The One And Only Part 36

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. "G.o.d, 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 s.h.i.t. 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. "G.o.d. 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. h.e.l.l, 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 pa.s.sive-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.

Thirty-six.

Two 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, h.e.l.l. 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.

"You really are your mother," I said.

Lucy beamed; this was her favorite compliment.

"Seriously," I said. "How are you so efficient with a child and a business to run?"

She shrugged modestly as I told her that I hadn't even begun mine. I remembered the Cowboys gear that Ryan had given me for my family and made a mental note to drop it all off with the Community Partners of Dallas, a charity for abused children.

"So how excited are you for Pasadena?" Neil asked, referring to the venue for the BCS championship game. The question sounded stilted, and it occurred to me that, as the only guy in the group, he might have the most stressful a.s.signment tonight, especially because he had clearly looked up to Ryan. We all had, really.

"Very," I said flatly.

"Wait. I thought teams weren't picked until Selection Sunday? This weekend?" Lucy asked.

I nodded, proud of her for knowing this detail but explaining that it was only a technicality this year. There were only two undefeated teams left in the country, and we were one of them. We would definitely be deemed either number one or number two in the final BCS standings, along with Alabama, both teams earning their way to the championship game.

"I wish Mom could be there," Lucy said, licking salt from the rim of her gla.s.s. "She'd be so thrilled ..."

Neil put his arm around her and said, "This is all happening because of your mom, sweetie."

"Do you really think that's true, Shea?" she asked, turning to me.

"Yes," I said, running my hand over the cold gla.s.s and finally taking a long drink. "Our guys are playing their hearts out for Coach. You can feel it in every win. And he is coaching for her. So ... yeah. She has a lot to do with our success."

Lucy swallowed, looking somber, and even more so as she switched gears and said, "It's almost seven. Is there anything left to strategize?"

"No," I said. "It's going to be a very short conversation."

"Well, get ready to have it," Neil said. "He just walked in."

I braced myself but did not look toward the door, gathering strength by looking at Lucy's face as Ryan descended upon us, looming over our booth in baggy jeans, a crew-neck sweater, and a plain navy baseball cap that was lowered enough to hide his eyes from most anyone who might be watching us. From where I was sitting, though, I could see them, and could tell he was disappointed that I wasn't alone.

"Hey, y'all," he said, his voice low.

Lucy and I said quiet h.e.l.los back as Neil stood, shook Ryan's hand, and said, "Hey, Ryan. How ya doin', man?"

"Fine, man. Thanks," Ryan said. He looked glum and ashamed. Or maybe it was an act, part of his strategy. I reminded myself that anything he said or did or felt was now irrelevant. My mind was made up.

As planned, Lucy stood, nudged Neil, and said that they would be at the bar. As soon as they were out of earshot, Ryan said, "So? May I join you?"

"Yes," I said, motioning toward the vacant side of the booth. Ryan sat across from me and immediately reached for my hands, now clammy. I drew away and wiped my palms on my jeans.

"Shea," he said, exhaling. "Please. Please forgive me."

"Okay," I said, a flippant edge in my voice. "I forgive you."

Grossly misinterpreting my meaning, Ryan's face instantly relaxed, regaining some of its usual glory. "Oh, thank you, babe. That will never happen again. That wasn't me ... The next time, we'll both just take a moment ... regroup ... not let a silly misunderstanding escalate."

I shook my head. "No, Ryan. There isn't going to be a next time." I took the velvet box out of my purse and extended my arm across the table, handing it to him. "Here."

He stared at the box and said, "Are those your earrings?"

"Not anymore. I'm returning them."

When he still wouldn't take the box, I put it between his forearms, resting on the table.

He pushed it back over to me. "No. They were a gift."

"I can't keep them."

"Why?"

"You know why."

"Because I got upset one night?"

My mind raced with strategic replies. I had prepared extensively for this, as I knew he wouldn't make it easy, but he was good. Clearly practiced.

"I don't want to discuss it, Ryan," I said, pushing the box back toward his side of the table as if playing a contentious game of chess. "It's over with us. And I don't want these earrings."

He shook his head. "No."

"No?" I said, incredulous. "What do you mean no?"

"Even if you never want to see me again, they're still yours."

I drew a deep breath and audibly exhaled. "Fine," I said, scooping up the box and dropping it back in my purse as I caught Lucy glancing over her shoulder at us with a worried look. "But just so you know, I'm going to sell them and give the proceeds to charity. There's a great organization that helps abused women and children." I emphasized the word abused and stared him down.

He opened his mouth, too bewildered to reply.

"Listen," I said, taking advantage of his silence. "For the record, I think, I know you have a problem. I don't know if it has anything to do with your father ... or the violence inherent in the game you play ... or if there's any other psychological reason ... but there is no question that you do have a problem."

He stared at me, then shocked me by nodding, ever so slightly.

"And I think you should get help. I think your ex-girlfriends would all agree with me. And I'm worried about your future girlfriends, too."