“I want to stay with Poppy and Shea,” Caroline protested.
Lucy shook her head and said, loud enough for us to hear, “No. They have things to discuss. Football things. You wouldn’t be interested.”
She belted Caroline in the backseat as I realized that I had to back up to let her go. So I did, waiting in my car, the engine running, as she drove away a little too quickly.
My stomach and heart hurt as I got out of the car.
Coach shook his head. “Shit,” he said under his breath. Then he looked right at me and stated the obvious. “Well. She’s not happy.”
“You don’t say …”
“You think it’s because … you were here last night? Or that I’m not ready for church?”
“I don’t know,” I said. Even though I did. “Maybe both?”
“There’s no peace in church. Especially during the season,” he said, although I could tell he, too, knew that wasn’t the main problem.
“I can imagine. And you really can’t go next week. C’mon,” I said, referring to Texas again.
He nodded. Then, as I followed him toward the house, he addressed the elephant on the driveway. “I think maybe our friendship … bothers her a little.”
“I know,” I said. “But she understands—”
“That you and I have more in common,” he said, finishing my sentence.
I wasn’t sure if he meant that we had more in common than she and I did or than the two of them did, but, either way, the statement was true.
I returned to safer ground and said, “I think Sundays are just hard …”
Coach nodded and said, “Yes. You’re probably right. And I think I did, maybe, sort of promise her I’d go to church this week.”
I grimaced as we walked inside through the garage, the same pile of clothing remaining on the dryer but the radio back on a country station, Garth Brooks singing “Shameless.”
“That’s better,” I said, pointing at the radio.
“I love this song,” Coach said just as Garth wailed: But I can’t walk away from you.
He gave me a purposeful look that made me feel exactly the way Garth sounded in that song. Down on my knees and shameless.
Remembering Lucy, I gathered myself and followed Coach into the kitchen, watching as he got out two bowls, two spoons, and two napkins, setting the kitchen table. I got down our glasses, poured orange juice, and brought them to the table.
“Milk,” he said, snapping his fingers. Then shook his head, disgusted. “Damn. I’m out. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m not hungry anyway.”
He nodded, looking as conflicted as I felt, and said, “I know. Me either …”
“I really should go,” I said, even though I wanted to stay.
“Okay,” he said so quickly that it hurt my feelings.
Leaving the bowls on the table, we stood and walked right back outside to my car. By the time we got there, I was completely disheartened, sure that we would never be hanging out alone again. That it just wasn’t worth all the accompanying angst and guilt and whatever was going on in Lucy’s head.
But a few minutes later, just as I pulled into my driveway, a text came in from Coach that said: Sorry about the milk. Going to the store now. Rain check on the raisin bran?
Overcome with relief, and pushing Lucy as far from my mind as you could push your best friend, I typed back: You bet. Anytime.
Later that afternoon, as I was watching the Cowboys and folding laundry, Lucy came over to my apartment, unannounced and without Caroline. She had changed out of her church clothes into linen drawstring pants and a long-sleeved black T-shirt, but had forgotten to take off her pearls. As I went to the refrigerator to pour us both drinks, I informed her that Dallas was up by a touchdown, but it was clear she hadn’t come over to watch the game.
“Daddy moved his wedding ring. To his right hand,” she announced, looking like she might cry.
“He did?” I asked nervously, putting ice in two glasses, then filling both with Coke Zero. I handed her one, forcing myself to look in her eyes.
“Yes,” she said. “What do you think that means?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“That he’s moving on?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Then why would he do that?”
“I don’t know, Lucy. Maybe you should ask him,” I said.
She stared at me for several more seconds, then took a dainty sip. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because we don’t talk like that …”
Then, before I could respond, she said, “I’m sorry for being so grumpy this morning.”
I played dumb as I followed her the few steps back to my family room. “You weren’t grumpy. Were you?”
She glanced at the television, then took a seat on the floor, her back to the screen, before continuing, “I told you I wanted you to help look after Daddy … then when you tried to do that … I acted … difficult.”
“It’s okay,” I said as quickly as possible. This was as close as Lucy came to an apology, and it made me uncomfortable given everything that I knew to be true. Bottom line, she really didn’t owe me one. “I get it.”
“Do you?” she asked as I turned the volume down three notches.
“Yeah. I think so. Sure.” I folded a pair of flannel pajama pants from the pile on my sofa, avoiding her hard stare. It was obvious that the conversation, whatever it was she wanted to discuss, was not going away no matter how much I wanted it to.
“It’s just that I’m a little bit … jealous,” she said.
My pulse quickened and my mouth got dry. “Jealous of who?” I said, folding a T-shirt with great care and precision. It was quite possibly the neatest folding job of my life, which is saying a lot given my practice in Lucy’s store.
“Jealous of you and Daddy. How close you are,” she said. “He’s my father, but sometimes I think he’s closer to you.”
“That’s not true,” I said, feeling queasy. I plucked another shirt from the sofa, shook it out, and got to work.
“It is true, though,” she said, taking a sip of Coke, then placing the glass on a pile of Sports Illustrated issues on the floor beside her. “It always has been true.”
“It’s just … football,” I said, although I really didn’t believe those two words belonged in the same sentence together. “We have football in common. That’s it.”
“That’s like saying that … that … Ralph Lauren and Calvin Klein only have fashion in common … or …” She stared up at the ceiling, thinking. Analogies had never been her strong suit.
“I get your point,” I said, smiling, pretending to be amused when I only felt sick.
“Whether it’s football or something else … you two have always had this connection … He talks to you. Really talks to you. He doesn’t do that with me. I go over there … and it’s just awkward. It’s like he has nothing to say.”
Her description weakened me, but I shook my head and denied it again. “We don’t have a connection, Luce,” I said, thinking about the look he gave me last night. “We just like football. I’m a sportswriter. He’s a coach. And we both love you. That’s it.”
“But even when you’re not talking about football … You could be playing Trivial Pursuit … and it’s like you have all these inside jokes.”
I almost said, They’re not inside jokes—they’re simply jokes. You just don’t get them. But I didn’t think that would make her feel much better—so I simply said, “No, we don’t.”
Lucy leaned back on her hands and stared at me. “Okay. Look. I’m curious. Last night? Did he invite you over? Or did you call him?”
I told her it was his idea, and could tell right away that wasn’t the answer she wanted. The corners of her mouth drooped slightly, and her forehead scrunched up.
“See? That’s what I thought,” she said, although I wasn’t sure how this fact made a difference. Wouldn’t it be just
as bad if I’d initiated?
“Well, wait,” I said, pretending to think over the particulars, then backtracking. “Actually, come to think of it, I called him. Then he called me back. But I was at Taco Bell … and so … I offered to bring him something to eat. So, technically, I invited myself over. All he said was yeah, he’d love a taco. See?”
She waved off my explanatory babble and said, “The fact remains … he never calls me like that. He never invites me over like that. And definitely not after a game.”
“But you’re his daughter,” I said. “It’s totally different.”
She asked why, folding her arms across her chest.
“Because fathers don’t need to invite their daughters over. Daughters just … stop by whenever. Like you do all the time.” I thought for a second, remembering my own dad. “Unless a divorce is involved.”
“Or unless a dead mother is involved,” Lucy snapped back.
I shuddered, perhaps visibly. Or maybe Lucy realized how harsh her statement sounded. In either event, her voice and expression softened markedly as she said, “Look. It was one thing when my mom was here. She was our go-between. My mom and I talked three, four times a day, and at least one of those times, he was somewhere nearby. In the background. And that worked just fine. We were all happy with that arrangement. But now … Everything is different. Everything …”
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.
So by the time five o’clock rolled around, I had worked myself into a resentful lather, and called him to cancel altogether, blaming it on a “work crisis.” He seemed bummed enough to bring me some sick pleasure, and I couldn’t help thinking of that dreary “Cat’s in the Cradle” song—and how many times he had blown me off over the years. Yet the chief difference between the song and my life was that my father was still just as busy as he ever was, and I was in a desolate office with no evening plans whatsoever and a familiar holiday melancholy welling inside me. Lucy called it my Charlie Brown funk, and had always done her best to force traditional cheer upon me, but obviously she was in worse shape than I was this year and, on top of everything, had made the mistake of offering to host Neil’s family from Oklahoma City. What she had thought would be a welcome distraction was turning out to be nothing but an enormous culinary burden. I had already offered to help her a couple of times, at least keep her company while she cooked, but she had declined, insisting that she and Neil had everything under control.
What I really wanted, I realized, as I merged onto I-35 toward Walker, was to spend the night at Ryan’s, as much for his company as for the tranquillity of his home, but he had already checked into the Gaylord Texan Resort & Convention Center in Grapevine, where the team was always sequestered before home games to ward against “unwelcome distractions.”
“Just turn around at the next exit and go to my house,” Ryan offered when I reached him in his room and told him I was stuck in standstill rush-hour traffic. “You have a key.”
I briefly considered this option, but decided that I didn’t want to be there without him. During the day it was fine, but, at night, I found myself picturing gruesome crime scenes. There was something about all the white marble, white linens, white walls, even white carpet and furniture that conjured the splattering of blood. Like giant red psychiatric inkblots.
When I made the mistake of sharing these involuntary images with him now, he gasped and said, “Good Lord, Shea. You’re watching too many h
orror movies. That’s sick.”
As soon as he mentioned movies, I thought of one in particular that haunted me whenever I was alone at his house: Sleeping with the Enemy, one of the most disturbing films of all time in my opinion. I told myself that it was only his sleek, cool décor and propensity to be neurotically neat that Ryan shared with the antagonist—nothing else—but couldn’t help wondering if Blakeslee’s accusations were factoring at all into my subconscious, making me imagine things whenever I noticed that a towel was askew in his bathroom.
“I know. I just get a little scared in a house that big,” I said, then gratuitously added, “Besides. Being there without you would make me miss you more.”
“Aw. That’s sweet,” he said. “I really miss you, too. Wish we didn’t have these damn hotel bed checks.”
“Stop lying,” I said in a teasing tone. “You know you like ten hours of sleep before games.”
He laughed because it was true. Everything Ryan did on the night and in the hours before a game was carefully calculated, designed to maximize his performance, right down to the temperature in his room—the thermostat always set to sixty-eight degrees, apparently the ideal temperature for REM sleep.
“Okay, you got me on that one … Here’s a fact for you … I haven’t had sex the night before a game since high school …” He laughed.
“Wait. Let me guess. You had sex before the state championship game? And because you lost, you vowed to never do it again?” I said, picturing his high school girlfriend, whom he had described as a half-Pakistani beauty.
“Yep,” Ryan said, but he no longer sounded amused.
I thought of Blakeslee’s story and very nearly confessed to him our conversation, but decided against it, once again. If nothing else, the day before a big game and the meeting of potential in-laws wasn’t the right time. Instead I said, “You’re as superstitious as Coach, aren’t you?”
“Hey, now. I’m not that bad,” he said. “I just save my legs for the game … It’s a question of stamina … It’s not like I’m out there catching bugs in Tupperware containers.”