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 pa.s.s 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 b.u.mmed 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 g.a.y.l.o.r.d 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 horror 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 decor 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 d.a.m.n 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 s.e.x the night before a game since high school ..." He laughed.

"Wait. Let me guess. You had s.e.x 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 superst.i.tious 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."

"Mason jars," I said, annoyed at myself for bringing Coach up. It was like an involuntary reflex, and I wondered when Ryan was going to catch on. He was so perceptive, and given his jealous tendencies, I was surprised that he hadn't yet. But the fact that he had not also underscored how far-fetched the whole notion of Coach and me was. I had revisited the look that Coach Carr gave me in his house at least a hundred times and had gone from feeling starry-eyed to foolish. Surely, it had to have been in my head.

I changed the subject as quickly as I could and asked Ryan if he was ready for the game tomorrow. He said yes, then detailed some of the reasons: great practice, sound strategy in place, knee feeling good, Philly's secondary sucks. I never tired of the inside scoop, and never would, but the starstruck feeling had finally, mostly, faded, replaced with the belief that I belonged in his world.

"What are you going to do tonight?" Ryan asked. There was an edge in his voice tipping me off that the Third Rail might be the wrong answer-and that I probably shouldn't confide that I was suddenly craving beer freshly poured from a tap as opposed to one opened from my refrigerator.

So I said, "Oh, I don't know. Not much. Just laying low."

"Good girl," he said in a way that was equal parts condescending and nurturing. I decided to focus on the latter, especially when he asked me for the tenth time if I had my VIP parking pa.s.s, and then reminded me that the tickets were under my name at will call.

"Yes. Thank you," I said.

"Are you sure you don't need a couple more?"

"I'm sure. Thank you," I said, thinking that, for a pampered star with multiple a.s.sistants, housekeepers, personal chefs, trainers, and sports psychologists on his staff, he really could play the caretaker, too.

"You're ready to meet my folks?" he said.

"Yes. I can't wait," I said. The statement was true, but it had as much to do with curiosity about his father and a sick need for one-upmanship over Astrid and Bronwyn as anything else.

"Good," Ryan said. "It'll be a fun day. If we win."

"You will," I said. "All right. I better hang up before I rear-end someone. I'll text you before nine."

"No. Call me," he said.

"Okay," I said, bristling just a bit. I told myself that I was being completely unfair to him. He simply wanted to say good night before he went to bed. That was it-and it was sweet. A sign of a good boyfriend. A great boyfriend. I told myself to go home and get some rest. That I might not be playing football, but that I had a pretty big day tomorrow, too.

Yet I couldn't resist the magnetic pull of the Third Rail, and forty-five minutes later, I was saddled up to the bar, ordering a Blue Moon on draft with extra oranges. The place was unusually packed, and I knew, or at least recognized, a good dozen people, including several girls from my high school cla.s.s. In the way of small towns, most had stayed put in Walker after graduation, many not bothering with college at all, so it wasn't unusual to b.u.mp into cla.s.smates. But around the holidays, there were always a few homecoming surprises-faces you hadn't seen in years.

That night, I spotted Mich.e.l.le Sheffield, a girl in the cla.s.s behind me whom I'd always really liked and who now lived in San Francisco. We gave each other a big hug, then exchanged updates. I told her about my job at the Post, while she shared that she was practicing patent law. It was refreshing to discuss jobs-rather than mommy updates, which was the typical conversation when I ran into someone from Walker.

I glanced at her bare ring finger and said, "So you're still single?"

"Yep," Mich.e.l.le said.

"Me, too," I said.

She smirked and said, "Yes, but I hear you have a boyfriend."

I nodded.

"So it's true? You really are dating Ryan James?"

I tried to smile modestly.

"Wow. That's so cool. How did that happen? Did you meet him through your job?"

"We went to college together," I said. "So we've been friends for a while now."

"What's he like?"

"He's cool ... He's ... really nice."

She stared at me, waiting for more, so I added, "He's very intense. Compet.i.tive. Focused. What you would expect of a quarterback playing at that level."

"Does he get recognized everywhere you go?"

"Yeah. But we really don't go out that much. He lays pretty low during the season. We mostly just stay in and watch movies. Stuff like that. Although he's pretty outgoing and extroverted ... Very smart. He's great," I finished.

"That's soo cool," Mich.e.l.le said again. "Do you think you'll get married?"

I shrugged and said, "Oh, who knows? He just got divorced-so I can't imagine that that would happen for a long time, if at all ... Though we are doing the whole meet-the-parents thing tomorrow. But enough about Ryan James. You're the one with the glamorous California life."

Mich.e.l.le smiled and gave me her updates, as we ordered another round, and then another, playing pool and b.u.mping into various other friends and acquaintances. It was a nice commingling of groups from high school and Walker. At some point, I spotted Miller with a bearded hipster type and went to say h.e.l.lo. Miller introduced me to his friend Lion, explaining that he was an artist, originally from Boston, now teaching a sculpture cla.s.s at Walker after a gig at UCLA. Clearly Miller had met him through his professor girlfriend, and I thought how amusing it was that someone like Miller had found his way into an academic clique.

"Hey. You're a sculptor, huh? That's cool," I said, shaking his hand, always grateful for new blood. "Welcome to Walker."

"Lion has a kid," Miller announced, seemingly mystified, as if he'd told me that Lion was once a conjoined twin.

Lion caught it, too, laughing. "Yeah. Crazy, huh?"

"Forgive him. Miller can't imagine responsibility greater than getting the mail," I said.

"s.h.i.t. I forgot to get the mail again!" Miller said.

Lion laughed and said, "Well, I couldn't imagine it either ... I just found out about him four years ago. His mother never told me she was pregnant."

"Wow. How old is he now?"

"Ten."

"d.a.m.n. You're kidding me," I said, grateful, not for the first time, to be a woman. It was the one bit of news that could never be sprung on you.

"Nope. But it's all cool now. Charlie's a great kid."

I nodded, telling him he needed to bring his son to a Walker football game.

"And a Cowboys game," Miller said, grinning, as Mich.e.l.le returned from the bathroom. Within seconds, he was working her over, cracking her up.

"Don't you have a girlfriend?" I said, now buzzed.

"Yeah. But she's a freethinker," Miller said with a wink. "She'd love Mich.e.l.le here. If you get my drift."

I rolled my eyes and muttered, "Pig."

"How's your boyfriend? You two engaged yet? I heard you're meeting his parents."

"I am meeting his parents. But, no, we're not engaged," I said, thinking it was the worst part about living in a small town-word traveled fast. About everything.

"Your dad coming in?" Miller asked.

I nodded. "He's here already. I'm avoiding him as we speak."