The One & Only: A Novel (42 page)

B
y noon the next day, I was still in bed, and Ryan had already called me five times. His tone was erratic, sometimes even in the course of a single voice mail. First he was sad and sorry, then angry and accusatory, then calm and rational, then self-pitying, then so very sorry again. The only constant from message to message was the cold feeling that overcame me every time I heard his voice, even when he was telling me how much he cared for me. He sounded so convincing, so earnest, so
sorry
, but I had the chilling sense that he would say or do anything to get what he wanted.

From my hiding place under the covers, I deleted every message, every pleading text, every saccharine lie. It felt like a solid start, but after going to the bathroom and inspecting his purple fingerprints left on my arms, I knew that I had to do something more than passively erase voice mails. As much as I didn’t want to see him, I knew I had to look him in the eye, hand him those diamond earrings, and tell him
never to contact me again. I hated the idea of burning bridges, terminating a long-standing friendship, but I didn’t see any other way.

Deep down, though, I found myself wondering if I would be so unwavering without Coach as my safety net. What if he hadn’t come over last night and confided his feelings? Would I still be deleting Ryan’s messages? Or would I be slowly caving, rationalizing, paving the way to give him one more chance, and maybe one after that? Would I be telling myself that we were still on that slippery slope? That everyone makes mistakes and deserves forgiveness? Would I be anointing myself as his savior, telling myself I could do what Blakeslee could not?

My phone rang again. I felt a wave of anger as I reached for it on the bed next to me, relieved to see that it was only Lucy. I wasn’t ready to talk to her, but I answered, knowing that she deserved an update.

“Hey, sweetie,” she said. Her voice was so warm and nurturing that I went from not wanting to talk to feeling desperate to tell her everything.
Almost
everything.

“Where are you?” I said.

“In the car with Neil and Caroline. Where are you?”

“In bed.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, of
course
alone … Can you come over?” I said, before I lost my resolve to confide in her—at least all the parts about Ryan.

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll just drop them off first … Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I just need to talk …”

“Okay. I’ll be right there.”

We hung up, and I took a deep breath. Then I called Coach, who answered on the first ring.

“Good morning,” I said, fleetingly worried that I had overblown the best parts of last night.

But then he said, “Yes, it
is
a good morning,” and, instantly, I felt better.

“Undefeated regular season,” I said.

“Yep. But it won’t mean anything without one more win,” he said,
as I realized that he had already turned the page, gone from celebration to preparation.

“Did you go to church?” I asked.

“Nope. Slept in. I think I dreamed about you … And I never dream. At least I never remember my dreams.”

“Oh?” I said. “And what happened in your dream?”

“We sat on your sofa … I held your hand in mine … We talked.”

I smiled my first smile of the day. “Did we kiss?”

He laughed and said, “Almost. We came very close.”

I hugged my knees, curling up into a tighter ball under my blanket, listening to the silence crackle on the line. Then he cleared his throat and asked if I’d heard from Ryan.

“Yeah,” I said. “But I haven’t talked to him. He’s just left a bunch of messages.”

“And what’s he have to say for himself?” Coach said.

“About what you’d expect. That he’s sorry … That it won’t happen again.” I hesitated, then added, “Oh. And that you grossly overreacted.”

“Ha. Right. He’s lucky I’m so old.”

“I told you. You’re not old,” I said as firmly as I could. We had our obstacles, but I was determined not to let age be among them.

“I’m a lot older than Ryan. And you.”

“I don’t care about that,” I stated clearly for the record. “And neither should you …”

“I don’t really care about it,” he said. “But we do need to talk about that … There are some long-term concerns there …”

I had a feeling he was referring to babies and motherhood, things I wasn’t worried about, but I let it go for now. Instead, I addressed a far more pressing problem, and told him Lucy was on her way over.

“Oh, yeah?” he said.

“Yeah. I’m going to tell her about last night. I mean … Ryan coming over and everything … But I’m not going to tell her that you were here …”

He was so quiet that I thought we’d lost our connection.

“Are you there?” I said, feeling guilty for scheming, preparing to lie to Lucy.

“Yeah, I’m here … I heard you … and I think that’s a good idea.”

“I feel bad. Keeping something so big from her, but …”

“Don’t feel bad. It’s just not the right time to tell her about us.”

I felt a burst of affection and excitement and hope. A thrill that there was an
us
to talk about. “Right,” I said. “We will. Eventually.”

“Definitely,” he said. “When the time is right.”

A few minutes later, Lucy was at my door in one of her neat Jackie O frocks. “So what’s going on?” she asked, the light lavender of her perfume filling my apartment as she draped her trench coat over the back of a barstool and kicked off her heels. Her toes had been freshly painted, a beautiful lilac color that matched her scent.

“It’s over with Ryan,” I said. The statement was dramatic, but I kept my delivery flat.

She stopped in her tracks and gave me a tragic look. “Over?”

“Yes. Over. Done.” I made a slicing motion in the air.

She hugged me, but still said nothing, and I read in her silence a hope that it wasn’t
completely
,
definitely
over and done.

“He needs to get help,” Lucy said.

“Yes,” I said, knowing where she was headed.

“You don’t think there is any way you can forgive him? Work things out?”

“No way,” I said, rolling up the sleeves of my T-shirt and showing her the marks on one arm, then the other, a measure of irrational shame returning.

She winced, taking a closer look, running her finger along my skin. “God, Shea. I’m so sorry.” She shook her head and said, “I just can’t
believe
this.”

“I know,” I said, letting my sleeves fall back again. I thought of all the women around the world who had to rely on long sleeves, turtle-necks, scarves, heavy makeup. And all those who couldn’t so easily
hide the evidence—who had to call in sick to work, lie to their families, fabricate accidents, laugh off their clumsiness, anything to hide the truth.

“There’s more, though,” I said, as we both sat on my sofa, in the reverse spots that Coach and I were in last night.

“Oh, Lord,” Lucy said, her eyes wide. “Is it bad?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Ryan came over. After I left the bar. He just walked into my apartment while I was in the shower. Apparently I had forgotten to lock my door.”

“Holy shit. What happened?”

I made myself look in her eyes as I told her what happened, no sugarcoating. The way he had tried to kiss me, how he had pinned me to the bed, how he had scared me. Skipping over the rescue scene, I said, “He finally left. I was lucky. It could have been worse.”

Lucy shook her head, staring back at me. “God. I really thought he was a good guy. I really,
really
did.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Luce. In some ways, he is,” I said, thinking that there was no point in demonizing Ryan James. It was over no matter what. It was over because I loved somebody else. “He can be really sweet. To his friends. To his mother. To me. He’s generous … He gives a lot of money to charity. He tips well …” I said. My list was factual, but felt anemic in light of everything else. So he gives valets twenties? So what?

“I know,” Lucy said, her wistful look returning. “He can be so nice … and fun to be around ninety-nine percent of the time.”

Her estimate was both arbitrary and way too high, but I refrained from pointing out that even that one percent was too much.

“Do you think it’s the culture of violence in pro football? … Daddy said three out of four NFL players own a handgun …”

“It’s probably four out of four in Texas,” I said. “And yes, it’s a brutal, animalistic, savage sport. Hell, it’s a
celebration
of violence. But I have to believe that most of those guys aren’t roughing up their wives and girlfriends. Maybe they are. I don’t know. Frankly, the whole psychology of the sport doesn’t interest me at this moment …”

Lucy interrupted me and said, “But
do
you think he can get help and … change?”

I shrugged and said, “Well, Blakeslee doesn’t think so, and she probably knows him better than anyone.”

“But you are different from Blakeslee. If anyone could help him, it’s you.”

I fought back a pang of annoyance as I said, “Maybe he can change. But I can’t bank on that.”

“You don’t love him enough to help him?” she asked. I could tell the question wasn’t laced with judgment, but I still felt annoyed by her dogged focus on what
Ryan
needed. By her transparent attempt to hold on to what she saw as such a prize in my life.

“First of all, no. I do not love him enough to turn his violence into my cause,” I said, my voice firm. “Second of all, I think that’s a very dangerous game to play with your life. Sure, it
could
work out. But what if it doesn’t? Not to be dramatic—and I don’t think he’d ever go this far—but, theoretically speaking, that’s how women end up dead.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’m sorry. Don’t be mad.”

I gave her a passive-aggressive shrug.

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

“It’s okay, Luce,” I said, momentarily tempted to blurt out everything, the whole truth about my feelings for her father. But I tempered my reply, saying only “Bottom line, I don’t love him.”

“Because of this, though, right?” Lucy said, biting her lower lip. “You don’t love him because of this?”

“I’m not sure how that makes a difference. But no. I don’t love him, period. I didn’t love him before this. I cared about him,” I said, using the past tense. “And I wanted to love him. Maybe I could have grown to love him. But those feelings just weren’t there. I liked the
idea
of him. It was exciting.
He
was exciting.” I forced a smile and said, “Too exciting.”

Lucy nodded as all dwindling hope in her was finally extinguished. “So what next?”

“Well … I need to return the earrings,” I said. “I need to tell him
to stop calling me. I need to tell him face-to-face that it’s over. I want him out of my life completely.”

“Are you scared?”

“No. But I should probably go with someone. Maybe you and Neil?” I said, thinking that I didn’t want to further embroil Coach.

“Sure,” she said. “Of course. Whatever you need. You know I’m here for you.”

“I know, Luce. Thank you,” I said.

We sat in silence until I said, “So this goes without saying, but don’t say anything to anyone … except Neil.”

She gave me a somber nod. “Of course. I would never.”

“I know … The worst thing in the world would be for the media to catch wind of this,” I said, imagining the horrible headlines, how it would be spun. Not as one man with a problem but as the dark, ugly side of Walker football.

T
wo days and more than twenty voice-mail messages from Ryan later, Lucy, Neil, and I met at Mi Cocina in Dallas, ready to execute my game plan. I had texted Ryan exactly once, simply asking him to come to the restaurant after the Cowboys’ practice, which I knew ended at six thanks to the team schedule pinned to the fabric wall of Gordon’s cube. Ryan had agreed, thanking me profusely, clearly under the impression that this was the opening he had been pleading for.

Little did he know I would have a protective posse in tow at the popular Mexican restaurant in Highland Park. I knew it was probably overkill to bring Lucy and Neil, and Coach and I were both a little worried that Ryan might mention Coach’s involvement in our final fight, but we decided that it was better to be safe than sorry.

“Are you okay?” Lucy said to me as we walked into the restaurant. “You look pale.”

“Just a little nervous,” I said, reaching into my purse now to rub the velvet box containing the earrings, as if for good luck or strength.

“Would a Mambo Taxi help? Or does that feel too celebratory?” Lucy said, referring to the famed frozen margarita with a swirl of sangria.

“Oh, hell. Why not? This
is
cause to celebrate.” I gave the queen’s demure finger wave, then said, “Buh-bye, Ryan.”

Neil and Lucy laughed, even though it really wasn’t funny, as the waitress came to take our chips, guacamole, and drinks order.

“Are you ready for Christmas?” Lucy asked at one point after our drinks had arrived. She was obviously trying to distract me with idle chatter while intermittently eyeing the door.

I told her not even close, as she informed us that her shopping was pretty much completed, mostly executed online over her morning coffee.