“What about him?” I said. “C’mon, Dad. You, of all people, know this sort of thing is complicated. Why else would you marry the same person twice?”
“Right,” he said, looking satisfyingly sheepish.
Our waitress arrived with our food, giving us both time to process everything.
When she left, he said, “And Clive …? He feels the same?”
“I think he might feel the same, but it’s all under the surface … And obviously all of this was well after Connie died. In case you were wondering.”
In other words, no foul play of the kind you’re accustomed to.
My dad looked slightly relieved, then said, “Are you sure it’s not just … football?”
“If it were football, don’t you think I’d be just as happy with Ryan?”
He nodded and said, “Good point.”
“Nobody is like Coach Carr,” I said. “Nobody is half the man he is.”
It was the way I felt, but it was a bit pointed, too.
I think my dad got it, because he looked down, suddenly remembering his coffee. He took a long swallow, as if gathering his thoughts, then said, “I just think … you’ve always looked up to him so much. As a father figure … You know … Since I wasn’t around when you were growing up …”
“So what you’re saying is—Bronwyn would never fall for Coach Carr because she had a father, growing up?” I looked into his eyes, and saw a flicker of regret. Though it occurred to me, not for the first time, that once he shacked up with my mom and had me, he was screwed either way. No matter what, he was going to be abandoning a woman and her daughter.
“No,” my dad said. “That’s not what I’m saying at all … I’m just saying …” He stopped, then said, “Okay. Maybe I was saying something like that …”
I picked my words as carefully as I could. “Dad, isn’t it possible that I actually just … have genuine feelings for him? Apart from anything that happened to me as a child?”
“Yes,” my dad conceded, but he still looked flummoxed. “That is possible.”
We both pretended to concentrate on our food for a few seconds, until he put down his fork and said, “Who else knows? Lucy? Your mom?”
I shook my head. “Nobody but you.”
He gave me a half smile and said, “Well, I’m honored.”
“You should be,” I said.
“Thank you for trusting me.”
“Yes. Please don’t tell Astrid.”
“I would never.”
“I believe you.”
“And Ryan?”
“Ryan will be fine,” I said. “No matter what happens, Ryan will be just fine.”
“Can I give you some advice?” my dad said.
“Sure.”
“If you know it’s wrong with him, end it sooner rather than later.”
I looked at him, wondering if he was speaking from experience, and, if so, was he talking about Astrid or my mom? I considered asking him but decided I really didn’t want to know, as he continued. “Figure out what you want … whatever that is … and go for it.”
“I will,” I said. “But for now …”
My dad raised his eyebrows, waiting.
“For now, I just want to beat the hell out of the Longhorns.”
My dad laughed and said, “Yeah. You just might belong with Coach, after all.”
Thirty-one
On Saturday morning, the day of the final Walker game of the regular season, I woke up feeling sick to my stomach. My hatred for Texas always compounded my standard nervousness, and this year was even worse, with so much more at stake. If we won, we would be playing for the national championship. If we lost, Texas would forever relish their role as spoiler, and we’d finish the year ranked third or fourth, at best, in some ways more painful than a mediocre season.
I got out of bed, too rattled for coffee, too nauseated to eat, pacing and praying and fidgeting all over my apartment. I listened to music and even did some yoga poses and breathing exercises, but nothing worked. I told myself to get a grip. The game was big—as huge as they come—but there were more important things in life, fates worse than losing to the Longhorns. On this very day, people would get terrible diagnoses. Die in fluke tragic accidents. Others would get fired, lose their homes to the bank, their spouses to divorce, their best friends to petty differences. Beloved pets would be put to sleep. Suicide notes penned. Innocent men arrested. Natural disasters might even strike and topple whole villages in remote corners of the world.
This was only a game, I kept telling myself. Not life or death. But no matter how hard I tried to remain philosophical, I couldn’t talk myself into that perspective. Into any perspective.