The One & Only(105)

When our waitress departed, I said, “Are you back on Atkins?”

“Always,” he said. “As I’ve said many times, the only way to stay trim is to eat bacon.”

I laughed and said, “You’re still a little bit Texas, aren’t you?”

“Definitely,” he said, drumming on the table to the beat of a Vince Gill song playing in the background, as if to tell me that he appreciated country music. He had lived here just long enough for Texas to get in his blood, but not long enough to never want to leave.

“So,” I said. “Did you have fun yesterday?”

“Yes. I had a very nice time,” my dad said. “Although it would have been a lot nicer if we’d won.”

I smiled and said, “We, huh? Thought you were a Giants fan.”

“Yes. But Dallas is America’s team, right?” my dad said.

“Right,” I said, even though it was an expression that had always annoyed me. “So can you believe Mr. James? How awful he was about the loss?”

My dad whistled, then shook his head. “Holy smokes. I really can’t … I feel sorry for Ryan.”

I nodded, thinking, Yeah, it’s hard to overcome the feeling that your father doesn’t love you.

I told myself to quit with the pity party as my dad asked about Ryan’s knee.

“It’s really sore, but I don’t think it’s too bad. He’s getting an MRI as we speak.”

“And how are … his spirits?” my dad asked as our waitress returned with my coffee and refilled Dad’s cup. He added half a packet of Splenda and a dash of milk, then stirred the way he always did, rigorously and noisily, with maximum contact between spoon and cup. It always seemed unexpected when most everything else my father did was so measured and methodical.

“He was really upset,” I said, still trying to make sense of everything that had been said and promised the night before.

My dad looked contemplative. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Is it tough … dating someone so famous?”

I shrugged, uncertain of what he was asking. “Not really. The media doesn’t seem to notice or care,” I said. Then, lest he think this fact disappointed me, I added, “Which is nice.”

My dad nodded and said, “Only a matter of time …”

“Mom has her fingers crossed,” I said, laughing.

I felt vaguely disloyal for the barb, but he took it in the playful spirit it was intended and said, “Astrid, too. She’s hoping that someone runs a piece on Ryan’s girlfriend’s stepmother.”

I smiled but said, “Dad. Please don’t call her that. She’s your wife, not my stepmother.”

I’d exhibited a very poor attitude many times over the years, particularly when I was forced to go to New York as a child, but this was the closest I’d ever come to directly telling my dad how I felt about the situation. His expression changed so drastically that I almost regretted the remark. I wanted to make a point, but didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

“I just mean—she didn’t raise me …” I said. Using the term was actually sort of insulting to all the stepmothers out there who played an important role in a child’s upbringing. As opposed to Astrid, whose only contributions to my childhood were theater tickets over the holidays, an occasional designer handbag, and really great Fifth Avenue haircuts.

“I understand, honey,” he said, sipping his coffee. “I know she can be … overbearing … but she means well. She cares about you.”

“I care about her, too,” I lied. “But sometimes …” I stopped, losing my nerve.

“Go on … Sometimes what?”

“Well … let’s just say that I’m glad you asked to see me alone. For a change.”

“I know,” he said, his body language and posture earnest, apologetic. “It’s hard to get a word in edgewise around her.”

I just nodded.

“So what else is going on with you?” my dad asked.

I looked at him, wondering what he was getting at.

“Nothing,” I said. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you have this wonderful job … and this incredible, famous boyfriend … but … are you happy?”

It seemed to be such an odd burst of insightfulness from my father that I thought surely it must be a coincidence. He obviously knew nothing of the fight Ryan and I’d had the evening before. “Yes. I’m happy,” I said. “Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I just have this feeling …” His voice trailed off, but then he cleared his throat and tried again. “Should I be worried about you?”