The One & Only(33)

I smiled and nodded, very familiar with the crowd from Highland Park, the wealthy section of Dallas where my socialite friends from Walker had grown up and returned after college, most with husbands they had known all their lives. In towns like Walker, marrying someone from home had a sense of settling, throwing in the towel because what else were you going to do? In Dallas, though, marrying your high school sweetheart had an aspirational, arranged-marriage feel. And Sandy and Barry seemed to be a prime example of combining family money and good genes.

Our waitress returned with my drink. I thanked her, then Barry, picking up the glass and taking my time before I raised it to my nose. I parted my lips, careful not to inhale too abruptly, having learned that this deadens your sense of taste. I breathed in spicy caramel, then closed my eyes and took a heavenly sip.

“You weren’t kidding,” I said, mostly to myself. “This stuff is good. Damn. It’s almost twice as old as the best Macallan I’ve ever had.”

“And twice as good,” Barry said. “Worth every cent.”

Ryan raised his glass, and said, “Life’s too short for cheap whiskey.”

I laughed and said, “Spoken like a Dallas Cowboy. Not sure everyone can afford that philosophy.”

Grinning, Ryan put his arm around me, pulling me closer. I dropped my head to his shoulder for one flirtatious beat, aware that people were watching us. I felt special, lucky, even though I knew that it was all a mirage. I really wasn’t that girl. It was the hair, the dress, the red lipstick. Or maybe it was just the Ryan effect—his bright light radiating onto everyone in his company. I kept sipping my single-malt scotch, feeling warmer and happier by the second, wishing we didn’t have to get up off these couches. But the hour passed quickly, along with another round, and, at six o’clock, Sandy declared that it was time to go raise some money for charity. We all stood, and Ryan took my hand and led me out of the bar. On our way to the elevators, he was stopped twice by strangers, and asked to sign autographs and pose in front of the enormous arrangement of calla lilies displayed on a round table in the middle of the lobby. While Sandy and Barry went to the restroom, I watched at a slight distance for a few seconds, then pulled my phone out of my clutch and took my own surreptitious selfie, with Ryan in the background. I sent the photo off to Lucy, amusing myself with the caption Ain’t nuthin’ but a lobby ho. I smiled when I saw Lucy’s response—an all-caps LOL—but knew it wasn’t entirely a joke given my sudden, whiskey-induced judgment that spending the night at Ryan’s might not be the end of the world.




The rest of the night was a blur. Talking to couples interchangeable with Barry and Sandy. Posing for professional photos with Ryan. Bidding on silent auction items—laser hair removal, a malachite cuff, a hot-air balloon ride—not because I really wanted them but because they seemed like “good deals.” Dancing on a slippery parquet dance floor to a doo-wop band. Losing my stilettos, then finding them, then losing them again. And sipping a never-ending glass of pinot noir.

Then my memory skips to watching Ryan disarming his security system … walking through his sleek, contemporary compound … making out with him in his sparkling marble kitchen … going upstairs to his bedroom. Then nothing … until I awoke in his bed, wearing only my underwear and a very large Cowboys T-shirt. I got up, the room spinning as I frantically looked for my clothes and cellphone.

Without lifting his head off the pillow, Ryan’s voice came back muffled. “Morning, babe.”

“What time is it?” I asked, my head pounding.

“Six-thirty,” he said.

“Where’s my phone?”

“In my bathroom. You were charging it.”

“I was?”

“Yes.”

“What else did I do?”

Ryan rolled over and looked up at me, smirking. “You don’t remember?”

They were pretty much the worst three words you can hear after a first date, particularly when you’re standing in the guy’s bedroom, wearing his clothing, with a bad hangover.

“Sort of,” I lied, stumbling over one of his boat-size loafers, looking for the bathroom.

“Other way,” Ryan said, pointing to his side of the bed.

“Right,” I said, following the light to a bathroom larger than my bedroom. I had no recollection of ever seeing the room before, let alone plugging in my phone. I pulled it from the charger. Four missed calls from Lucy and several texts from her, asking what was going on. I took a deep breath and checked my call log, with the sinking dread of what I was going to find. And there it was: two outgoing calls to Coach Carr.