even a sprig of parsley on my plate.
“Thank you,” I said, although I’ve always thought breakfast in bed was far better in theory than in practice, especially when the meal is sprung on you seconds after waking. As I sat up, Ryan positioned the tray over my lap, then stretched out beside me. I had no appetite, probably because I was still thinking about Blakeslee, but took a bite of the eggs and told him they were delicious.
“Did you already eat?” I asked.
“Just a protein shake and oatmeal,” he said. I could feel him staring at me and had the feeling he was thinking about Blakeslee, too. The mood was definitely subdued, if not downright awkward.
I took a dainty bite of toast, trying not to make crumbs in his bed, thinking how much I needed to go to the bathroom but didn’t want to go through all the upheaval of moving the tray.
“What are you doing today?” he asked me.
“Remember that little kid with brain cancer I told you about?” I said. “The one obsessed with Walker football?”
Ryan nodded. “Yeah. Isn’t his name Max?”
“Yes,” I said, noting once again what a good listener he was. It was as if he was never not paying attention—highly unusual for a man. “Coach invited him to be on the sidelines with the team against Stanford. So Smiley wants me to do a feel-good story on him …”
“Smiley wants feel-good?” Ryan said, laughing a little too hard, clearly trying to lighten the mood.
“I know, right?” I said, running my hand over a crystal goblet filled with freshly squeezed orange juice, refusing to laugh.
“What are you thinking, babe?” he said.
So I told him exactly what I’d been thinking. “I was wondering whether this was a wedding gift,” I said, tapping on the glass.
Ryan hesitated, then nodded gravely, as if making a somber admission.
I picked up the silver fork in an ornate pattern. “And this?”
He nodded again, then sat up.
“Why did you keep them?” I said, more curious than anything else. “Doesn’t the girl usually keep this stuff?”
He shrugged and told me Blakeslee didn’t want them.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. She just didn’t.” His forehead went from smooth to furrowed. “Her taste changed, I guess.”
“In one year? Her taste changed in one year?”
“She changed her mind about the marriage. So why not the crystal and silver?”
It was a fair point, but I still felt confused, agitated. I said nothing, a trick of good reporting. Silence keeps them talking.
It worked, as Ryan offered up more information. “I picked most of this stuff out anyway.”
“You handled the registry?”
“Well, we went together. But she let me pick most of the stuff.”
“Huh,” I said, thinking: That’s weird.
“And besides … things ended badly … So she said the gifts were tainted …”
“I thought you said you were still friends?”
“We are. Now. Sort of.”
“Even though it ended badly?” I tried to sound breezy but spoke too quickly, giving the question a cross-examination feel.
He gave me a circumspect look and said, “I knew it. You are pissed.”
“No,” I said with a purposeful shrug. “I’m really not.”
“It seems like you are.”
“It seems like you want me to be.”
A chilly standoff ensued, each of us staring at the other, neither speaking until he said, “Look. Let’s not talk about her anymore, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, thinking that it would be just fine if I never heard her name again.
No such luck. Because later that morning, just as I finally got Blakeslee out of my mind, the phone in my cubicle rang, an unknown Houston number on the screen.
“Shea Rigsby, Dallas Post,” I answered, thinking that it hadn’t worn off yet. Every time I said my title, I felt a little thrill.
“Hi, Shea,” a woman’s voice on the other end of the line said. I tried to place it, but it didn’t sound familiar. “This is Blakeslee Meadows. I don’t know if you remember me?”
“Yes,” I said, my heart pounding. “How are you?”
“I’m well,” she said. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” I said, as it occurred to me that we had never actually had a conversation, only a few passing hellos in college. She had always made it clear that I was beneath her—and I wondered if she felt the same now.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
I murmured my agreement, trying to anticipate where she’d possibly go from here just as she said, “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m calling you.” Her voice was soft and hesitant, and didn’t match my memories, her polished photos, or her confident public