papers until he landed this gig. My dad seemed to get my implication, saying, “You really scored big with this job, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I feel very lucky.”
“It’s not about luck,” my dad said. “You’re good.”
“And I know Coach,” I said. “That’s as good as a grad degree.”
“I’m telling you,” Astrid said, looking straight at me. “That man is hot.”
An hour later, after we had stopped off at the Ritz for Astrid to “freshen up,” and my mother had called to tell me she would not be joining us for dinner, I had yet to hear from Ryan, even after texting him twice. I couldn’t imagine that he’d blow me off altogether, though I was starting to panic that that was a real possibility. But when we arrived at the Four Seasons, I was relieved to see Ryan’s Porsche in the primo valet spot, a couple of guys in uniform admiring it. As much as I understood guys and sports, I would never understand their love of cars.
“Ryan’s here,” I said. “That’s his car.”
“Wow. Beautiful,” my dad said with a long whistle.
“Is that the Turbo S?” Wiley asked.
“Yep,” my dad said. “Sure is.”
“How much did that cost?” Astrid asked.
“About one seventy-five,” my dad said as we all piled out of the car.
I checked my phone one last time, but there was only a text from Lucy replying to an earlier question, informing me that her dinner was a success and she didn’t know how her mother had managed to make it look so easy. I felt a wave of intense guilt, realizing I hadn’t said a single word to Lucy about her mom all day long. It was inexcusably self-centered of me, practically putting me in Astrid’s camp—and I made a mental note to call her as soon as dinner was over.
A few minutes later, after checking in with the hostess at the restaurant, we were ushered into the private Decanter Room, where Ryan and his parents were already seated. Ryan and Mr. James promptly stood when we walked in, but neither smiled. They looked about as miserable as a father-son duo could be, and I had the sense that they had just exchanged heated words. Both their faces were flushed.
I held my breath, bracing myself for a chilly greeting, and the embarrassment that would come with it, but that didn’t happen. Instead, Ryan walked over to me, put his arm around my waist, and kissed me, his lips landing just shy of mine.
“Hi, babe,” he said, as if I were the only one in the room.
“Hi,” I said as softly as I could without whispering. “I’m really sorry …”
Ryan nodded, as if accepting my apology, then smoothly handled the first introduction himself, shaking my dad’s hand, his voice becoming robust. “Mr. Rigsby! I’m Ryan James.”
“Walt,” my dad insisted firmly.
“Walt. Okay, then. Good to meet you, sir!” he said, turning to the others. “And you must be Bronwyn, Wiley, and Astrid.” He pointed as we went, shaking their hands, too. Astrid beamed, then, unbelievably, asked if they could take a photo together before we sat down.
I think I gasped, and Bronwyn looked horrified, as her mother handed me her iPhone. But Ryan handled it well, smiling, posing, even letting Astrid check my work to make sure she liked the photo. Meanwhile, my dad, Bronwyn, and Wiley made small talk with Mr. and Mrs. James.
“Did I blink?” Ryan asked when I handed Astrid her phone. “I always blink.”
“No. It’s perf,” Astrid said.
“Great!” Ryan said with such jocularity that I wasn’t sure if I was impressed or disturbed that he could fake things to this degree.
We sat down as my father grew grave and said, “We’re really sorry about the game, Ryan. How’s your knee?”
“It’s okay,” Ryan said. “I just twisted it a little.”
“How’d you do that, anyway?” Mr. James said.
“What do you mean?” Ryan said, the tension palpable. “How does one ever twist one’s knee?”
Mr. James mumbled something unintelligible as the waiter came in with his spiel about the prix fixe meal and took our drink orders. For a few minutes, the atmosphere lifted, as everyone but Mr. James made polite small talk.
But by the time our wine and whiskey arrived, Ryan’s dad had picked right back up with his veiled insults. Ryan ignored them until he seemingly couldn’t take it another second.
“Dad,” he said, staring ahead, “can we please change the subject?”
“Sure. What would you like to talk about, son?” Mr. James said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s