The One and Only

by Emily Giffin

  In fact, if Lucy had any regrets on this terrible day—I thought, as her dad and I finally reached Myrtle Street, lined on both sides with cars—surely going to the University of Texas had to be it.

  Once inside the Carrs’ three-story brick colonial, Coach headed straight for his office while I found Lucy in the kitchen, pushing potato salad across her plate. I knew she wasn’t going to eat—she hadn’t in days, losing pounds she couldn’t afford to lose, but it was progress at least to see a fork in her hand.

  “How’re you doing?” I asked her as she stepped away from several ladies from her mother’s garden club who were busy arranging platters. There was more food than Coach could ever hope to eat, and I made a mental note to drop off a few casseroles at the homeless shelter where Mrs. Carr had volunteered.

  “A little better,” she said. “I’m sorry about earlier. Losing my temper with Miller. I know he’s harmless enough.”

  I shook my head, dismissing the apology as unnecessary. It took a lot for me to get upset at Lucy, and I’d always accepted her critiques of my life and boyfriends, both because she always had my best interests at heart and because she was usually right. She had a free pass, good for life.

  “Thanks for going with Daddy,” she said, putting down her plate and leaning on the counter. She looked pale, but relaxed, and I suspected that she had popped one of the little white pills her doctor had prescribed “to get through the next few days.”

  “No problem,” I said, suddenly wishing I had one to take myself.

  “How do you think he’s doing?” she asked. “How was he on the drive over?”

  I shrugged and told her I wasn’t sure. “We didn’t really talk about anything … Except for … you know … football.”

  Lucy’s eyes filled with tears, her chin trembling.

  “Oh. Luce … I’m sorry, honey,” I said, wondering if I’d said the wrong thing, or if it was just another sickening wave of realization that her mother was gone. I put my arms around her, then led her to the privacy of the laundry room. “I shouldn’t be talking about football,” I said, thinking that I finally saw her point. That there was something about life going on, business as usual, that seemed so wrong. Mrs. Carr wasn’t my mother, but even I had the irrational sense that the whole world—or at least the state of Texas—should take a respectful time-out to grieve her.

  Lucy shook her head. “No. It’s not that. It’s fine. Football’s fine,” she said, and then added a heartbreaking footnote. “I’m just glad Daddy still has something to love.”

  That night, after everyone but my mother and I had gone home, we sat around the kitchen table and talked about Connie. We laughed about how she couldn’t drive on the interstate or read maps, how competitive she was when it came to her pecan pie, widely considered the best in Walker. She had even won bake-offs in Dallas, but always voted for others because, in her mind, casting a ballot for her own pie seemed gauche. We talked about how much she loved her “stories”—taping soap operas and giving updates on the characters as if they were family members we all should know. We talked about how consistently she bungled song lyrics, our favorite being Bob Dylan’s “The ants are my friends, they’re blowin’ in the wind.” We laughed and cried until we were too drained to share any more memories.

  At which point, they all ganged up on me. Or, more accurately, they ganged up on Miller, who was no longer there to defend himself. It was my mom, Lucy, and Neil versus Miller—hardly a fair matchup—all of them saying, in various ways, that Miller wasn’t good enough for me. Even Lawton put in his two cents—and I wasn’t sure he was qualified to have an opinion, as he had never been in a relationship longer than three months. Only Coach Carr kept mum on the subject, having moved to the family room, sunk in his easy chair. He was close enough to hear our conversation but seemed focused on watching college basketball, flipping between channels, the television on mute. I hated having my love life dissected, especially in mixed company, but I played along, as it occurred to me that it provided a nice distraction for everyone.

  “She really needs to cut him loose,” Lucy said as she transferred her chardonnay from one of the plastic stemmed glasses the caterer had brought to a crystal one from the china cabinet, then sat down again at the expansive farmhouse table that Mrs. Carr had stripped and stained herself.

  Except for a platter of sugar cookies from Star Provisions, our town’s famed bakery, the food was all put away, the kitchen tidy.

  “Miller’s not that bad,” I said, just as my phone rang in my purse.

  “Speak of the devil?” my mom asked.

  “Oh, now he’s the devil?” I said, resisting the urge to check it. I was pretty sure it was Miller, though, as he had mouthed I’ll call you upon his departure.

  “He is that bad,” Lucy said. “He’s thoughtless. He’s devoid of ambition. He’s a pothead. He has shitty grammar.”

  “Thoughtless?” I said, because that was the most serious charge. And because he was actually pretty sweet in his own clueless way.

  “Well, he did forget your birthday last year,” Neil chimed in, referring to a dinner he and Lucy had hosted when Miller had showed up empty-handed.

  “It just slipped his mind. No biggie. Besides, thirty-two was nothing much to celebrate,” I said.

  Lucy made a scoffing sound.

  “He gave me a present … later,” I said, thinking of the bottle of Coco Mademoiselle he’d given me the following day.

  Lawton raised his eyebrows. “Ha. I’m sure he did.”

  “Perfume, dummy,” I said, my face burning.

  “He’s still a pothead gym teacher,” Lucy said.

  Knowing how ridiculous I sounded, I mumbled Miller’s standard drug defenses—pot was actually better for you than alcohol and he smoked for his chronic back pain.

  “Wow. You’re really going the marijuana-is-medicinal route here?” Lucy asked.

  My mom shook her head and said my name in a concerned tone.

  Lucy fired again. “Does he use poor grammar to help his back, too?”

  “Yeah. Even I know his grammar is for shit,” Lawton said.

  “Okay. Now, that … I can’t really defend. He does have a few pronoun problems,” I said. “But we’re working on it.”

  “See? You sound like his mother. Do you give him an allowance, too?” Lucy asked. “When he does his chores?”

  I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t help thinking about how often I picked up the check, and that Miller was usually broke.

  “He is cute, though,” my mom said. “Those eyes. That body.”

  “C’mon, Mom. Gross,” I whispered. “Don’t be such a cougar.”

  “He’s a dumb jock,” Lucy said, turning to look at her father. “Right, Dad? What was his GPA?”

  Coach Carr didn’t miss a beat. “I have no idea what the boy’s GPA was.” His eyes were glued to the television, but clearly he was listening to every word of our conversation.

  “Ballpark it,” Lucy demanded.

  “Well, it wasn’t stellar,” Coach Carr said, flipping channels. “But I think Miller’s getting a bit of a bad rap here. He’s a nice guy. And,” he said, wagging his finger at Lucy, “there’s nothing wrong with teaching physical education.”

  “Exactly. His kids love him … He’s a great coach,” I said, realizing that I said it in the awed voice that most people would use to refer to neurosurgeons.

  “For junior high football,” Lucy said, taking another long sip of her wine.

  “Someone’s gotta coach junior high … Not everyone can be your dad,” I said.

  “Yeah. They don’t just magically materialize as college players,” Coach said. “They gotta have good coaches along the way.”

  “Shea, honey,” my mother said. “I think Lucy’s right. He’s not marriage material.”

  “Who said anything about getting married?” I said, reminding everyone that I was in no hurry for all of that, unlike most of my friends and acquaintances, who had married in their twen
ties, many straight out of college. It was something I wanted eventually, probably, although I wasn’t sure about children, which took a lot of pressure off the quest. Still, I had to admit that the thought of marrying Miller had crossed my mind recently. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but Coach was right, he was a good guy—and I honestly wasn’t sure that I could do much better in the shrinking pool of eligible men.

  “You’re wasting precious time with him,” Lucy said as my phone buzzed again. This time I couldn’t resist checking it.

  Sure enough, it was a text from Miller. Left my jacket. U still there? Will swing by.

  Before I could text back that I’d deliver it to him, there was a knock at the door and I had no choice but to fess up. “I think it’s Miller,” I said. “He forgot his jacket.”

  “ ’Course he did. This will be amusing,” Lucy said, perking up. She stood and headed for the foyer.

  “Don’t you dare,” I called after her, but I knew there was nothing that could stop Lucy once she had an idea in her head.

  She returned with a crumpled Miller, in dire need of Visine. “Look who it is!” she announced. Then she issued a quick apology for her earlier rant and said, “Sit. Sit. Join us.”

  I gave him a look of warning and shook my head. For once, he took the hint. “Thanks, Lucy, but I can’t stay.”

  “Why? What do you have to do tonight?”

  I answered for him. “Some of the out-of-town guys are crashing at his place. Robert Siler and Myles Savage.”

  “Yeah. And … I just came to get my jacket.”

  “Your jacket or Shea?” Lucy asked.

  Miller smiled and said, “Well, both. If she’s ready.”

  “Sure,” I said, standing and hoping to make a getaway. It was better than sticking around for more abuse, or getting a ride and an additional lecture from my mother about how I really needed to seize my thirties lest I end up “forty and alone.” Like Lucy, she believed she only had my best interests at heart, but she couldn’t help making everything about herself. What she wanted for me. Namely, for me to be a pampered stay-at-home mother married to a doctor or lawyer or, in her exact words, “even a vet or a dentist.”

  “No. Stay. I insist,” Lucy said, guiding Miller into the chair across from her. “We were actually just talking about you. And your relationship. With Shea.”

  “Lucy,” I said in my harshest tone.

  This time, Miller took the bait. “Right on,” he said, grinning.

  “So, Miller, do you think you and Shea are compatible?” Lucy asked.

  “Hot seat, bro,” Lawton said. “Look out!”

  Miller reached for my hand, and I reluctantly gave it to him. “Yeah,” he said. “We go perfect together.”

  “Perfectly,” I said under my breath.

  “Perfect, huh?” Lucy said. “And why do you say that?”

  “Well, for one, we both love football,” Miller said. “Right, Coach?”

  Coach Carr raised one fist in the air.

  Lucy crossed her arms. “Well, that means Shea would be good with just about any man in the state of Texas. Except Neil, who isn’t totally obsessed.”

  I had always maintained that it was one of the things Lucy liked most about her husband. He wasn’t the type to spend his days in front of the television watching games. Still, the comment seemed vaguely emasculating, at least in the company of his coaching legend father-in-law, and Neil said, “Hey, now. I like football. I love football.”

  “It’s more than football,” Miller said. “She’s good for me. She makes me better.”

  “And what do you do for her?” Lucy asked, unmoved.

  My mother was literally on the edge of her seat, waiting.

  “Well. I make her laugh.”

  I let out a nervous giggle, and Miller pointed at me and said, “See?”

  “It’s late,” I said, standing and gesturing to Miller. “Where’s your jacket? I’ll get it.”

  He pointed down the hall, toward the master bedroom. “It’s back there on the bed,” he said.

  I hesitated, but it was really too late to retract my offer, so I kept going, right past Coach. When I walked into the room, I spotted Miller’s jacket strewn on Coach Carr’s side of the bed, closer to the window, which I only knew based on the fact that Mrs. Carr had spent much of her last few weeks on the side nearest the bathroom. A wave of sick grief washed over me as I quickly walked to the foot of the bed and reached out to scoop up the jacket. Then I marched back to the kitchen and announced to Miller that now it really was time to go.

  Three

  February made me shiver. The line from Don McLean’s “American Pie” replayed in my head that whole month, a grim soundtrack on an endless loop. It had always been one of Coach Carr’s favorite songs, but I never much cared for it, partly because of its tendency to stick with you long after you wanted to be rid of it, and also because it was just so depressing, all that talk about widowed brides and Satan laughing and dirges in the dark. Now it also reminded me of our collective grief over Mrs. Carr’s death, along with a host of other emotions nagging at me.

  For one, I felt guilty. Guilt for not being as sad as Lucy, my mom, and Coach. Guilt for being able to go a stretch of hours without thinking about Mrs. Carr at all. In my most selfish moments, I even felt impatient, longing for things to return to normal. I found myself praying for spring to come quickly to Texas, believing that the change of seasons would help, along with the start of spring practices held every March and all the hope that came with the annual rebirth of our team. In other words, football when we needed it most. With a solid previous season, most of our starters returning, and the addition of Reggie Rhodes and a great recruiting class, there was little doubt in anyone’s mind that we were going to be good this year. Really good and potentially great. It would be bittersweet without Mrs. Carr to share it, but bittersweet was better than plain bitter.

  But football could only distract me from the grief and the guilt so much, and in the aftermath of Mrs. Carr’s death, I found myself reflecting on my own life in a way that I had previously avoided. I couldn’t fight the knot of dissatisfaction with the status quo, all the things that had always felt comfortable, good enough. My unexceptional relationship with Miller. My crappy car and apartment, which I refused to see as measuring sticks of anyone’s life, let alone my own, but clearly more appropriate for a girl in her twenties than for a woman approaching her mid-thirties. At least I had a decent wardrobe, clothes all chosen by Lucy and purchased at a deep discount from her shop, but most hung in my closet with no occasion to wear them. They were way too nice for my job at Walker—which was something else I started to think about. I was the assistant sports information director, which meant I worked behind the scenes in the athletic department, attending endless games and matches, recording stats, and reporting them to the media. It was the only real job I’d ever had since my student intern days working in the same office, and the one thing I had always taken pride in—really the sole source of my identity. But suddenly even the job I loved seemed small and unimportant, especially all the parts that didn’t involve football. I knew that it was a reach to say I was following my passion—an argument I tried to make to justify my meager salary. Yes, football was my passion, and Walker my home, but deep down I knew that I was there because it felt safe and easy—not because it was exactly right.

  I knew that I really should have been writing about sports—which had been my plan when I majored in journalism. Yet somehow, that dream had never materialized. I’m not sure why, but probably because it would have required leaving the cocoon of Walker University. Leaving Coach Carr. And that was the final—and perhaps biggest—thing I had to confront in the weeks after Mrs. Carr died.

  It was hard to say when my infatuation really began, because from a very young age, I adored Coach Carr. I put him on a pedestal the way a lot of little girls do with their fathers—the way I might have done with my own dad if my earliest memories weren’t of him an
d my mother fighting. My mother’s voice was always the one I heard in the middle of the night, but it was those angry accusations that formed my first impressions of my father: cheating, lying son-of-a-bitch. I was too young to understand anything about infidelity or affairs, but would later piece together the sordid chronology. Namely, that my parents met when my mom was fresh out of college, employed by a brokerage firm in Dallas, and my dad was an investment banker, in town working on a deal. They were an unlikely match, but she fell hard and fast for the hotshot Wall Streeter with slicked-back hair and custom pin-striped suits, and he was equally dazzled by the sassy, bodacious girl he called his “yellow rose of Texas.” The only problem with their passionate, long-distance, whirlwind romance that yielded the surprise of me (my mother maintains it was an accident, but I’ve always had my doubts) was that my father was already married with another baby on the way. Oops. My mother won the pregnant-lady showdown, lassoing my dad, even getting him to relocate from New York to Texas after her three-month trial run in Manhattan proved “too overwhelming” for her. (Fortunately my mother brought a box of Dallas dirt with her to the Upper East Side hospital where I was born, putting it under the delivery table so that, quite technically, I’d be born on Texas soil.)

  For a few years after their move back to Dallas, my parents were happy, at least according to my mother. Until, in the ultimate case of what goes around comes around, he did it again, cheating on my mother with his first wife, ultimately choosing her and my half sister, Bronwyn. Divorce always hurts, but it stung especially hard to lose like that, to another little girl exactly my age who openly viewed my early childhood as nothing more than a nuisance and an interruption of her own sacred autobiography. When we were kids, Bronwyn told the story every chance she got, how her father came to his senses and begged her mother to take him back after his disastrously poor judgment with my mother. And then, the part of the fairy tale she loved the most: how she walked into the brownstone on Madison Avenue, following rose petals up three flights of stairs into a posh pink bedroom, eyeing the canopy bed with its custom linens as my father anointed it her new bedroom.