Free The One & Only: A Novel by Emily Giffin

all that … 
shit.
”
    No matter how many times she had alluded to football being “just a game,” this was the first time she had overtly called it
shit
—and I saw a flash of anger in her eyes that alarmed me.
    “Are you sure he forgot?” I said, wishing that I had called to remind him this morning. It had actually crossed my mind to do so, but I’d decided against it, thinking that it might come across as presumptuous or insulting.
    “Well, he never called. Not once, all day,” she said. “I checked my voice mail ten times, thinking maybe I’d just missed it. But no. There were three sweet messages from you and about thirty other messages from other friends and random acquaintances. Including …” She ticked off the list on her left hand—her old ballet teacher, our favorite bartender from the Third Rail, and a handful of ladies from her mother’s Sunday School class.
    “Mom must have told them to call me,” Lucy said, getting choked up. “On her deathbed … They had all these wonderful things to say about her—and how proud she was of me and Caroline …”
    “Wow,” I said, getting chills, marveling at how Mrs. Carr had thought of everything, even as she stared down death.
    Lucy seemed to chase away her tears with another wave of anger. She shook her head, her mouth becoming a hard line. “A bunch of Sunday School ladies. But nothing from my own father.”
    I opened my mouth to try to find an explanation, but Lucy interrupted. “Look. Just forget it. It’s no big deal. I said I didn’t want any fuss … so … there you go. No fuss.”
    She forced a tight, fake smile, then turned and walked into the kitchen. I followed her, putting the cake and gift and hats on the island, and saying hello to everyone. My mother whispered, “This isn’t good,” as I noticed the pink and white peonies I had sent this morning, a cheerful note amid the heaviness of the room. I had used Mrs. Carr’s flower shop, and even looked up her order history. After debating with the owner whether it seemed morbid or moving, I opted to send the same arrangement that Mrs. Carr had chosen for Lucy last year—the two hues of peonies with sparse greenery in a square vase. The detail wasn’t missed on Lucy, who gestured toward them and said, “At least I have you. I can’t believe how sweet you are to send … the
same
flowers …” Lucy’s voice cracked again just as Coach burst through the front door.
    “Hello, everyone!” he yelled, barreling into the kitchen, clearly straight from practice. He was wearing gray sweats, a film of dust over his white baseball cap, his whistle still around his neck, and a crumpled gift bag in his hands with a sorry little curled ribbon around the handle. With all of us watching, he deposited the bag on the table next to my flowers, along with his keys, then gave Lucy a big, one-armed hug, kissing the top of her head, and said, “Happy birthday, Lu. Thirty-three.” He whistled for effect, but I could tell he was flustered, not a common state for him.
    “Thanks, Daddy,” she said, as the rest of us watched uncomfortably.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him adjust the bill of his cap, a nervous twitch. “I’m sorry the day got away from me … Crazy day.
Crazy.
”
    “You forgot Mommy’s birthday!” Caroline chimed in after wedging herself in the space between her mother and grandfather and looking up sweetly at both their faces.
    “No, I
didn’t
, honey,” Coach said, gesturing toward his gift bag. He stooped down and picked her up. “I was coming. Of course I was coming.”
    “Mommy said you forgot,” Caroline insisted as Lucy turned her back on both of them and began setting the table with her everyday flatware, simple plates, and paper napkins.
    “Caroline,” Neil said in a reprimanding tone, which we all knew would only make her entrench more. “Don’t contradict your grandfather.”
    “But she did,” Caroline replied as I realized that I was