"Well ..." he began, then stopped.

"Well, what?"

"If you broke your promise, then just apologize ..."

"I already did."

"You spoke?"

"Voice mail."

He nodded. "So that's that. You apologized ... Don't grovel."

"I won't."

"And don't ..." Coach began, looking down at my hand again. He seemed to be on the verge of holding it again but stopped himself. "Don't let that boy control you."

"What do you mean?" I was pretty sure I knew what he meant, but I wanted clarification, as much information as I could gather.

"Ryan is used to getting what he wants. He fully expects to get what he wants ... And, because of that, he usually does."

I nodded, thinking that it was an excellent summation of Ryan, but was still unsure of where Coach was going with the point until he looked at me and said, "Just make sure it's what you want."

I stared back at him, my hangover making my thoughts hazy but also emboldening me. It was an odd, scary combination. "I know what I want," I said.

Coach held my gaze. "Good," he said. "That's a very good start."

"Yes. It's a start ..." I said, then hesitated. I felt disloyal to Ryan saying anything more but managed to overcome that feeling, rationalizing that we were still speaking in generalities. "I just have to figure out how to get it."

"Well," Coach said, a hint of a smile appearing on his lips. "In my experience ..."

I raised my brows, waiting for some philosophical gem. But instead, he finished his sentence with "The Big Red at the Parkit Market never hurts."

I smiled and said, "So I've been told."

Thirty minutes later, after I'd changed into black leather leggings, suede boots, and a Cowboy-blue sweater with a deep V in the back, I was on the road to Dallas. I checked my phone on and off the whole way, 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 cl.u.s.ter 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.

"h.e.l.lo," 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, un.o.bserved 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 room for follow-up, and, to her credit, she tried to turn the conversation back to me, and seemed more interested in my new job than in Ryan.

"Do you like it?" she began. "Is it what you thought it would be?"

"Yes-and pretty much," I said as everyone listened to my answer. "It's tough operating on such tight deadlines, but I really do like it. I like concentrating on one sport, one team."

Bronwyn nodded, and I could hear respect in her voice when she said, "How many other women sports reporters are there?"

"At the Post, specifically?"

She nodded.

"None," I said.

I caught my dad's proud smile in the rearview mirror-which pleased me more than it should have.

"Did Ryan help you get the job?" Astrid chimed in.

"No," I said. "He had nothing to do with it."

Wiley asked a few questions about the quickly growing obsolescence of newspapers-and whether I thought we'd be completely online at some point in the near future-until Astrid managed to hijack the conversation and manipulate it in a completely unrecognizable direction. As she blathered on, I reread Ryan's messages, trying to detect aggression in them, relieved not to find any. They were decidedly controlling, high-maintenance, and self-righteous, but I didn't see any of Blakeslee's accusations embedded anywhere. Of course I still hadn't listened to his voice mails, and wondered why this was. Did I not want to find d.a.m.ning evidence right before meeting his parents? Was I just too exhausted? Or did I simply not care enough? As I stared down at my phone, a new message popped onto the screen. It was from Coach: Tell your dad I said hi.

I typed back: Will do.

I kept staring at my phone, willing another message to appear. It finally did. How do you feel? Any better?

Me: Yes, much. The coffee and donut helped. Thanks again.

CCC: Of course. You at the stadium yet?

Me: Almost.

I looked up from my phone and said, "Dad. Coach Carr says hi."

"How is he doing?" Astrid asked with exaggerated sympathy.

"Fine," I said.

"Is he dating yet?"

I told her no as tersely as I could.

"What about your mother?"

"What about her?" I snapped.

"Do you think they'll get together?"

"G.o.d, no."

"I told her that already," my dad said.

"Why not? They're close friends-and I have always thought he was so s.e.xy."

"Astrid. Please stop," I said.

It only fueled her fire. "You don't think he's s.e.xy? Way s.e.xy-in that rugged Texas football coach way ... Though that's not really my type." She patted my dad on the hand.

"Astrid," my dad said, exasperated. "Connie just pa.s.sed away in February."

"That's plenty of time to move on," she fired back.

"Drop it," my dad said.

"What? Are you jealous?" Astrid said, as we approached the stadium. "Would it bother you if they got together?"

"No," my dad said. "I just don't see that happening."

I glanced back down at the phone as another text from Coach appeared: Enjoy the game.

Thanks, I typed. Then paused and added a very bold I wish I were watching with you.

CCC: You and me both ...

I grinned down at the phone, lost for a moment, putting images to the ellipses as we pulled into the VIP parking lot at AT&T Stadium.

When we got to the Jameses' suite, Ryan's parents were already there along with a handful of couples about their age. I recognized them right away, both from seeing them in the stands during college and because Ryan looked so much like his father. Mr. James made a beeline for me, effusively greeting me with a two-armed bear hug. It wasn't what I expected, and I could tell Bronwyn and Astrid were impressed. If there was any suspicion of exaggeration, Ryan's dad had just dispelled it with one big Texan embrace.

"Honey! Come meet Shea!" he hollered to Mrs. James, who approached me with a similar measure of ebullience.

"We've heard so much about you!" she said.

Mr. James nodded. "Ryan just thinks the world of you. He said you know more about football than any girl he's ever met."

"Well, that's very sweet," I said, ignoring the obvious s.e.xist undertones and taking the comment in the spirit it was intended. "I love the game."

"And he loves you," Mr. James said.

Astrid's mouth literally fell open.

"He's a great guy," I said, milking the moment for all it was worth, then turning to make the necessary introductions. My father, Mr. James, and Wiley all hit it off right away, finding endless business overlaps in their respective financial worlds, while Astrid did her best to impress Mrs. James, dropping her own version of important names, labels, locales. Bronwyn kept a lower profile, following me over to the bar area in the suite.

"Want me to make you a drink?" I asked her, eyeing the vodka. "b.l.o.o.d.y Mary?"

"Are you going to have one?" she said.

"Think so," I said. I wasn't usually a hair-of-the-dog kind of girl but decided that I might need to make an exception-it was going to be a long day and my mother hadn't even shown up yet. And to compound all the social pressure, I was beginning to feel nervousness over the game. I obviously wanted the Cowboys to win as a fan, and as Ryan's girlfriend, but it further crossed my mind that, if he didn't win, last night might be raised as a factor.

I mixed two drinks, handed one to Bronwyn, and confessed that I had overindulged the night before.

"You went out?" she said.

Remembering that I had lied about working, I babbled another cover-up lie about going out after I turned in my story, but I could tell she didn't buy it.

"Okay," I said. "I didn't really have to work. I was just ..."

"I get it," she said. "I know my mother is tough to take."

"And so's mine," I said, just as she made her grand entrance in a powder-blue Chanel suit and patent navy sling-backs. She looked amazing, the best she can look, and decidedly better than Astrid.

"Your mom looks great," Bronwyn said as my mother sailed straight over to my father and said h.e.l.lo. It was a strong move, adding another tally to our collective score.

"And really happy, too," Bronwyn added. "Is she seeing someone?"

I shook my head and said, "Not at the moment. And you know? I admire that about her. She doesn't need to be with someone to be happy."