The One & Only(104)

“Yeah,” Ryan said, with a faint smile. “I have more money than he does. I think that kills him.”

I rolled over so I could see more of his face, propping myself up with one elbow, my eyes resting on his scar. He caught me looking at it and said, “What?”

“How’d you get that scar?” I asked.

He swallowed, then said, “I told you—I got it the night of the state championship. In high school.”

“Right. But how?” I said.

He looked at me, and I could tell he was debating whether to tell the truth. Part of me hoped he wouldn’t. Because it would make me feel better that I had just lied to him. But I also wanted him to feel better, and I was pretty sure that the truth always brought you closer to peace.

Another few seconds passed before he said, “My dad threw a cleat at me. After the game.”

“Oh, Ryan,” I said.

“I didn’t want to tell you before … But that’s what happened.”

“I’m so sorry, honey,” I said, imagining him that night in the emergency room, getting stitched, lying to the doctor about how it happened, likely with his father right in the room, supervising the whole thing. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s okay … I guess I’m lucky he didn’t hurl anything at me tonight.” He laughed bitterly.

I reached up to run my finger across his brow, then murmured, “I first noticed it in college … and I always loved it.”

Ryan looked touched. “Why?” he said.

The real reason, at least at the time, was that I always think a vivid scar on a guy is sexy, especially when he’s athletic, because you assume it’s a battle scar from a game. But tonight, I liked it for more than that.

“Because,” I said. “It’s part of you. Part of who you are.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess it is.”

He put his hand on my neck, brought my face to his, and gently kissed me. I drew back and looked at him.

“Thank you,” he said. It was as if he got the deeper point I was making, that he was connected to his dad, no matter how much he didn’t want to be, just as I was connected to mine and to Astrid and to my mother. Neither of us could help our stories, only what we did with them. “Thank you for accepting my flaws …”

“You don’t have to thank me for that,” I said. “You know, I might actually love you more when you’re throwing an interception than a touchdown.”

He smiled but said, “Don’t say that.”

“But I think it’s true,” I said.

“Well, that’s where we differ,” he said, his smile growing wider. “Because I love you more when you don’t drop the ball. So to speak.”

“Got it,” I said. “No more turnovers.”


My father and his crew were scheduled to depart the following afternoon, and I hadn’t planned on seeing them again, having said my formal goodbyes the night before. But the next morning, as Ryan was leaving for his MRI, my dad called and asked if I had time to meet for brunch or coffee. As I opened my mouth to decline, blame it on work again, he added “Just the two of us.” Pleasantly surprised, I told him that would work out just fine.

Thirty minutes later, I arrived at Buzzbrews Kitchen, his suggestion but one of my favorites, and found him already seated in a corner booth, sipping coffee. He looked up from his menu and smiled as I slid in across from him. “Hey, Dad,” I said.

“Hi, honey,” he said, taking off his reading glasses and slipping them into the monogrammed pocket of his starched, blue and white checked button-down shirt. “You hungry?”

“I’m always hungry. I’m your daughter who actually has an appetite. That’s how you can tell us apart,” I deadpanned, hoping the comment sounded more self-deprecating than snarky, especially given that I’d actually liked Bronwyn the day before.

My dad laughed, and I observed how different he seemed today, more relaxed and natural. “There are a few other differences between my daughters,” he said, taking another sip of coffee.

“Yeah. I guess there are,” I said, ticking through some of them in my head, plagued by my standard inferiority complex. Although there was really no concrete evidence to suggest that my father compared the two of us, I was pretty sure he did. Dating an NFL quarterback and writing for an esteemed paper helped make up my usual shortfall, but she still had me beat by a comfortable margin.

A few seconds later, a waitress came by to take our order. I had the menu memorized and went with my usual Blazing Huevos, a single banana nut pancake, and a cup of coffee. My dad pretended to be tempted by my selection, murmuring that it sounded really good, but then ordered two scrambled eggs and a side of bacon, no toast or hash browns.