hoping to hear back from Ryan, while obsessing over my last exchange with Coach. When I pulled into the driveway at the Ritz, I was only ten minutes late, a small miracle, and spotted my dad and his family preening by the valet stand. Astrid, Bronwyn, and her husband, Wiley, who reminded me a lot of my dad, were all wearing black or shades of gray and charcoal, a cluster of brunette Manhattanites. Bronwyn and Astrid had the same long, slippery, stick-straight hairstyle but Bronwyn had cut side-swept bangs that I couldn’t decide if I liked or hated—or, perhaps most accurately, hated because I actually liked.
I got out of the car and waved, feeling unpolished and sloppy, an effect this group almost always had on me. In their company, no matter how much effort I put into my appearance, my hair always felt too wild, my clothes and lipstick too bright, my body large and graceless. Sort of like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, before her makeover. But I reminded myself why we were all here today, and that Ryan James had legitimized me just as Richard Gere had done for Julia.
“Hey!” I said, smiling, probably showing too many teeth and wishing I had remembered to spit out my gum in the car. “Welcome to Dallas!”
Too loud, I thought, adding it to the list as Astrid and Bronwyn gave me stingy finger waves and prim smiles.
“Hello,” Astrid trilled. “Love the boots. Don’t you look fab!”
“Thanks,” I said, the awkward recipient of her double-cheek kiss.
Bronwyn moved in next, but I snubbed her at the last second, turning toward my father, wishing we could have even one moment alone, unobserved by Bronwyn and Astrid.
“Hi, Dad,” I said.
“Happy Thanksgiving, honey,” he said, giving me a big hug.
“You, too,” I said, hugging him back.
I greeted Bronwyn and Wiley next, exchanging cool pleasantries, noting, not for the first time, that they seemed to equate aloofness with refinement. I had to give it to them, though. They were refined, with impeccable grooming and etiquette and clothing, right down to the shiny buckles on his Gucci loafers and the black-patent bows on her five-inch pumps. I couldn’t imagine either of them ever having a hangover—or drinking too much in the first place.
“Are y’all excited about the game?” I asked, the y’all escaping my lips before I could remember to change it to the proper you all.
“Yes,” Bronwyn said with a tight, Botoxed smile.
“Certainly,” Wiley chimed in. “This is wonderful. Thanks for arranging everything, Shea.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. “I didn’t do much. Ryan did …”
“So how is Ryan?” Astrid said, linking arms with me as my father gave the valet his ticket.
“He’s fine,” I said, a fresh wave of guilt and worry washing over me. I had yet to hear from him and clearly wasn’t going to at this point, with the game kicking off in less than an hour.
“And you’re … really dating him?” she said, about as transparently insulting as a question could be.
I gave her a long look and said as pointedly as I could, “Yes. Why? Does that surprise you?”
“Of course not,” my dad answered for her, picking up on the nuance. He had to have at least thirty IQ points on her—and so, for that matter, did my mother, a small source of comfort.
Astrid didn’t take the hint. “So it’s really getting serious? Or are you just casually seeing each other?” she pressed.
“We’re sitting in his parents’ box at the game,” my dad said to her with a tinge of irritation that delighted me. “You do the math, honey.”
“Astrid can’t do math,” I said, smiling and quickly adding, “Just joking!”
“She actually can’t, though,” Bronwyn said. The only thing that redeemed my half sister was that she seemed almost as bothered by her mother as I was, and I was reminded of the odd fact that I actually liked Bronwyn more in person than I did in theory. She was infinitely more interesting than Astrid, having inherited my father’s intelligence.
The valet pulled up with their rental SUV, and we all piled in, Wiley, Bronwyn, and me in the back, Bronwyn in the middle. I glanced down at her hands, resting on her thighs, noticing her huge diamond ring and fresh manicure. I made two fists, hiding my own ragged cuticles, and did my best to make small talk. How was New York, their work, their new house in the Hamptons? Bronwyn’s answers were either succinct or modest, depending on your interpretation, not leaving much