by Emily Giffin
“Well. There you have it,” he said with a long sigh.
“What do you think?” I asked, glancing at him while he stared straight ahead.
“What do I think?”
“Yes. Tell me.”
“I understand.”
“Do you agree with … my decision?” I said, wanting him to fight for me, tell me how foolish I’d been.
“Honestly? I don’t know.”
“You always know,” I said, feeling frantic.
“I respect it. I respect you. I respect your friendship with Lucy.”
“So that’s it?” I said, realizing just how much I’d been relying on him to save us, change my mind, find some of the gray area he was so fond of. But I was getting the terrible, desperate feeling that he actually agreed with me. That he believed that not being together was the right thing to do. That he might have known all along that this was our foregone conclusion.
Coach sighed and said, “Listen. This isn’t all on you. I had a talk with Lucy, too. Not as direct as yours, but a talk … And I think … I think she feels that I’ve abandoned her.”
“Abandoned her? How?”
“With her mother gone, she only has me … as far as parents go. And I think I’ve let her down. I know she feels that way.”
“But you’re a wonderful father,” I said, comparing him to my own.
“But I’m a better football coach,” he said. “In some ways, at least the ways you can observe and measure, I’ve always put football first. And I think she sees you as part of that … Because you and I share that love of the game. We have that bond. Lucy and I … don’t. So I think being with you is just another example, in her mind, of me picking football over her. And I can’t do it to her any more than you can … Maybe she’ll come around. Maybe we’ll have a chance later … Never say never, right? But in the meantime, you need to go live your life.”
I knew what he meant by living my life, and I shook my head. “I’ll never feel this way about anyone … ever again,” I said, crumbling inside but keeping it together.
“Yes, you will,” he said.
“No, I won’t. Not even close,” I said, thinking that I could flirt in bars, go on dates, have sex. But that I was finished with love. Done.
He draped his arm on the back of the sofa, angling his body toward me, and said, “Shea. I thought I could only love Connie … And then … this happened. And it’s been scary and wonderful and so special. I guess I’m trying to say that … you just don’t know what can happen in life. And you have to be open to things …”
“But I don’t want to love anyone but you,” I said.
“And I didn’t want to love anyone but Connie. Life is funny.”
“Life is tragic.”
“It can be … But you can’t stop living. You can’t give up.”
“But aren’t we giving up now?”
“No,” he said. “We’re doing the right thing. There’s a difference.”
I nodded, even though I wasn’t so sure about that.
“You’ll be all right, Shea. You could do better than an old football coach.”
“You’re not old,” I muttered, envious of all the couples whose only barrier was a couple of decades.
“I’m not young. And let’s be honest … you should probably be with someone younger … so you can have a family … children of your own … I’m probably too old for all of that …”
I caught his probably, fleetingly imagining having a baby with him, but then said, “Why does everyone keep talking about that stuff? I’m not like other girls. I don’t need all those things.”
“I know you’re not. I know you don’t. But you might. You might someday. You need to keep an open mind.”
I nodded, letting my head drop to my hands. “I knew it,” I said, speaking mostly to myself.
“You knew what?”
“That last night would be our only chance to be together.”
“Yeah, you did call that one … But we’ll always be friends,” he said—one of the saddest declarations in the world.
When I didn’t reply, he said, “And we’ll always have football.”
“And you can call me ‘girl’ again,” I said, trying to put on a brave face. “You haven’t done that in a while.”
“You got it, girl,” he said.
“We just can’t touch,” I said, gazing up at him.
“Right,” he said, looking as sad as I felt.
“Or kiss,” I said, staring at his mouth, then back into his eyes.
He looked deep into my eyes and nodded.
“Because we made a decision and it would be wrong to go back on it,” I said, trying to convince myself.
He nodded again, as his face moved ever so close to mine. Close enough for me to catch a whiff of that damn aftershave.
“You’re going to have to stop wearing that, though,” I said. “When you’re around me.”
“What?”
I shook my head and shuddered a little. “That aftershave. It kills me.”
“So does your perfume,” he said. “Please do something about that perfume.”
“Deal,” I said, his face moving closer still, our breathing growing deeper. “But how ’bout … one more kiss?”
“You mean like this?” he said, his lips grazing mine.
“Yes. Just like that,” I said, as that familiar dizzy feeling overcame me. “And then, after tonight … that really has to be it. Forever.”
“Unless Lucy changes her mind,” he said, kissing me more urgently, his hands entangled in my hair.
“She won’t,” I breathed.
“I know,” he whispered. “So let’s make this count …”
Forty-three
For three days, I wallowed in self-pity and heartbreak, never leaving my apartment. I barely ate, slept at odd hours, and lived in my pajamas. Every time the phone rang, I jumped, hoping it would be him, telling me he couldn’t do it. But that never happened, and, with every passing hour, I grew more depressed, until I eventually turned my phone off altogether. There was nobody I wanted to talk to.
On the fourth night, just as I was beginning to remind myself of my mother after her divorce, Lucy appeared at my door. I considered not answering it, but did. We stared at each other as if months had passed since our last conversation, until she asked if she could come in. I said yes and stepped aside, letting the door close with its own weight.
“Are you sick?” she said, taking in my pajamas and greasy hair.
“Just have a touch of something,” I said. “You cut your bangs.”
She reached up to tug on them. “Too short. When will I learn?”
I shrugged, hoping she realized how very little I cared about her hair.
“Are you angry with me?” she asked, eyeing my sofa, then opting to sit cross-legged on her favorite spot on my floor.
I told her no.
“Resentful?”
“No,” I lied again.
“Sad?”
“Lucy. Stop.”
But she couldn’t stop; she could never stop. “Did you tell my dad it was over?” she asked more softly, as if this changed the fact that she was pressing, digging.
“It never really began,” I said, joining her on the floor, both of us cross-legged in a way that reminded me of preschool. All that was missing were our little colored mats and thirty years.
“But you talked to him?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s okay with everything?”
I took a deep breath, steadying myself. “Yes,” I said, keeping my answer as simple as possible. “We both agree that this is for the best.”
“And I heard you quit your job, too?” she asked, relentless.
I wondered how this news got to her. “Or got fired. Hard to tell which. But yeah … I’m officially unemployed.”
Lucy leaned over to put her arms awkwardly around my shoulders and then burst into tears. I refused to hug her back, feeling a wave of rage, nearly telling
her that she had no right to cry like this. She’d gotten her way; she didn’t get to be the injured party, too.
But then she said, “Shea … I started bleeding … two days ago … I’m not pregnant anymore.”
“Oh, honey,” I said, hugging her back. “I’m so sorry, Lucy.”
She sniffed loudly, wiping her tears with her hand. “I know … I guess it just wasn’t meant to be this time … I’m sorry … I thought I was done crying.” Her face contorted in a failed attempt to smile.
“Do you think it was because …?” I started, then stopped.
“No,” she said, reading my mind. “It had nothing to do with any of this.”
“It wasn’t the … stress?” I was pretty certain miscarriages didn’t work like that but wanted to gauge Lucy’s feelings on any possible connection.
“No. The doctor said it just wasn’t a viable pregnancy. We’ll get pregnant again.”
“Of course you will,” I said.
“Or maybe we won’t. Maybe Neil and I were just meant to have one child. You know, in a way, I’d be okay with that. Because I hate the idea of my mother never holding my baby.”
I looked into her sad eyes, relieved that I had made the decision I had, telling her again how very sorry I was.
“Were you really in love with my dad?” she asked, using the past tense, as if I had simply gotten over my feelings in a matter of days.
“Yes,” I said.
“But … why?”
I shrugged. “Is there ever a why?”
She shook her head. “God. I wish you weren’t.”
“I know,” I replied. “I wish … a lot of things.”
“Like what? What else do you wish?” she said. I couldn’t tell if she was testing me or making conversation or something in between, but I answered her, choosing my words carefully.
“I wish your mother were still here,” I said, starting with the most important one. “I wish you hadn’t lost the baby. I wish Ryan weren’t so messed up. I wish I could have been a better reporter. I wish … I wish that I were deeply, madly in love with Miller.”
Lucy cracked a smile and said, “Miller? Oh, please don’t wish that. He’s worse than liking my dad.”
I smiled, realizing that I had forgotten an obvious one. The only one that would have been on my mind a few weeks before.
“But if we’re talking realistic wishes?”
She nodded earnestly.
“I’d settle for one more Walker win this season,” I said.
She smiled. “Me, too,” she said. “You’re going to the game, right?”
I hesitated, then shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
“What?” she said. “Are you kidding? You’ve got to be kidding. You have to come. You’re the one person in the world who absolutely needs to be there. I mean, other than the coaches and players. You can’t miss this game!”
“I’m not going to miss the game. I’ll be watching it on television.”
She stared at me, incredulous. “Where?”
“I don’t know. Right here, probably,” I said, pointing at my TV.
“But I want to watch it with my best friend. You have to be there.”
I shrugged, resisting the strong urge to tell her you can’t always get what you want. “We’ll see,” I said. “It’s still a few weeks away.”
“What are you doing for Christmas?”
“Going to New York,” I lied, though the idea had crossed my mind. Anything was better than being with my mom this year.
“Oh,” she said. “That will be fun.”
“Yeah,” I said, thinking that nothing in the world sounded like fun. Nothing seemed to matter at all.
“Well, if you change your mind … and don’t go … will you spend the day with us?”
I knew exactly who us included and thought that there was zero chance of that. Less than zero.
“Sure, Luce,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” she said. “You’re my best friend.”
“And you’re mine,” I said.
“Promise?” she said, but I knew that wasn’t really what she was asking. She was asking for my forgiveness. She was telling me that she knew how selfish and childish she was being. But that she just couldn’t help it. Just as she couldn’t bring back her mother or the baby she’d loved for only a few weeks.
So I looked at her and told her the truth. “Yes,” I said, thinking that not only was she my best friend but she was really the only thing I had left. “I promise.”
Forty-four
Because I had no other options, I decided to go to New York after all, booking the cheapest flight I could on Christmas Eve, the last one out of Dallas, and landing at LaGuardia so late that the airport had mostly cleared out. My father had said he was sending me a car, but there he stood at the bottom of the escalator leading to baggage claim, wearing a dark suit, holding a little white placard that read: MERRY CHRISTMAS, SHEA BUTTER STADIUM!
I laughed when I saw the pet name I’d almost completely forgotten about, feeling more touched than I could ever remember feeling when it came to my dad. This would be our first Christmas together since he’d left Texas, as my mother had put it in their divorce agreement that I couldn’t go to New York until the twenty-sixth. In other words, she got Christmas with her daughter, just as he got Christmas with his daughter.
“Hi, Dad,” I said, grinning. “Nice sign.”
He smiled, did a funny little at-your-service bow, and tucked the card into his breast pocket. “Merry Christmas, honey.”
“Merry Christmas … You didn’t have to come out here. I could have taken a taxi.”
“It got me out of mass,” he said, winking. Upon his third marriage, Astrid had made him convert to Catholicism, but his heart wasn’t in it, any more than his heart was in being a college football fan or a Republican. They were just things he did, not felt.
“I’m sure she’s thrilled with me,” I said as we walked toward baggage claim and the only active conveyor belt. “Gotta be that one,” I said, pointing. “Sorry. I had a carry-on, but they made me check it …”
“Yep. Carousel number three,” he said, slowing his stride and squinting up at the arrivals board. “And stop worrying about Astrid. She’s doing her thing. She’s fine.”
“Still. It’s Christmas Eve.”
“Oh, stop with that. I wanted to come. Did you decide how long you’re staying? Because I want to get reservations and tickets.”
“Tickets to what?” I said, football still on my mind. I knew the Jets and the Giants were both off, so wondered if he might be talking about the Knicks. Basketball might be a nice change of pace, actually.
“To shows, plays, the Rockettes … anything you want.”
I smiled, then spotted my frayed roller bag, swooping in to grab it.
“Let me get that for you,” he said, as I wheeled it toward him. “I’m your driver, remember?”
“Shea Butter Stadium,” I said, shaking my head and turning over my bag. “I totally forgot about that.”
My dad laughed, clearly proud of himself. “Nobody else calls you that?”
“Uh, no. Nobody’s really thinking about the Mets in Texas.”
“What about butter? They think about butter in Texas.”
I laughed and said, “What are you tryin’ to say?”
“Y’all like your fried foods,” he said, doing a shitty Southern accent.
“Yes, we do.” I smiled, following him outside, the first few seconds of cold blasting my face and shocking me the way it always did. “Damn,” I said, pulling my only scarf across my face.
“It’s been really warm until today,” he said, which is what Yankees always say. Like we just happened to catch them in a rare moment of frigid discomfort.
“Right,” I said. “What’s warm? Thirty-five? Thirty-six?”
“No! Fifties,” he said, putting on his leather gloves as we walked. “I swear!”
“Just tell me you got a good par
king spot,” I said, struggling to breathe in another gust of wind.
“Always,” he said, pointing to his black Mercedes right in front of us.
He unlocked the passenger side, then tossed my bag in the backseat and went around to his side, whistling, as if he were strolling on a golf course on a balmy day. “Twice in six weeks,” he said.
I smiled. “Yep,” I said. “Imagine that.”
“Now that’s a Christmas gift.”
“So I can return the tie clip?”
My dad laughed. “Yeah. Return it. I have plenty of those. Just not enough days with my little girl.”
We made small talk until we entered the orange fluorescence of the Midtown Tunnel. Then he cleared his throat and said, “So. Your mother called me.”
I felt myself tense up, staring at the dirty-tiled wall streaking past us. “When?”
“This morning.”
“Why?” I asked, glancing over at him. As if I didn’t know.
He raised his eyebrows and looked at me for a beat longer than felt safe, as I reached over to put my hand on the steering wheel.
“She said you won’t return her calls.”
“That is a fact.”
“Because she disapproved of Clive?”
“Because she was a bitch about the whole thing,” I said. “She’s so judgmental it’s scary …”
“She can be.”
“But, listen, Dad, I really don’t want to talk about all of that. I came here to escape it.”
“Oh? I thought it was to see your old man,” he said lightly.
I smiled. “You’re not my ‘old man.’ Somebody’s ‘old man’ uses a phone book to look up a number … drives thirty-five in a fifty … wears Velcro Hush Puppies. You’re wearing Gucci loafers.”
“So that precludes me from being your old man?”
“Yes. It most definitely does. But it doesn’t preclude you from being my dad,” I said, feeling unusually charitable and grateful toward him.
“Got it,” he said, smiling, as we exited the tunnel, spilling onto a strangely quiet Third Avenue.