The One & Only: A Novel (16 page)

“Jesus. What’s with people in your life divorcing and then getting back together?” Lucy said, referring, of course, to my dad and Astrid.

“I’d hardly put them in the same category,” I said, thinking that you couldn’t compare Ryan and Blakeslee’s reunion over sparkling water to my dad’s decision to leave me for his firstborn and clearly favorite daughter.

“I guess not,” Lucy said, shaking her head. “But this is
really
irritating. He didn’t tell you he was seeing her?”

I shook my head.

Lucy put the magazine down and walked over to a sale table covered with Splendid tank tops, all in bright summer hues that reminded me of sherbet. I followed her, helping her rearrange the piles, separating cool tones from warm.

“Well. I guess we shouldn’t assume the worst,” she said.

“I know,” I said, as a young mother walked into the shop with her baby, maneuvering a stroller around a display of J Brand jeans. Lucy warmly greeted her, then offered her assistance. The woman declined any help, then proceeded to inspect
every
pair of jeans, searching for differences among a pile of size 28s, ruining the neat pile. It was one of Lucy’s pet peeves—really anyone’s pet peeve who has ever worked retail and has spent her day refolding clothing.

“Do you have plans to see him?” Lucy asked.

“Not yet. But maybe we should go ahead and try on those clothes now,” I said as brightly as I could. “Just in case.”

Lucy smiled at me, looking as proud as she had when Caroline took her first few steps. “Atta girl,” she said.

As it turned out, I saw Ryan the very first night he was back in town, at his request. We discussed going out, but I knew he’d be tired, so I asked if he wanted to just come over to my place. He said that would be perfect as I gave myself a pep talk.
Don’t be embarrassed by your apartment. Don’t play the underdog. Be confident. Seize the day. Don’t think, or talk about, or, God forbid, get a buzz and call Coach.

By the time Ryan knocked on the door, I was ready, answering it and beaming up at him. He was even more gorgeous than I remembered, his skin tanned to a golden hue, his blue T-shirt hugging the muscles of his shoulders and arms.

“Hi, Ryan,” I said, excited, maybe even closer to thrilled.

“Hey, you,” he said, bending down to give me a long kiss, pausing only to whisper in my ear. “It’s
so
good to see you.”

I felt goose bumps on my arms as I pulled away and looked in his eyes. “It’s so good to see you, too,” I said, deciding that I was not going to ruin the night by asking about Blakeslee. Instead, I led him over to my sofa, where we made out for a long time under the only luxurious thing in my living room, a cashmere throw that my father and Astrid had given me for Christmas last year. It was so soft that Ryan actually commented on it, murmuring, “I’d like to be under this thing naked with you.”

I gave him a coy smile, then, before I lost the nerve, took off my shirt and slid out of my jeans. “I want you,” I said between urgent, deep kisses.

Ryan whispered. “I want you, too, sweetie.”

“I like when you call me sweetie,” I said as I ran my fingers through his hair, admiring the texture.

“You
are
my sweetie,” he said—and at that moment, I not only believed him but felt sure that nothing was going on with Blakeslee or any other woman.

I watched as he sat up and took off his T-shirt, exposing his lats, pecs, triceps, and all those other muscles I couldn’t name. I shook my head, blown away by his body, and he smiled, because he knew exactly
what I was thinking—that he was a sublime male specimen. Wishing I were the female equivalent, I unsnapped the front closure of my bra, then pressed my body against his, nestling deeper into our cocoon on the couch. “See how soft it is?”

I meant the blanket, but it sounded like I meant my own body, and he said, “Oh, yes, you are,” which turned me on because I could tell he was turned on.

“And
you
 … you are a friggin’ underwear ad. Your body is so sick that it makes me …”

“It makes you what?” he breathed.

“It makes me almost not like you,” I said.

“C’mon, now. Don’t say that,” he said, smiling.

“Well, it’s intimidating,” I said, covering myself, thinking that I had really outkicked my coverage with Ryan. He was way out of my league. “
You’re
intimidating.”

He moved my hand away, then caressed my stomach. “I love your body, too. Right here,” he whispered.

I believed him so much that I stopped sucking in my stomach as he lifted me up off the couch, blanket and all, and carried me back to the bedroom. It was a first. Other guys, including Miller, had carried me to bed before, but it was the first time I hadn’t felt completely awkward, like deadweight, in the process. Ryan made me feel lithe, light, downright graceful in his arms, my hands clasped around his neck. He held my gaze as he effortlessly lowered me to the bed, more muscles flexing in the warm glow of my bedside lamp, just the right amount of light to hide some of my flaws but still illuminate his perfection.

“Do you want music?” I said.

Standing over me, he shook his head slowly, then kneeled on the floor in front of me. I tried to sit up, but he pushed me back with one callused hand, as his other hand made its way up the inside of my thigh, resting between my legs. I didn’t resist and instead raised my hips, making it easier for him to remove my black thong. Then I sat up, pulled his shoulders toward me, and said, “C’mere. I want to feel you over me.”

So he did, lying directly on top of me, his gray boxer briefs our final barrier. I ran my hands over his muscled back, and pulled his underwear down as far as my arms would allow, then wrapped my legs around him, hooking my toe into the elastic waistband and removing them the rest of the way.

“Jesus,” I said, now breathing hard, my hands on his steel-hard ass. “Jesus.”

He rubbed himself against me, teasing me, asking me if it felt good. I told him it did.

“Are you …?”

“On the pill?” I said. “Yes. Do we need anything else?”

He knew exactly what I was asking, maybe even that I was picturing that long line of Cowboy cheerleaders, and said, “No, baby. I’m very careful …”

I relaxed completely, trusting him, feeling that, even if I was one of many, surely I wasn’t one of many he trusted without a condom. Multitasking, Ryan kissed my neck while pulling down my comforter and sheets, then repositioned me forty-five degrees, my head now on a pillow. I looked up at him, but was too close to see anything but his eyes and nose, the exact part of his face you see on television through his blue and white starred helmet. He looked that intense, that focused, as he said, “You ready for this?”

“
So
ready,” I said. “Are you?”

“Yes, sweetie. I’m ready, too.”

Then he pushed his way inside me, only a little at first, holding back with exquisite timing and control. I opened my eyes. He opened his, looked at me, then closed them again, all his muscles flexing as he pushed deeper in me until he was the whole way inside.
My God
, I said more than once, along with a lot of other expletives, thinking that it was, hands down, the best purely physical sensation of my entire life. Sort of how I’d imagine it would be to try heroin, the kind of drug that can ruin your life. Instant addiction. Still muttering to myself, I lost all sense of time and space as I let him take charge. His speed changed from slow to fast, then slow again, his rhythm scary good. He turned
me over, slid inside me from behind, pressing his chest into my back, holding me down, gently pulling my hair, kissing my ear, saying my name. Then, when I couldn’t stand it another second, he flipped me back over, telling me to look into his eyes. My room grew sauna hot, and I kicked off the covers, our bodies slick with sweat. I felt myself start to shake, then heard myself scream his name as we both came together.

Afterward, I fell into a coma. I couldn’t move or speak or focus on anything other than my breathing, and the thrilling realization that I’d just had the best sex of my entire life with the gorgeous starting quarterback of the Dallas fucking Cowboys.

The next morning, I opened my eyes from a sound sleep to find Ryan standing over my bed. He was fully dressed and wearing his clothes from the night before, but he looked freshly showered, his dark hair damp and precisely styled. I tried to gather myself, pulling my own tangled hair away from my face and wiping my mouth on the back of my hand.

“Was I drooling?” I asked, thinking that stealth early-morning grooming was the worst kind of unfair advantage over a girl who was already the underdog.

“No. You’re a very pretty sleeper,” Ryan said.

“Thanks,” I said. It was actually a compliment I’d heard before.

“You’re pretty when you’re asleep. Pretty when you’re awake. And you’re
really
pretty when I’m making love to you.” He whispered the last part, as if sharing a secret only he was lucky enough to know.

Embarrassed, I smiled, then sat up, tucking my comforter under my arms to cover myself. “Are you headed out?” I said, trying not to sound needy and noting, with relief, that I didn’t feel that way. If anything, I was actually happy to get the awkward morning-after stuff over with and send him on his way.

“Yeah. I have to. I wasn’t going to wake you,” he said, sitting down
on the edge of the bed beside me. “But I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye either.”

“It’s okay. I need to get up anyway,” I said. “I have to go to work. Women’s volleyball today. We’re hosting Penn State.”

He nodded, then reached over and cupped my cheek in his hand, a gesture that felt surprisingly intimate given that we’d done a lot more the night before. Of course maybe that’s
why
it felt intimate. “I’d stay and make you breakfast,” he said. “But I have practice. Then I have a couple of meetings and a four o’clock massage.”

I nodded, wondering why he was telling me his schedule. Did he think I minded that he was leaving so early? Because I didn’t. Was he laying the groundwork so he didn’t have to call me later? Because I got it, I knew he was busy. Big-time busy.

“Okay. Well. Thanks for coming over,” I said, trying to sound casual, even throwing in a fake yawn along with a stretch. “It was fun.”

I must have sounded a little
too
nonchalant because Ryan shook his head and said,
“Fun?”

“You know what I mean,” I said, smiling.

“Fun is playing Xbox. Shooting clay pigeons. Going to the movies,” Ryan said.

“Okay. Let me try again. Last night … was amazing … mind-blowing … satisfying on
every
level.” I smirked and reached out to grab his hand, the covers dropping to my waist.

“That’s better. And I agree,” he said, squeezing my hand, his gaze lowering to my breasts, then slowly returning to my eyes. Everything he said and did felt deliberate and smooth, but also sincere.

We smiled at each other for a few more seconds, then his expression grew serious, almost soulful, as he said, “I really like you, Shea.”

“I really like you, too,” I said.

“I’ve been looking for a girl like you,” he said. “And you’ve been right here. The whole time.”

I held his gaze, all my defense mechanisms firing as I considered
that he could get any girl in the world he wanted. Why would he possibly choose me? Then again, why would he lie to me? Especially after I had already slept with him? I felt myself taking a small leap of faith as I said, “Yes. Here I was. The whole time.” Then I leaned in for a long kiss goodbye.

T
he night before our season opening game against Rice, Lucy called me from her dad’s house. She’d been having a rough few days, missing her mother more intensely than usual, but sounded reasonably upbeat now.

“Big day tomorrow!” she chirped into the phone.

“Yep. How’s your dad feeling?” I asked, even though I’d seen him a few hours before out on the field and could tell that he was in an optimistic zone.

“He’s getting nervous. I just made his strawberry milk shake. Thank God I thought to ask Mom for her exact recipe. I never would have known to put in the malted milk powder. And then they’d never win again.”