The One and Only

by Emily Giffin

  He opened his mouth, too bewildered to reply.

  “Listen,” I said, taking advantage of his silence. “For the record, I think, I know you have a problem. I don’t know if it has anything to do with your father … or the violence inherent in the game you play … or if there’s any other psychological reason … but there is no question that you do have a problem.”

  He stared at me, then shocked me by nodding, ever so slightly.

  “And I think you should get help. I think your ex-girlfriends would all agree with me. And I’m worried about your future girlfriends, too.”

  “I don’t want anyone but you,” he said as our waitress returned, looking thrilled to see who was seated at one of her tables.

  But Ryan quashed her mood by holding up his hand, announcing that he didn’t want anything. Her smile instantly faded, as she nodded, then glanced at me.

  “We’re not staying for dinner,” I said, feeling Ryan’s eyes on me. “But you can bring me the check for the drinks and chips …”

  “Actually,” Ryan said, skimming the menu, stalling, regrouping. “I’ll have a sparkling water and … the tacos al carbon. Medium rare.”

  I rolled my eyes at his attempt to hold me hostage with a couple of beef tacos.

  “So … umm … do you still want your check?” the waitress asked me, looking flustered, probably because she knew there was some kind of a disagreement in the works. And this, I thought, was how things ended up on TMZ.

  “Yes,” I said, outmaneuvering him again. “Thank you.”

  When the waitress left, he said again, “I don’t want anyone but you.”

  “You’ll get over that quickly. You have lots of options. Better options,” I said pointedly.

  “C’mon, Shea. That’s not true, and you know it. We have something really special. Are you really going to throw that away?”

  “Me?” I said. “You did this. You put us here.”

  “I know. And I’ll do whatever it takes to fix what I broke. Whatever it takes.”

  “I’m sure you’ve said those words before.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  I thought of the promise I made Blakeslee and simply shrugged, opting to keep my word.

  “Coach is full of shit,” he said, his face darkening for a few seconds.

  “No, he isn’t,” I said, though I was unclear how Coach fit into this part of the discussion.

  “What did he tell you? Because this is the only time that anything like this has ever happened. I swear. With you, the other night … and it was an accident. A misunderstanding … I didn’t mean to hurt you or scare you … You have to believe that. I love you, baby.”

  “Don’t say that,” I said, understanding with new clarity the expression skin crawling.

  “But I do love you.” He cleared his throat, leaned toward me, his face as close to mine as the table would allow. Then he started talking, his voice intense, earnest. “Shea, I’m so sorry I did this to you and put us here. I take full responsibility and will do absolutely anything to repair the damage. I can see in your eyes that you don’t trust me, but I pray that there is some love left. Just a little. And if there is, we can rebuild upon it. I know we can. I love you so much. If you just give me one chance to prove that to you … Please.”

  I said nothing, hating that I felt sorry for him. I didn’t want to feel anything for him, indifference being the only route to true freedom.

  “You have to understand how much that got into my head,” he continued. “Everything with you and Miller …”

  I started to reply, but he held up his hand. “I’m not blaming any of this on Miller. And I know there is nothing to worry about with him … But when I didn’t hear from you after you promised you’d call me … and it was the night before a big game … and I missed you so much … and then I had that disaster game … And then I let my dad—and everything—get in my head … And then Miller had your credit card, and you have to see how bad that looks … and I guess I just snapped. I’m so sorry. But you have to believe I didn’t try to hurt you. Look in my eyes and tell me you know that.”

  I felt myself questioning my own version of events, seeing his side of things, at least a little bit, but I managed to stare him down and say, “You don’t get to snap in a relationship, Ryan. Not if that’s what snapping looks like.” I glanced around the restaurant to make sure nobody was watching me, then showed him the bruise, now yellow, on my left arm, closest to the window.

  A look of anguish crossed his face. “Aw, Shea. I’m so sorry.”

  “Look,” I said. “I don’t think you’re a bad person. I think you’re a guy with a problem. A big problem … And I do forgive you for what you did … But I don’t feel right about this relationship. I just don’t. I don’t want to be in it anymore, Ryan. And you have to accept this as my final word. It’s not going to change no matter what you say or do or promise.”

  He stared at me, his jaw resting in his large hand, and for a second I thought he was finally hearing me, understanding that it really was over. But then he shook his head. “I can’t accept that.”

  “You have to.”

  He took a breath and blinked rapidly in the way that people blink when they’re about to cry. Then he looked up at the ceiling and blinked some more until I could see that the rims of his eyes were turning watery, red. I told myself not to cave. It was pitiful—seeing someone that strong on the verge of tears.

  “I’m sorry, Ryan. I care about you. I always will. And I want you to get help and change for you. But this relationship just isn’t right for me. And in some ways it probably never was,” I said, feeling a little bit guilty for letting him think that this was all his fault. “I’m not sure we were ever really right for each other … I’m really sorry.”

  He nodded, then dropped his gaze from the ceiling to me and said, “Will you at least keep the earrings? Please?”

  I stared into his eyes for a long few seconds, then said, “Okay. If it means that much to you—”

  “It does. It really does.”

  “Okay. I’ll keep the earrings.”

  “And you won’t sell them? Or give them away? Promise me.”

  “Okay,” I said again. “I’ll keep them. I promise. I do love them.”

  “I wish you loved me, too,” he said. “But at least you’ll always have something from me. Something good.”

  I gave him a small, genuine smile.

  “I really am a good person, Shea.”

  I nodded, believing that to be true—or, at the very least, believing that he wanted to be a good person.

  “Get some help, Ryan. Will you?”

  “I will, baby,” he said, looking into my eyes.

  This time, I let him call me baby, but I stood up, put a twenty on the table, and said goodbye.

  “Goodbye, Shea,” he said, stoic acceptance on his face.

  Thirty-seven

  Later that night, I made plans to visit Coach at his office, relieved to find the parking lot at the athletic complex virtually empty. As I entered the football wing, I glanced nervously over my shoulder, wondering how much longer we’d have to creep around and lie. It was still a necessity, but I didn’t like it, and could feel myself starting to imagine a different reality.

  “There she is,” Coach said when he opened his door, breaking into a dazzling smile. He took my hand and pulled me inside, nudging the door closed behind me.

  I smiled back at him, both of us frozen for several seconds before he put his arms around me in a proper hug. I hugged him back, tentatively at first, then more tightly, deciding that if he didn’t make a move soon, I was going to. I had to kiss him.

  He pulled away just enough to be able to gaze down at me with an intense stare. It was the way he watched a play in progress, one that pleased him, one that was going exactly as planned. Sometimes when he had this look on his face, he’d say yesss with a couple of hard claps or a clenched fist pump. He didn’t do that tonight, but I could tell he was feeling tha
t way because I knew him that well, inside and out, all his tics and moods and expressions.

  He cupped my cheeks in his hands, our faces at the perfect intimate distance. Feeling drugged and dizzy, I stared at the stubble on his jaw, his half-closed lids, the crescent shape of his top lip. He slid his hands back past my ears, lacing his fingers behind my head, tugging slightly on my hair. It was as if he were controlling me without trying to, making my lips part, my eyes close, my breathing shallow and rapid. I waited another few agonizing seconds, aching to be kissed. When he still didn’t do it, I put my hands on his neck and made a little moaning sound, too overwhelmed to speak. Then, finally, his lips brushed against mine, lightly at first, then more urgently. It was like looking into a bright light that didn’t hurt your eyes. Everything felt warm and right and complete until I stopped thinking altogether. I forgot where we were and what had happened to lead us to this moment and just focused on kissing him. I tasted him and touched him, feeling his close-cropped hair and his warm neck and the muscles in his shoulders and back straining through the thin material of his Dri-FIT shirt. I inhaled the scent of his skin and aftershave mixed with that familiar salty smell of practice. I listened to his breathing, could hear his excitement, mirroring my own.

  We kissed and kissed until we finally separated, his hands still tangled up in my hair, our faces so close that his features were blurry.

  “Damn,” he said, catching his breath.

  “I know,” I said, staring into his eyes.

  “Crazy,” he said. “That was some crazy stuff right here.”

  I laughed because it was so him to call a first kiss “some crazy stuff,” and because I knew exactly what he meant. He laughed with me, then led me by the hand over to the leather sofa that I’d sat on for years. Only never like this. Never with my legs thrown across his, my arm around his neck. Never this relaxed, this close. I glanced around his office, taking in all his clippings and photos and plaques, as if seeing them for the first time. Everything seemed different now, elevated. My eyes rested on one framed quote hanging on the wall behind us that read:

  A GOOD COACH MAKES HIS PLAYERS SEE WHAT THEY CAN BE, RATHER THAN WHAT THEY ARE.

  The quote felt true for me, too, as I thought of how much he had changed me in the past few months, encouraging me to leave the Walker cocoon, begin a new career, end a relationship, then another. Now here we were, seemingly in the same spot, just where we had begun. Yet we weren’t the same. Nothing was.

  “I’m proud of you, girl,” he said, kissing my forehead.

  “Why’s that?” I asked, wondering if he could read my mind.

  “For handling your business,” he said, his breath in my hair. “For being strong.”

  He was talking about Ryan now, so I said, “I couldn’t have been strong without you.”

  “That’s not true,” he said. “You got us here.”

  I smiled, accepting part of the credit, but thinking that a lot of things had had to happen, some of them really bad—like Ryan grabbing me and Connie dying. But I pushed those things away and said, “You helped me. You’ve always helped me. You have no idea how much …”

  He touched my cheek and smiled at me. “I’d do anything for you, girl. You know that.”

  I nodded—because I did know that—then I put my head on his shoulder, trying to place what made our first kiss different from all of my other first kisses. The answer was seemingly obvious—I was in love. Maybe for the first time; maybe just more than before. But there was something else, too. Something else that made our moment different, special. It meant more because we felt like a team. Not in a cheesy Go-Walker way but in the ultimate I-have-your-back way. There was none of the emotional negotiation that so often comes with a first kiss. No wondering what it meant, what would happen next, who had the upper hand. Instead, our kiss came from a sacred understanding of where we had been and where we were headed. We both wanted this. We both were committed to making it happen, and I felt certain that neither of us would enter into a situation so fraught with controversy and potential hurt feelings unless we were damn near positive that this was what we wanted. But we still had one major little blond obstacle.

  “We have to tell Lucy,” I blurted out, breaking the tranquil spell. “We have to tell her before she finds out. She deserves to know. It isn’t right to keep a secret like this from her.”

  “I know,” he said. “When do we do that? … I gotta hit the road soon here.”

  I knew he was talking about recruiting, that he only had two weeks until the next dead period, when coaches couldn’t communicate with recruits. “Where are you going?” I asked, avoiding the hard topic for a few seconds more.

  “Chicago and Pittsburgh,” he said. “Naperville and New Kensington, to be exact. Two quick trips to visit two quarterbacks. Up and back … And a couple day trips in Texas.”

  “When do you leave?” I said.

  “Chicago on Friday. Pittsburgh next week. In and out … Why? Do you want to join me?”

  I smiled and said, “I wish.” Then I remembered Lucy’s tree-trimming invitation and asked him if he planned to be there.

  “Yes. Why? You don’t think we should tell her then, do you?”

  “No. That will be emotional enough,” I said, knowing how much Lucy dreaded all the Christmas traditions without her mother. “Maybe we should wait until after the holidays?”

  “And after the game?”

  “Yes,” I said, feeling a rush of cowardly relief. “Maybe so. We just have to be really careful in the meantime.”

  “I agree. Because this has to come from us.”

  “Both of us,” I said, thinking that it wasn’t fair to give him the task—and I wasn’t sure I could handle it alone.

  “Yes. When the time is right, we just have to do it,” he said in his intense, coaching voice. “Man up and do it.”

  Thirty-eight

  Two nights later, I was at Lucy’s house, doing everything I could to avoid eye contact with Coach while he did the same with me. We had not seen each other since the night in his office but had talked every few hours. I’d even fallen asleep the night before while talking to him on the phone.

  “Oh, I love this one! It’s Blitzen!” Lucy said now, holding up a frosted glass reindeer as we all assembled in her family room to decorate her tree.

  “Dude,” Lawton said, as Lucy passed it off to him with a directive to hang it somewhere near the front. “How the hell do you know that it’s Blitzen? I’m getting a Prancer vibe.”

  “It’s not Rudolph,” Caroline sagely pointed out. “See? No red nose.”

  “Right,” Lawton said, addressing Caroline, while Coach kept his nose to the grindstone, supergluing a broken Bronco ornament. “But it could be any one of them but Rudolph. How does she know that it’s Blitzen?”

  I had been wondering the same thing, figuring there was something I had missed in reindeer lore, as Lucy smiled faintly and said, “Mom told me it was Blitzen. A long time ago.”

  “Well, how did she know?” Lawton said.

  “She knew her reindeer, Lawton,” Lucy said, rolling her eyes. “Now get him up there … And take this one, too.” She handed him a wooden oar with LAKE LBJ painted on the side and told him it could go toward the back.

  One at a time, Lucy unwrapped ornaments from the cardboard compartments nestled in large green plastic bins, then passed them off to Caroline, Lawton, Coach, and me, while Neil, who had strung the tiny white lights earlier in the day, focused on careful placement of the generic gold and red balls. Lucy made it seem as if her ornament allocation was random, but I knew better, and quickly caught on that she gave the sturdiest and most garish ones to Caroline, so that they couldn’t be broken and would be too low to see. She gave all those with a boyish theme (planes, trains, and automobiles; soldiers, elves, and masculine-looking snowmen and reindeer) to Lawton. And she gave anything Walker or football-related—which felt like every other ornament—to Coach and me. Additionally, Coach was in charge
of all Santa Clauses, whether whimsical or dignified.

  We took our assignments seriously, hoping that our branch selection would meet with her approval. For the most part, we didn’t let her down, though she’d occasionally look up, frown, and point out an unpleasing concentration of one color or theme. “Disperse those elves, would you, Lawton? They look too … busy all clumped together right there,” she’d say before returning her gaze to the bins, half of which came from her basement, the other half from her parents’ attic, having given her father permission to forgo his own tree this year.

  “It’s looking good, y’all!” Lucy said at one point, and we all agreed that the tree was beautiful. That you couldn’t even tell it was artificial, necessitated by Neil’s evergreen allergy, unless you stopped to consider that no real trees were this full and symmetrical.

  “Do you remember this one?” she said to Lawton, holding up a delicate painted ornament of a little girl pushing a cart full of toys. It looked Germanic and old, or at least old-fashioned, perhaps because the girl resembled Shirley Temple with her big eyes, ruby mouth, and fat sausage ringlets.

  “Yep,” Lawton said. “I always liked her … But I could never figure out why an angel would be bringing toys.”

  “She’s not an angel,” Lucy scoffed with faux indignation, as if Lawton had dubbed her a hooker. “She’s just a girl. And that’s her shopping cart.”

  “The hell,” Lawton said, pointing and peering through his long bangs in dire need of a cut. “See that. It’s called a halo.”

  “You think hell and halo belong together?” I quipped, trying as hard as I could to be natural, light, festive, lest I give myself away. I had still not so much as glanced at Coach but was aware of his every move, and felt an electric current whenever he came near me.

  Lawton laughed and said, “Hell, yeah, they do.”