for Ryan.”

  I nodded, thinking, Yeah, it’s hard to overcome the feeling that your father doesn’t love you.

  I told myself to quit with the pity party as my dad asked about Ryan’s knee.

  “It’s really sore, but I don’t think it’s too bad. He’s getting an MRI as we speak.”

  “And how are … his spirits?” my dad asked as our waitress returned with my coffee and refilled Dad’s cup. He added half a packet of Splenda and a dash of milk, then stirred the way he always did, rigorously and noisily, with maximum contact between spoon and cup. It always seemed unexpected when most everything else my father did was so measured and methodical.

  “He was really upset,” I said, still trying to make sense of everything that had been said and promised the night before.

  My dad looked contemplative. “And what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Is it tough … dating someone so famous?”

  I shrugged, uncertain of what he was asking. “Not really. The media doesn’t seem to notice or care,” I said. Then, lest he think this fact disappointed me, I added, “Which is nice.”

  My dad nodded and said, “Only a matter of time …”

  “Mom has her fingers crossed,” I said, laughing.

  I felt vaguely disloyal for the barb, but he took it in the playful spirit it was intended and said, “Astrid, too. She’s hoping that someone runs a piece on Ryan’s girlfriend’s stepmother.”

  I smiled but said, “Dad. Please don’t call her that. She’s your wife, not my stepmother.”

  I’d exhibited a very poor attitude many times over the years, particularly when I was forced to go to New York as a child, but this was the closest I’d ever come to directly telling my dad how I felt about the situation. His expression changed so drastically that I almost regretted the remark. I wanted to make a point, but didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

  “I just mean—she didn’t raise me …” I said. Using the term was actually sort of insulting to all the stepmothers out there who played an important role in a child’s upbringing. As opposed to Astrid, whose only contributions to my childhood were theater tickets over the holidays, an occasional designer handbag, and really great Fifth Avenue haircuts.

  “I understand, honey,” he said, sipping his coffee. “I know she can be … overbearing … but she means well. She cares about you.”

  “I care about her, too,” I lied. “But sometimes …” I stopped, losing my nerve.

  “Go on … Sometimes what?”

  “Well … let’s just say that I’m glad you asked to see me alone. For a change.”

  “I know,” he said, his body language and posture earnest, apologetic. “It’s hard to get a word in edgewise around her.”

  I just nodded.

  “So what else is going on with you?” my dad asked.

  I looked at him, wondering what he was getting at.

  “Nothing,” I said. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you have this wonderful job … and this incredible, famous boyfriend … but … are you happy?”

  It seemed to be such an odd burst of insightfulness from my father that I thought surely it must be a coincidence. He obviously knew nothing of the fight Ryan and I’d had the evening before. “Yes. I’m happy,” I said. “Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I just have this feeling …” His voice trailed off, but
then he cleared his throat and tried again. “Should I be worried about you?”

  I felt confused, then touched, then annoyed at myself for being so easily moved that I actually considered retorting, Hell, yeah, you should be worried about me. That’s what fathers are supposed to be. Perpetually, constantly worried about their offspring.

  Instead I said, “No, Dad. You shouldn’t be.”

  Feeling uneasy, I glanced around the restaurant, my eyes resting on a young couple with a toddler. The child was about two, sitting atop a plastic booster seat, eating a crepe, her face covered with chocolate. With blond ringlets and big blue eyes, she was exceptionally cute, and she must have just said something cute, too, because her parents stared at her adoringly, laughed, then held hands across the table. It was the sort of scene that rarely made me wistful, and it didn’t now either, although I felt a pang of emotion I couldn’t quite place.

  My father followed my gaze, then looked back at me, as if trying to read my mind. “Do you know what you want?” he said. His question was as vague as they come, but his expression seemed purposeful.

  “Yes. I’d like to beat Texas and then win a national championship,” I said.

  “But what do you want in life? In your personal life? Do you want to get married? Have children? Do you think Ryan could be ‘the one’?”

  It was such a peculiar line of questioning coming from my father, who had never seemed particularly perceptive or empathetic. In fact, I’d always been able to absolve him over the years based on my belief that he simply wasn’t capable of anything more. So, in a convoluted sense, his compassion at this moment was backfiring, making me feel worse.

  “Did Astrid put you up to this?” I asked, thinking that grown men who have been married three times typically don’t think in terms of “the one.”

  “I beg your pardon,” my dad said, looking vaguely insulted. “Give me a little credit.”

  I smiled to lessen the charge, then said, “Okay. What do I want in life?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know … I guess I want what everyone wants … To be happy.”

  I thought I was artfully dodging the question, but my father didn’t let me off the hook. “And does Ryan make you happy?”

  “Happy enough,” I said, before I could think better of it.

  My dad lifted his mug, pausing halfway between his mouth and the table, and said, “Happy enough? That’s a dangerous proposition, Shea.”

  I looked into his steel-gray eyes, feeling a wave of resentment building in my chest. I wanted to say, Who are we kidding here? Let’s stick to small talk, Dad. This is way too little, too late. Instead, I shifted gears in a radically different direction, thinking, You want candor? You want a heart-to-heart? I’ll give it to you. I’ll tell you who I really love.

  My head told me it was a bad idea and that my father hadn’t even remotely earned the role of confidant. But something inside me just didn’t care. Maybe it was the burning desire to unload my secret. Maybe on some level I wanted to shock him. And maybe I wanted him to feel genuine worry for me. Concern that, due to his absence and the vast paternal void in my life, I was making bad choices, pursuing a wildly inappropriate older man. I didn’t believe this, of course, but part of me wanted my father to wonder.

  “The truth is, Dad,” I said, now unable to stop myself. “I really like Ryan … But I think I might be in love with someone else.”

  No matter how much I had felt this coming on, it still felt strange and startling to say it out loud.

  My dad put his mug down, still gripping the handle, and said, “Your ex? What was his name?”

  “Miller,” I said. “And no. I never loved Miller.”

  My dad didn’t ask who, likely because he assumed he wouldn’t know him anyway, but I opened my mouth, and could feel the words tumbling out of me, almost uncontrollably. “I think I’m in love with Coach Carr,” I announced, my voice low but steady.

  My dad stared across the table at me, clearly in shock, while I tried to overcome my own feeling of vertigo. It was as if I was standing on the edge of a cliff without a guardrail. Or, perhaps more accurately, already in midair, falling. And just like it wouldn’t be possible to stop a fall halfway to the ground, I knew it wasn’t possible to undo my confession, though it crossed my mind to try, pass the whole thing off as a joke.

  “Coach Carr? What?” my dad said, flustered. Floored.

  I nodded.

  “Are you … serious?” he asked, his mouth falling open like a cartoon of a man surprised.

  “Dead serious,” I said, now riding a cathartic wave of relief.

  “But what about … Ryan?” my dad asked, seemingly confounded.

  “What about him?” I said. “C’mon, Dad. You, of all people, know this sort of thing is complicated. Why else would you marry the same person twice?”

  “Right,” he said, looking satisfyingly sheepish.

  Our waitress arrived with our food, giving us both time to process everything.

  When she left, he said, “And Clive …? He feels the same?”

  “I think he might feel the same, but it’s all under the surface … And obviously all of this was well after Connie died. In case you were wondering.”

  In other words, no foul play of the kind you’re accustomed to.

  My dad looked slightly relieved, then said, “Are you sure it’s not just … football?”

  “If it were football, don’t you think I’d be just as happy with Ryan?”

  He nodded and said, “Good point.”

  “Nobody is like Coach Carr,” I said. “Nobody is half the man he is.”

  It was the way I felt, but it was a bit pointed, too.

  I think my dad got it, because he looked down, suddenly remembering his coffee. He took a long swallow, as if gathering his thoughts, then said, “I just think … you’ve always looked up to him so much. As a father figure … You know … Since I wasn’t around when you were growing up …”

  “So what you’re saying is—Bronwyn would never fall for Coach Carr because she had a father, growing up?” I looked into his eyes, and saw a flicker of regret. Though it occurred to me, not for the first time, that once he shacked up with my mom and had me, he was screwed either way. No matter what, he was going to be abandoning a woman and her daughter.

  “No,” my dad said. “That’s not what I’m saying at all … I’m just saying …” He stopped, then said, “Okay. Maybe I was saying something like that …”

  I picked my words as carefully as I could. “Dad, isn’t it possible that I actually just … have genuine feelings for him? Apart from anything that happened to me as a child?”

  “Yes,” my dad conceded, but he still looked flummoxed. “That is possible.”

  We both pretended to concentrate on our food for a few seconds, until he put down his fork and said, “Who else knows? Lucy? Your mom?”

  I shook my head. “Nobody but you.”

  He gave me a half smile and said, “Well, I’m honored.”

  “You should be,” I said.

  “Thank you for trusting me.”

  “Yes. Please don’t tell Astrid.”

  “I would never.”

  “I believe you.”

  “And Ryan?”

  “Ryan will be fine,” I said. “No matter what happens, Ryan will be just fine.”

  “Can I give you some advice?” my dad said.

  “Sure.”

  “If you know it’s wrong with him, end it sooner rather than later.”

  I looked at him, wondering if he was speaking from experience, and, if so, was he talking about Astrid or my mom? I considered asking him but decided I really didn’t want to know, as he continued. “Figure out what you want … whatever that is … and go for it.”

  “I will,” I said. “But for now …”

  My dad raised his eyebrows, waiting.

  “For now, I just want to beat the hell out of the Longhorns.”

  My dad laughed and said,
“Yeah. You just might belong with Coach, after all.”

  Thirty-one

  On Saturday morning, the day of the final Walker game of the regular season, I woke up feeling sick to my stomach. My hatred for Texas always compounded my standard nervousness, and this year was even worse, with so much more at stake. If we won, we would be playing for the national championship. If we lost, Texas would forever relish their role as spoiler, and we’d finish the year ranked third or fourth, at best, in some ways more painful than a mediocre season.

  I got out of bed, too rattled for coffee, too nauseated to eat, pacing and praying and fidgeting all over my apartment. I listened to music and even did some yoga poses and breathing exercises, but nothing worked. I told myself to get a grip. The game was big—as huge as they come—but there were more important things in life, fates worse than losing to the Longhorns. On this very day, people would get terrible diagnoses. Die in fluke tragic accidents. Others would get fired, lose their homes to the bank, their spouses to divorce, their best friends to petty differences. Beloved pets would be put to sleep. Suicide notes penned. Innocent men arrested. Natural disasters might even strike and topple whole villages in remote corners of the world.

  This was only a game, I kept telling myself. Not life or death. But no matter how hard I tried to remain philosophical, I couldn’t talk myself into that perspective. Into any perspective.

  And then, a few hours later, I actually puked in a trash can at the stadium.

  J.J. busted me, coming up on my left shoulder, laughing.

  “Did you just do what I think you did?” His voice echoed in the cavernous corridor that would later be squeezed with bodies and vendors.

  I wiped my mouth with a napkin, took a swig of water from a bottle in my bag, and popped in a piece of gum before turning around to face him.

  “Yep,” I said. “I sure did.”

  “And something tells me it wasn’t bad fish.”

  “Ha. No. It was the emasculated bovines,” I said, my favorite nickname for the Longhorns.

  “So much for an impartial media.”

  I laughed but quickly sobered up again, J.J.’s face mirroring the way I felt.