The One & Only: A Novel (27 page)

“Well, what are you waiting for? Tell him!” she said, her brown eyes shining.

“Do you want to listen on speaker?” I asked. “Maybe we could get Astrid on speaker, too?”

“Oh, that would be perfect!” she said. “Could we?”

“No, Mom,” I said, shaking my head. “We cannot. It was a joke.”

She looked momentarily deflated but not defeated, as she began to
brainstorm what she should wear to the game. “Blue, of course,” she mused. “Or should it be teal for Walker?”

“Any blue would be great,” I said, throwing her a bone, and imagining just how out of control she’d be if Ryan and I ever, one day in the very faraway future, had a
real
event to plan.

The next day, I decided to practice telling my dad about Ryan during an intercubicle conversation with Gordon about NFL quarterbacks.

“I would get pistol-whipped in this town,
but
—” Gordon began in a loud whisper, after I asked him to rank them.

I laughed, knowing where he was headed with his preamble. Born and raised in Philly, Gordon loved the Eagles and had no use for the Cowboys outside of his paycheck. In other words, he was a true professional, while I often felt like I was
playing
a reporter.

He continued, “I go Aaron Rodgers first, Peyton Manning second, Tom Brady third, then Ryan James.”

I felt a pang of loyalty but tried to be objective. “I’ll give you Aaron Rodgers.
Maybe
,” I said. “But I put Ryan ahead of Peyton. And he’s
way
ahead of Brady.”

Gordon made his arguments, the whole “stats are one thing but it really comes down to winning big games,” then had the audacity to suggest that maybe even Brees should be put before Ryan. “That guy can
execute
like nobody else,” he said.

“You think Ryan doesn’t execute?
Really?
He’s a
total
executioner,” I began, then strategically added, “Of course, I’m biased.”

“Everyone in this state is biased,” Gordon said. “Especially you Walker alums.”

“Yes,” I said. “But I’m
really
biased … We’re actually … kind of … dating.”

Gordon laughed and kept on typing.

“No. We are. I didn’t want to say anything at first … Because you work on that beat … And I don’t know,” I blathered, “it still sort of feels like name-dropping. And for all I know Smiley has some kind of
policy against it … Since Ryan went to Walker and all.” I glanced in Smiley’s direction, then returned my gaze to Gordon. I had his attention, finally, but he looked incredulous, waiting for the punch line.

“You serious?”

“Yeah. We’re dating. We have been for a couple of months …”

Gordon nodded, finally believing me, then said, “Well, cool. That’s awesome.”

“Yeah. I guess,” I said. And then, “I really like him.”

Gordon laughed and said, “Well, I guess you do. Damn. What’s not to like? And I say that as a very straight dude.”

I smiled and said, “Well, I’ll be sure to tell him that, if you were gay, you’d go for Brees, Brady, Rodgers, and Manning over him.”

Gordon grinned and said, “No. If I were gay, I’d actually go for Ryan. Better hair. And you can tell him I said that.”

My dry run completed, I called my dad that night and, after some awkward small talk, used the same “Who’s the best NFL quarterback?” line as my opener.

“Oh, Ryan James. For sure,” my dad said, following the sweetest of scripts. Even better, Astrid was chattering in the background as usual. It was one of my biggest pet peeves—she was
always
right there in his ear, chiming in on our conversations. If I ever wrote a book on divorces, one of my first suggestions to parents would be: Get rid of the second (or third) wife in the background when you’re talking to your child—at least
some
of the time. And good
Lord
, don’t put her on the phone. As in “Here, Shea. Say hello to Astrid.”

But this time, I loved it.

“What
about
Ryan James?” I heard her ask.

My father repeated the question verbatim, and Astrid agreed that Ryan was the best, then added that she loved Tom Brady, too. I would bet my earrings that those were the
only
two football players she could name.

“Tell her we’re not talking about who has the most tabloid press,” I said with as much disdain as I could without being outright rude.

My dad laughed, then asked about my job. “I’ve been reading some of your stuff here and there. It’s really good.”

I made a face at the phone, thinking that these were the first and only three words of feedback or praise my father had offered on my fledgling career in journalism.

“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “It’s been fun.”

“I bet,” he said. “Like a dream job for you.”

“
Like
a dream job?” I said. “It
is
my dream job.”

“Right, right,” he said. “That’s what I meant.”

“And speaking of dreams,” I said, making an awkward but still satisfying transition. “I’m sort of dating the dream guy, too.”

“Oh?” my dad said as I heard Astrid clamoring in the background:
What’d she say? What’d she say?

My father didn’t even try to mute the phone or cover the receiver.
She said she’s dating her dream guy.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m actually dating the best quarterback in the NFL.”

“Come again?” my dad said.

“Ryan James,” I said, smirking to myself. I could practically hear the drum roll. “I’m dating Ryan James.”

Silence.

“He wants to meet you when you come down. He invited us to sit in his box with his parents for the game. On Thanksgiving.”

More silence except for Astrid, peppering him with questions.

“Dad? Did you hear me?”

“Are you joking?”

“No, Dad. It’s not a joke. He’s my boyfriend. He gave me diamond earrings. Big ones. We’re pretty serious.”

By now, I was fist-pumping, and Astrid was frenzied. I heard him relay everything to her, down to the size of my studs.
Big diamonds.

Astrid suddenly was speaking directly in my ear, obviously having
ripped the phone away from my dad. “Are you really dating Ryan James?” she said.

“Yes, Astrid. I am, in fact.”

Her voice became higher, more stilted than usual. “Well, tell us! How did this happen? Where did you meet?”

“We went to school together, Astrid,” I said. I liked punctuating my statements with her name, and the weary effect it created.

“And he gave you diamond earrings?”

“Yes, Astrid. They’re gorgeous.”

“Send us a photo. Wow,” she said, but her voice was flat. She was either in shock or jealous—both, I hoped.

“Sure, Astrid. I’ll do that, Astrid,” I said, savoring the moment, thinking
I win.
No matter what happened in the long run, for one moment in time, my mother’s daughter was
finally
winning.

W
hen things seem too good to be true, they usually are. It was yet another of Coach Carr’s favorite statements—a sentiment that seemed pretty on the money as we cruised past our bye weekend and geared up for Florida State, Stanford, and Texas—our final three, and by far toughest, opponents of the regular season.

So I shouldn’t have been surprised when Ryan said, out of the blue one night, as I was on the verge of falling asleep, “I just want you to know that you might be hearing some things about me and they aren’t true.”

“What
things
?” I said, now wide awake, though my eyes were still shut.

“Blakeslee knows I’m seeing you,” he said. His face was so close to mine that I could feel his breath on my cheek. “And I’m worried that she might lash out.”

“Lash out? At me?” I asked, my eyes snapping open. I blinked, adjusting
to the dark, waiting, thinking of that picture in the magazine that I had never asked him about.

“Not at you. At
me
,” he said. “I think she’s upset. And she can do stupid shit when she’s upset.”

“Why is she upset?” I said, thinking that she had no right to be upset when they were divorced. Of course I knew emotions—and divorces—didn’t always work that way, and that sometimes there was no such thing as closure.

“She heard about your earrings,” he said.

“How?” I said, increasingly uneasy. “Who could have
possibly
told her about my earrings?”

“Well … I did.”

I tried to process this information, piece together what the conversation might have sounded like, as he offered a flimsy, unprompted explanation. “We still talk occasionally.”

“Oh,” I said, a knot growing in my chest. “Yeah, I saw that picture of the two of you. This summer.” I suddenly felt foolish for never asking about it.

“That was nothing,” he answered, almost too quickly. “She was in California for work. And we had lunch. That was it.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “So how often do you talk to her?”

“Not often at all,” he said. “I swear.”

“I believe you,” I said, although I wasn’t sure that I did.

“But we did speak a few days ago … And she asked me if I was seeing anyone. I told her about you … and it sort of deteriorated after that.”

I still couldn’t quite figure out how my earrings factored into the whole conversation, but I just nodded, taking it all in.

“Are you mad?” he said.

“No,” I said, although I was irritated by Ryan’s double standard. Why was it all right for him to stay in touch with Blakeslee, when I couldn’t talk to Miller?

Thirty seconds or so passed before he said, “Are you sure you aren’t mad?”

I rolled over, fumbling for the ChapStick I kept in the nightstand next to his bed, taking off the top, and applying it as I mumbled that I wasn’t mad. But I didn’t sound convincing. I didn’t even
try
to sound convincing.

I glanced at Ryan, making out his face in the dark. His expression looked vaguely disappointed, corroborating a theory I’ve always had—the more jealous a person is, the more he wants you to feel the same. In fact, maybe that was why he’d told Blakeslee about the earrings in the first place. Maybe she was seeing someone new and it bothered him enough to want to make
her
jealous.

I said I was exhausted and that we both needed to get some sleep. He agreed, but after a few more minutes said my name again.

“Yes?” I said, waiting, staring up at the ceiling.

“I only want to be with you,” he finally said.

“Good. I only want to be with you, too,” I said.

But before I fell asleep for good, it occurred to me that it wasn’t the kind of thing you said if it was completely true—and maybe we were both trying to convince ourselves as much as each other.

The next morning, Ryan surprised me with breakfast in bed. Scrambled eggs, wheat toast, and mixed berries on a black lacquered tray. There was even a sprig of parsley on my plate.

“Thank you,” I said, although I’ve always thought breakfast in bed was far better in theory than in practice, especially when the meal is sprung on you seconds after waking. As I sat up, Ryan positioned the tray over my lap, then stretched out beside me. I had no appetite, probably because I was still thinking about Blakeslee, but took a bite of the eggs and told him they were delicious.

“Did you already eat?” I asked.

“Just a protein shake and oatmeal,” he said. I could feel him staring at me and had the feeling he was thinking about Blakeslee, too. The mood was definitely subdued, if not downright awkward.

I took a dainty bite of toast, trying not to make crumbs in his bed,
thinking how much I needed to go to the bathroom but didn’t want to go through all the upheaval of moving the tray.

“What are you doing today?” he asked me.

“Remember that little kid with brain cancer I told you about?” I said. “The one obsessed with Walker football?”

Ryan nodded. “Yeah. Isn’t his name Max?”

“Yes,” I said, noting once again what a good listener he was. It was as if he was never
not
paying attention—highly unusual for a man. “Coach invited him to be on the sidelines with the team against Stanford. So Smiley wants me to do a feel-good story on him …”

“Smiley wants feel-good?” Ryan said, laughing a little too hard, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

“I know, right?” I said, running my hand over a crystal goblet filled with freshly squeezed orange juice, refusing to laugh.

“What are you thinking, babe?” he said.

So I told him exactly what I’d been thinking. “I was wondering whether this was a wedding gift,” I said, tapping on the glass.

Ryan hesitated, then nodded gravely, as if making a somber admission.

I picked up the silver fork in an ornate pattern. “And this?”

He nodded again, then sat up.

“Why did
you
keep them?” I said, more curious than anything else. “Doesn’t the girl usually keep this stuff?”

He shrugged and told me Blakeslee didn’t want them.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. She just didn’t.” His forehead went from smooth to furrowed. “Her taste changed, I guess.”

“In one year? Her taste changed in
one
year?”

“She changed her mind about the marriage. So why not the crystal and silver?”