The One And Only Part 20

Gordon laughed and said, "Well, I guess you do. d.a.m.n. 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 h.e.l.lo 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.

Twenty-three.

When 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 s.h.i.t 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 pa.s.sed 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 appet.i.te, 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 gla.s.s.

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?"

It was a fair point, but I still felt confused, agitated. I said nothing, a trick of good reporting. Silence keeps them talking.

It worked, as Ryan offered up more information. "I picked most of this stuff out anyway."

"You handled the registry?"

"Well, we went together. But she let me pick most of the stuff."

"Huh," I said, thinking: That's weird.

"And besides ... things ended badly ... So she said the gifts were tainted ..."

"I thought you said you were still friends?"

"We are. Now. Sort of."

"Even though it ended badly?" I tried to sound breezy but spoke too quickly, giving the question a cross-examination feel.