The One & Only(74)

“What things?” I said, now wide awake, though my eyes were still shut.

“Blakeslee knows I’m seeing you,” he said. His face was so close to mine that I could feel his breath on my cheek. “And I’m worried that she might lash out.”

“Lash out? At me?” I asked, my eyes snapping open. I blinked, adjusting to the dark, waiting, thinking of that picture in the magazine that I had never asked him about.

“Not at you. At me,” he said. “I think she’s upset. And she can do stupid shit when she’s upset.”

“Why is she upset?” I said, thinking that she had no right to be upset when they were divorced. Of course I knew emotions—and divorces—didn’t always work that way, and that sometimes there was no such thing as closure.

“She heard about your earrings,” he said.

“How?” I said, increasingly uneasy. “Who could have possibly told her about my earrings?”

“Well … I did.”

I tried to process this information, piece together what the conversation might have sounded like, as he offered a flimsy, unprompted explanation. “We still talk occasionally.”

“Oh,” I said, a knot growing in my chest. “Yeah, I saw that picture of the two of you. This summer.” I suddenly felt foolish for never asking about it.

“That was nothing,” he answered, almost too quickly. “She was in California for work. And we had lunch. That was it.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “So how often do you talk to her?”

“Not often at all,” he said. “I swear.”

“I believe you,” I said, although I wasn’t sure that I did.

“But we did speak a few days ago … And she asked me if I was seeing anyone. I told her about you … and it sort of deteriorated after that.”

I still couldn’t quite figure out how my earrings factored into the whole conversation, but I just nodded, taking it all in.

“Are you mad?” he said.

“No,” I said, although I was irritated by Ryan’s double standard. Why was it all right for him to stay in touch with Blakeslee, when I couldn’t talk to Miller?

Thirty seconds or so passed before he said, “Are you sure you aren’t mad?”

I rolled over, fumbling for the ChapStick I kept in the nightstand next to his bed, taking off the top, and applying it as I mumbled that I wasn’t mad. But I didn’t sound convincing. I didn’t even try to sound convincing.

I glanced at Ryan, making out his face in the dark. His expression looked vaguely disappointed, corroborating a theory I’ve always had—the more jealous a person is, the more he wants you to feel the same. In fact, maybe that was why he’d told Blakeslee about the earrings in the first place. Maybe she was seeing someone new and it bothered him enough to want to make her jealous.

I said I was exhausted and that we both needed to get some sleep. He agreed, but after a few more minutes said my name again.

“Yes?” I said, waiting, staring up at the ceiling.

“I only want to be with you,” he finally said.

“Good. I only want to be with you, too,” I said.

But before I fell asleep for good, it occurred to me that it wasn’t the kind of thing you said if it was completely true—and maybe we were both trying to convince ourselves as much as each other.


The next morning, Ryan surprised me with breakfast in bed. Scrambled eggs, wheat toast, and mixed berries on a black lacquered tray. There was even a sprig of parsley on my plate.

“Thank you,” I said, although I’ve always thought breakfast in bed was far better in theory than in practice, especially when the meal is sprung on you seconds after waking. As I sat up, Ryan positioned the tray over my lap, then stretched out beside me. I had no appetite, probably because I was still thinking about Blakeslee, but took a bite of the eggs and told him they were delicious.

“Did you already eat?” I asked.

“Just a protein shake and oatmeal,” he said. I could feel him staring at me and had the feeling he was thinking about Blakeslee, too. The mood was definitely subdued, if not downright awkward.

I took a dainty bite of toast, trying not to make crumbs in his bed, thinking how much I needed to go to the bathroom but didn’t want to go through all the upheaval of moving the tray.

“What are you doing today?” he asked me.

“Remember that little kid with brain cancer I told you about?” I said. “The one obsessed with Walker football?”

Ryan nodded. “Yeah. Isn’t his name Max?”

“Yes,” I said, noting once again what a good listener he was. It was as if he was never not paying attention—highly unusual for a man. “Coach invited him to be on the sidelines with the team against Stanford. So Smiley wants me to do a feel-good story on him …”