The One & Only(97)

“Want me to make you a drink?” I asked her, eyeing the vodka. “Bloody Mary?”

“Are you going to have one?” she said.

“Think so,” I said. I wasn’t usually a hair-of-the-dog kind of girl but decided that I might need to make an exception—it was going to be a long day and my mother hadn’t even shown up yet. And to compound all the social pressure, I was beginning to feel nervousness over the game. I obviously wanted the Cowboys to win as a fan, and as Ryan’s girlfriend, but it further crossed my mind that, if he didn’t win, last night might be raised as a factor.

I mixed two drinks, handed one to Bronwyn, and confessed that I had overindulged the night before.

“You went out?” she said.

Remembering that I had lied about working, I babbled another cover-up lie about going out after I turned in my story, but I could tell she didn’t buy it.

“Okay,” I said. “I didn’t really have to work. I was just …”

“I get it,” she said. “I know my mother is tough to take.”

“And so’s mine,” I said, just as she made her grand entrance in a powder-blue Chanel suit and patent navy sling-backs. She looked amazing, the best she can look, and decidedly better than Astrid.

“Your mom looks great,” Bronwyn said as my mother sailed straight over to my father and said hello. It was a strong move, adding another tally to our collective score.

“And really happy, too,” Bronwyn added. “Is she seeing someone?”

I shook my head and said, “Not at the moment. And you know? I admire that about her. She doesn’t need to be with someone to be happy.”

“Isn’t that how you are, too?” she said.

“In a way,” I said. “I mean everybody wants to find true love …” I said as my mother flitted over and kissed me hello. Meanwhile she ignored Bronwyn, who took the hint and rejoined Wiley.

“Mom, you might want to be a little less obvious,” I said.

“Pfft,” she said. “They don’t exist.”

“But Dad does?”

“I have to acknowledge him. He’s your father.”

“Okay. Whatever,” I said with a shrug as I added a little more vodka to my Bloody Mary, then led my mom to the front of the box, where I introduced her to Ryan’s parents.

Although she was slightly less affected than Astrid, she, too, was overeager, trying to impress Mrs. James—and thoughtlessly chatty given that their son was about to play. Mrs. James seemed not to mind, though, and I wondered if Astrid and my mother were both providing a welcome distraction from maternal worry. I definitely felt anxious myself, more nervous watching him in person, sure that every snap would feel more perilous, every defender more menacing. In any event, the game was about to begin, and it was time to focus. So I settled into the front row of the box, put my blinders on, and tuned out everything but football.


But right away, I had a terrible feeling about the game. Ryan looked emotionless. Then, midway through the first quarter, he threw an egregious interception that was returned for a touchdown so ridiculous it was sure to make the SportsCenter highlight reel. The mental errors, sloppy plays, and turnovers continued from there, and, by halftime, Dallas was down by twenty-one, the mood in the suite matching the one on the field. Only my mother and Astrid seemed oblivious, continuing with their chirpy, overly optimistic commentary, which was clearly making Mr. James more irate, a tough thing to do. At one point, I pulled my mother aside and said, “Mom, they don’t want to talk. Their son is getting destroyed out there.”

“He is?” my mom asked. “They’re only down three touchdowns.”

“Only?”

“They can come back.”

“But it’s not just about the score,” I hissed. “He’s the quarterback. His stats are atrocious. This is easily the worst game of his professional career.”

“Oh,” my mother said, taking the hint after that, while Astrid continued to pepper Mrs. James with small talk about Neiman Marcus’s resort wear collection, the new exhibition at MOMA, and her upcoming trip with my father to, of all places, Dubai. Where the shopping, FYI, was to die for.

Fortunately, nobody, not even his buddies, attempted conversation with Mr. James as he migrated to the rear of the suite with his back to the playing field, watching the game on television. The one time I got near him on the way to the restroom, I could hear him swearing at the screen, a string of expletives directed at his son. As I crept past him on my way back to my seat, he barked my name.

“Yes, sir?” I said.

“Can you believe this game?”