The One & Only(87)

Lucy paused, choking up, then dabbed at the corners of her eyes. I wanted to give her a hug, or say something comforting, but couldn’t make myself move or speak. A few seconds later, her composure regained, she continued, “And without my mom … my dad and I have to work a little harder at our relationship. We both have a responsibility to put in the effort.”

I nodded and said she was right. Because she was right.

“Only we’re not. At least he’s not. Not at all. I’m doing all the work—and it makes me really sad.”

“Maybe … he just doesn’t want to bother you … He knows how busy you are with Neil and Caroline and your shop …”

“So he calls you instead?” she said, but not in a confrontational way, like before.

I shook my head. “First of all, he doesn’t call me often … And secondly, I’m … alone.”

“You’re hardly alone,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You’re in a relationship with Ryan James. Remember him?”

“But Ryan was in D.C. last night,” I said, pointing to the screen. “See?”

She turned around to glance at the TV as he completed a crisp, short pass for a first down. When she faced me again, she looked a little less stressed. “Jesus. That is so cool you’re dating him,” she said, as if it was still surreal to her.

“Yeah,” I said, exhaling hard.

“Okay. Let me ask you this …” she said.

I braced myself for another uncomfortable question as I kept my eyes on the game.

“What if he had been in town last night?” she said.

“Who? Ryan?” I asked, trying to stay one step ahead of her, determine the direction of her inquisition so I wouldn’t say the wrong thing again.

“Yes. Your boyfriend,” she said. “So let’s say he was in town … And my dad called you to come over …”

“Lucy,” I said, officially worried. “What are you driving at here?”

She stared back at me and said, “It just seems like …”

“What?” I said, holding my breath as I saw something flash across her face. It was as if she was processing all the facts. Putting everything together. But in an instant it was gone, and I breathed again.

“Never mind,” she said with a shrug, seemingly talking herself out of her hunch. The notion that her best friend and her father could actually have feelings for each other was absurd, ridiculous.

My head still pounding, I flashed a big smile at Ryan, his face filling the screen, now pumping his fist, whipping his helmet off in all his post-touchdown glory.

“Niiice,” I said, even though I’d missed the play entirely.

“Did he just score?” Lucy asked, glancing over her shoulder at the replay.

“Of course he did,” I said as proudly as I could as we both watched the replay—Ryan moving in slow motion, athletic, strong, and graceful at once.

“And that, right there,” I informed Lucy and reminded myself, “is why Ryan James is the best quarterback in the NFL.”

Lucy smiled, appeased.





Twenty-seven





The day before Thanksgiving, my dad and his family descended upon Dallas. Astrid and Bronwyn invited me to go shopping with them, but I said I had to work and would meet up with everyone for drinks.

I had learned through the years the importance of pacing myself, and faking pleasantries over the course of a few hours at a time was far more doable than pretending to like people for multiple days. Vacations of any kind had been ruled out since our disastrous trip to Napa Valley following my graduation from college, originally billed as a cycling trip with my father. Astrid had decided to tag along at the last minute, changing out our bikes for a Jaguar convertible and turning the outdoorsy jaunt into a pretentious showcase of her knowledge of California’s finest grapes. By the end of the week, I was so disgusted with the whole scene that I sailed right into a vineyard with a portable cooler packed with Budweisers, announcing that I wasn’t much of a wine girl. I don’t think she ever got that I was trying to make a point, that I really wasn’t that much of a redneck, but, regardless, it was infinitely satisfying to crack open a cold one while she threw around her wine adjectives like confetti at a ticker-tape parade. The only saving grace was that my father did grasp what I was trying to accomplish, and seemed amused by my antics, later even apologizing, in a roundabout way, that the trip had become so “one-dimensional.”

But the apology almost made it worse—because he never did anything about it, and he certainly never bothered to give me any quality alone time. It was always a relentless package deal, and that was still the case today.