The One and Only

by Emily Giffin

  I stepped out of the way as a cameraman turned to get a close-up of Ryan for all the viewers at home. Clearly accustomed to the spotlight, he pretended not to notice the bright lights in his face, and kept right on talking to me as if we were alone.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to speak at Mrs. Carr’s funeral,” he said under his breath. “I had to be … in and out.”

  I nodded, fighting a wave of sadness at the mention of Mrs. Carr, then said, “By the way. Great game against the Steelers a few months back. It’s not easy to get a win at Heinz Field.”

  He smiled. “You watched?”

  “Of course,” I said. “That was quite a scramble you had at the end there …”

  He gave me a funny look and said, “So, how have you been, Shea?”

  “Fine. Good,” I said, thinking that, since college, nothing had really changed in my life. “You know. Same old …”

  “You still working with J.J.? In sports information?”

  I held up the press pass, dangling around my neck, and smiled. “Yep.”

  “And how’s Miller?” he asked. “Is he here tonight?”

  “Probably somewhere. Haven’t seen him, though … We broke up,” I said, surprised that Ryan even knew we were together in the first place.

  “Oh?” Ryan said. “I’m sorry to hear that …” His voice trailed off.

  “Yeah. It’s okay. It had just … run its course …”

  He nodded and said, “That happens.”

  After an awkward pause, I said, “I’m sorry about your divorce.”

  “Yeah. Thanks. At least we didn’t have kids … So, you know … clean break.”

  He smiled, putting me at ease, as I remembered the tabloid story I’d read about Blakeslee getting custody of their three-year-old sheepdog, Sasha. They had fought over her, but Ryan had finally relented, based mostly on his travel schedule. Then, a week after Blakeslee took custody, Sasha ate a poisonous mushroom and died.

  I tried to think of something clever to say, but came up blank. “Well, I better get to the press box. It was great seeing you.”

  “You, too,” Ryan said.

  As I turned to go, he reached out and touched my arm. “Do you have a card on you?”

  “Sure don’t,” I said. Although I was wearing a rather unfortunate and unfeminine outfit—a Walker golf shirt and khakis—I hadn’t resorted to wearing a fanny pack or carrying a wallet in my back pocket. Besides, I was sure Ryan was just being polite to a fellow alum.

  “Well, here,” he said, reaching for his wallet, covered with embossed, interlocking Gucci Gs. He pulled out a card with the Cowboys logo, an all-caps QUARTERBACK below his name, and said, “Here’s my cell. Call me if you ever want to get together. Grab a bite or something.”

  I nodded and took the card, my face frozen with a big, awkward smile. Surely he didn’t really mean it.

  “Or if you want tickets … We start playing again in September.”

  “September, huh. Is that when the NFL starts back?” I said, smirking.

  “Right,” Ryan said, grinning at me. “Forgot who I was talking to.”

  “He gave you his number?” Lucy shouted.

  After the game, I had stopped by her place for a glass of wine. It was nearly nine, but Caroline was wide awake, watching Finding Nemo as she nursed a cup full of bright red juice, the kind that is just waiting to be spilled. Lucy ran a loose ship—very unlike the way she grew up and the way you’d imagine she’d mother—and there was something about it that was both surprising and refreshing.

  “It wasn’t like that,” I said. “Don’t get so excited.”

  “What do you mean ‘it wasn’t like that’? Of course it was like that. He gave you his number!”

  “He gave me his card,” I said.

  “Does it have his number on it?”

  I nodded, laughing.

  “Well, then, same difference! Let me see it,” she said, motioning for it.

  I mumbled that she was getting worked up for nothing, but pulled it out of the side pocket of my purse.

  She stared at it and then called out for Neil. “Honey! Come here and help us analyze!”

  Neil stepped away from loading the dishwasher as she showed him the card and filled him in. “Now,” she said to him, “wouldn’t you say he’s interested? What other explanation is there?”

  He studied the card, looking impressed. “I’d say he’s interested,” he said, looking up at me.

  “I’d say you’re just agreeing with your wife because you know you have to,” I said.

  Lucy ignored this and said, “You need to call him.”

  “Come on, Luce,” I said. “He can go out with any girl he wants. Models. Actresses. Anyone.”

  “He had Blakeslee,” she said. “And now he wants something different.”

  “You mean a big girl?” I said. I wasn’t one to get hung up on my weight, but I was definitely big-boned compared to Blakeslee.

  “Down-to-earth. Normal. He wants you.”

  I laughed and said, “He doesn’t want me. He just likes me as a friend. Besides, even if he were interested, I can’t go out with one of Miller’s teammates …”

  “Why the hell not?” she said as she snatched the card back from Neil.

  “Because … it’s a code.”

  “It’s not your code,” she said. “It’s a guy code. And Ryan showed you that he doesn’t care about that guy code when he handed you this.” She studied the card one more time, then gave it back to me. “You better call him.”

  I threw out a final objection. “I thought you didn’t want me to go out with football players. And I’d be going from one to the next like some … groupie.”

  “There are football players,” she said, making a face. “And then there is Ryan James. God … even I would be jealous of you if you could close this deal.” Lucy looked over at Neil. “No offense, honey.”

  “Oh, none taken,” Neil said. “I’d be jealous of her, too.”

  “You both are ridiculous,” I said, but just for the hell of it, and to humor Lucy, I banged out a text to Ryan: Great to see you tonight. Would love to get a bite sometime. LMK. Shea.

  “There,” I said, holding up my phone and showing her the delivered message. “Happy now?”

  “Yes,” she said. “But I will be happier once we get access to his private plane and house in Cabo.”

  “Ha,” I said. “Keep dreaming.”

  The next morning, I had a response from Ryan, a text that he’d sent at 6:00 A.M.: Charity function Fri. Need a hot date. You game?

  I must have read it a half dozen times, searching for a “just friends” angle, if only to guard against disappointment, and concluded that he must have been joking about the “hot date” part. Because if he really saw me as a hot date, he wouldn’t call me a hot date; he’d just think it. Still. The facts were the facts. Whether or not I qualified as hot, he had a function to attend and was asking me to go with him—and I was absolutely going to accept the invitation, this time without any prodding from Lucy. So I texted back: I’m in.

  He called only a few seconds after that and said, “That’s what I like about you.” I could tell he was on speaker, and pictured him wearing Ray-Bans in a shiny sports car, driving with one hand low on the steering wheel, the sunroof open.

  “What’s that?” I said, laughing. “That I’m easy?”

  “Well, frankly, yeah. I mean … Not easy in that way … Just easy. You never do the psycho girlie thing, do you?”

  “Depends on what you mean by psycho girlie,” I said, thinking of the napkin covered with Coach Carr’s doodles that I had rescued from the trash after an athletic department meeting sometime last year. That would probably be considered psycho by most, especially given the napkin’s proximity to a half-eaten Bunki’s donut, which also happened to belong to Coach Carr. At least I didn’t finish it.

  Ryan clarified, “You didn’t wait three days to write back. You didn’t ask for all the details befor
e you committed. You didn’t make sure you could schedule a blowout and spray tan on such late notice. You didn’t ask exhaustive questions about what you had to wear. You just said yes.”

  I smiled, thinking that maybe Lucy was right. Maybe Ryan was looking for a low-maintenance anti-Blakeslee. If so, he had come to the right girl (although I made a mental note to schedule a blowout and spray tan since that was what he was clearly accustomed to).

  “Well, now that you mention it. What are the details?” I had given my only proper gown to a thrift shop because I never wore it and because Lucy had informed me that it was too short, that my toes should show only as I took a step forward, not when standing still. “Is it black-tie?”

  “No. Just cocktail attire. The invite actually says ‘business casual,’ I think. It’s a benefit for autism. One of my causes,” he said. “But I don’t really have to do anything. Just show up for an hour or two. With a stunning girl on my arm.”

  I was pretty sure that he didn’t mean to call me stunning any more than he had meant to call me hot, but I still felt a goofy grin on my face and was grateful that he couldn’t see it. “Stunning, huh? That’s a tall order.” I spun around in my desk chair, turning to face the only window in my office, with the perfect view of a gorgeously symmetrical loblolly magnolia already in full bloom.

  “It’s not a tall order for you. I saw you on the sidelines, looking effortlessly fine in that Walker getup,” Ryan said as I heard his turn signal in the background, confirming that he was in his car. “Never seen a chick look that good in khakis.”

  I laughed with nervousness and a little bit of excitement. Was this really happening? Was I really about to go on a date with a star quarterback, famous even to non-football fans? I reminded myself that it was only Ryan James, my old friend, who just happened to be a Dallas Cowboy—and that I was sure it would amount to very little.

  “Well, then,” I said. “That’s settled. Business casual it is. I’ll wear my game-day khakis.”

  “You can wear whatever your little heart desires,” Ryan said, taking the phone off speaker. His voice dropped, low and smooth, as though he were whispering in my ear. “I have always been a big fan of your collarbone, though …”

  I stopped in my tracks, a distant memory suddenly unearthed from the spring of our junior year. Ryan and I were at some frat party. I was wearing a white tank top to accentuate my tan (those were the days when I actually went to tanning beds, a.k.a. cancer chambers) and was dancing to “Brown Eyed Girl” when he came up to me and said, “Anyone ever tell you that you have a sexy collarbone?”

  I wasn’t entirely sure where my collarbone was until he ran his finger along it and said, “There are ass guys … leg guys … boob guys. But this … is my spot.” His finger lingered there, long enough for three friends, Lucy included, who was visiting from UT, to inquire about the incident later. I told them it was nothing. I knew it was nothing. Nothing more than a drunken frat-party exchange with one of the biggest players on campus. And by player, I didn’t mean on the field.

  “Yes. I think you mentioned that once,” I said now. “A long time ago.”

  “I’d love a refresher.”

  “Well, then,” I said, grinning into the phone. “I’ll see what I can do for you.”

  That night, my mother made me dinner, a gourmet French meal in her dining room, complete with candlelight and white-cloth napkins. But the formal presentation didn’t stop her from leaping out of her seat and yelping when I gave her the Ryan update, a contradiction that was so my mother. At heart, she was a TV-dinner kind of girl, but she fought hard against her redneck roots, doing everything she could to distance herself from her lower-middle-class upbringing in Odessa. Behind her back, and before Mrs. Carr got sick, I called it the Connie effect, joking to Lucy that my mom had spent her entire adult life trying to extinguish her inner tacky light and be more like her high-class friend. I actually don’t know how Mrs. Carr stood all the copycat behavior, but I’m sure it had something to do with her own perfect mother instilling in her the charitable belief that imitation was the most sincere form of flattery.

  In other words, my mother had sincerely flattered Connie Carr on a daily basis, especially when it came to matters of taste. When Mrs. Carr traded her silver car in for a white one, my mother followed suit (even though she had once told me that she’d never own a white car). When Mrs. Carr decided to get a crisp bob one summer, my mother chopped off her hair, too. And on and on. Mrs. Carr was my mother’s best friend, but also her field guide and barometer of all her decisions, both minor and major, and losing her, I could tell already, was having a disorienting, devastating effect. It was unfathomable to my mother that Connie had actually drawn the short straw, and a source of great guilt. Striving even harder for perfection, Connie Carr–style, seemed to be a way of repenting for being the survivor, and, as always, my mother couldn’t separate me from her quest. In this way, Ryan James would be the ultimate salve. If I could land him—heck, even date him for a minute—there would be some sort of tangible proof that she had raised me right, been a good mother, overcome her blue-collar roots.

  All her life my mother had been scrapping and scheming to defy her familial shortcomings, beginning with her own acceptance to Walker on a full (albeit need-based) scholarship, then continuing when she befriended Connie, landed my dad (Yankee money was better than no money), joined all the right clubs, and, most of all, aligned our family so closely with the Carrs. There was really nothing more she could have done to set me up for her brand of success and status. Yet, I still managed to let her down, time and again, beginning at a young age when she signed me up for riding lessons only to discover that I had a severe allergic reaction to horses. It was downhill from there. I sucked at ballet. I refused to go out for cheerleading. I spent too much time on football. I wasn’t into clothes or makeup or all the things that girls in Texas are raised to care about. I didn’t get into the exclusive Camp Waldemar, a sleepaway camp with more stringent admissions than Harvard, or the Hockaday School, the fancy boarding school in Dallas that all the “best” girls attended (the only notable exception was Lucy because Coach Carr didn’t believe in sending children away). I made the Homecoming Court, but skipped the festivities for a regional track meet.

  And perhaps the biggest disappointment of my mother’s life, at least since her marriage ended, was when I wasn’t invited to be a debutante. It was a long shot, as these things were passed down through the generations, but, because of my mother’s diligence, and our close affiliation with the Carrs, I still had a shot—until I dated Gregory Hobbs my junior year of high school and eviscerated her efforts in one fell swoop. It didn’t matter that Gregory was in the National Honor Society or that his father was an economics professor at Walker or that our romance was short-lived and mostly innocent. What mattered was that Gregory was African-American, and, whether or not anyone admitted it, interracial dating wasn’t exactly a fast track into the upper crust of Texas society. My mother had zero tolerance for racism and certainly never discouraged my friendship with Gregory, but I could tell she let the debutante dream die after that, slightly lowering her social ambitions for me.

  When Mrs. Carr and Lucy began the whole tedious debbing process, my mother’s wounds were briefly reopened, and I actually felt a little sorry for her. But I reassured her that it was for the best. I wasn’t the slightest bit interested in getting all dolled up to walk down a runway in silly white gloves and bridal wear, especially for a bunch of elitists. Nor was I about to get on my knees and do that ridiculous “swan” curtsy to the boys I had seen belching and swearing in the cafeteria. The whole thing was a big misogynistic joke, and I told my mother I’d be forfeiting my rights as a strong, independent woman if I got up on that auction block. Hadn’t she raised me better than that?

  With a dash of feminism somewhere in her blood, she didn’t disagree entirely, but she was also a realist and warned me that I would never marry into a “good” family if I didn’t learn t
o play the game—or at least pretend to be a proper Southern lady. She was right, of course. Because I never played the game, never became a proper Southern lady, and never made headway with Texas blue bloods, the kind of boys who stand when a girl comes to the table, tip their hats at the right moments, make you look good when they spin you around the dance floor, and have loads of money, the older the better. Instead, I ended up with guys like Miller who broke all the rules and, in my mother’s words, wore boots on all the wrong occasions, namely weddings (you didn’t have to be Mrs. Carr or Garth Brooks to know that boots have no place at black-tie affairs).