The One & Only(117)

“Oh, yeah?” he said.

“Yeah. I’m going to tell her about last night. I mean … Ryan coming over and everything … But I’m not going to tell her that you were here …”

He was so quiet that I thought we’d lost our connection.

“Are you there?” I said, feeling guilty for scheming, preparing to lie to Lucy.

“Yeah, I’m here … I heard you … and I think that’s a good idea.”

“I feel bad. Keeping something so big from her, but …”

“Don’t feel bad. It’s just not the right time to tell her about us.”

I felt a burst of affection and excitement and hope. A thrill that there was an us to talk about. “Right,” I said. “We will. Eventually.”

“Definitely,” he said. “When the time is right.”


A few minutes later, Lucy was at my door in one of her neat Jackie O frocks. “So what’s going on?” she asked, the light lavender of her perfume filling my apartment as she draped her trench coat over the back of a barstool and kicked off her heels. Her toes had been freshly painted, a beautiful lilac color that matched her scent.

“It’s over with Ryan,” I said. The statement was dramatic, but I kept my delivery flat.

She stopped in her tracks and gave me a tragic look. “Over?”

“Yes. Over. Done.” I made a slicing motion in the air.

She hugged me, but still said nothing, and I read in her silence a hope that it wasn’t completely, definitely over and done.

“He needs to get help,” Lucy said.

“Yes,” I said, knowing where she was headed.

“You don’t think there is any way you can forgive him? Work things out?”

“No way,” I said, rolling up the sleeves of my T-shirt and showing her the marks on one arm, then the other, a measure of irrational shame returning.

She winced, taking a closer look, running her finger along my skin. “God, Shea. I’m so sorry.” She shook her head and said, “I just can’t believe this.”

“I know,” I said, letting my sleeves fall back again. I thought of all the women around the world who had to rely on long sleeves, turtle-necks, scarves, heavy makeup. And all those who couldn’t so easily hide the evidence—who had to call in sick to work, lie to their families, fabricate accidents, laugh off their clumsiness, anything to hide the truth.

“There’s more, though,” I said, as we both sat on my sofa, in the reverse spots that Coach and I were in last night.

“Oh, Lord,” Lucy said, her eyes wide. “Is it bad?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Ryan came over. After I left the bar. He just walked into my apartment while I was in the shower. Apparently I had forgotten to lock my door.”

“Holy shit. What happened?”

I made myself look in her eyes as I told her what happened, no sugarcoating. The way he had tried to kiss me, how he had pinned me to the bed, how he had scared me. Skipping over the rescue scene, I said, “He finally left. I was lucky. It could have been worse.”

Lucy shook her head, staring back at me. “God. I really thought he was a good guy. I really, really did.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Luce. In some ways, he is,” I said, thinking that there was no point in demonizing Ryan James. It was over no matter what. It was over because I loved somebody else. “He can be really sweet. To his friends. To his mother. To me. He’s generous … He gives a lot of money to charity. He tips well …” I said. My list was factual, but felt anemic in light of everything else. So he gives valets twenties? So what?

“I know,” Lucy said, her wistful look returning. “He can be so nice … and fun to be around ninety-nine percent of the time.”

Her estimate was both arbitrary and way too high, but I refrained from pointing out that even that one percent was too much.

“Do you think it’s the culture of violence in pro football? … Daddy said three out of four NFL players own a handgun …”

“It’s probably four out of four in Texas,” I said. “And yes, it’s a brutal, animalistic, savage sport. Hell, it’s a celebration of violence. But I have to believe that most of those guys aren’t roughing up their wives and girlfriends. Maybe they are. I don’t know. Frankly, the whole psychology of the sport doesn’t interest me at this moment …”

Lucy interrupted me and said, “But do you think he can get help and … change?”

I shrugged and said, “Well, Blakeslee doesn’t think so, and she probably knows him better than anyone.”

“But you are different from Blakeslee. If anyone could help him, it’s you.”