Mixed Signals

by Diane Barnes

  “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “Are you sure? I can send a check.”

  “I’m good.”

  “You should have never let him move in with you,” she says. Her words remind me why I sometimes don’t mind that she followed Christian, Susannah, and Molly all the way to Atlanta.

  Chapter 9

  The next morning, Mr. O’Brien rings my doorbell. He has bags from the hardware store in one hand and an electric drill in the other. “Need to change your lock.” He pulls open the storm door and steps inside.

  Feeling awkward in my flannel pajamas, I fold my arms across my chest. “Why? Did something happen?”

  He walks down the hallway to put the bag on the entryway table, leaving a trail of wet sand from his boots. “Did something happen?” he repeats. “He left without leaving the key. He can get in anytime he likes.” He shrugs out of his wool Red Sox jacket and hands it to me. The stench coming off it makes me wonder when he last washed it. Maybe I should offer to do it for him?

  “I don’t think he wants to get in.” After the conversation I had with my mother yesterday, I don’t think I can handle Mr. O’Brien right now.

  “Better safe than sorry,” Mr. O’Brien says. He presses the drill’s on switch and watches the bit spin before turning it off.

  I go to the closet for a broom and begin sweeping up the trail of dirt he is leaving behind him. “I really don’t think this is necessary,” I say.

  Mr. O’Brien lifts his baseball cap and immediately returns it to his head. “Why did he leave?”

  Mind your business! Someday I’m going to be the kind of woman who says exactly what she’s thinking, but for now I remain the girl who doesn’t want to be rude. “He wasn’t sure he wanted to get married.”

  Mr. O’Brien clears his throat. “That’s something a fellow should know. If he doesn’t know, he knows.”

  My bottom lip quivers. I tell myself to hold it together. God only knows what Mr. O’Brien would do if I break down crying in front of him.

  For a half second I think the old man might realize that I’m on the verge of tears, because his expression softens so that his face doesn’t look as wrinkled, and I can almost imagine the young man he once was. “I knew from the moment I first saw Carol. Asked her to marry me on our second date.”

  I whisk the sand into the dustpan. “Your second date?”

  “Only because I thought it would have been ridiculous to ask her on the first.”

  Now my eyes are filling up. Nico’s had six years’ worth of dates, and he’s still not sure. I look down at my bare ring finger, knowing that’s not exactly true. He is sure, sure he doesn’t want to marry me. Why not? Is there something wrong with me?

  There’s tapping on the storm door. Zachary stands on the porch with two cups of coffee and a box of Munchkins. He and his grandfather alone keep our neighborhood Dunkin’ Donuts in business. Mr. O’Brien opens the door for his grandson. “Morning,” Zachary says.

  I wave at him and flee to my bedroom before my tears fall. Why aren’t I good enough to marry? Why did Nico lead me on for so long? I rip off my pajamas and put on my tennis whites. Smashing a ball around the court is exactly what I need right now.

  Back at the front door, Mr. O’Brien teaches Zachary how to replace the lock. The boy looks up at me. “They think it will keep people tuned in,” he says. “Especially females.”

  Just like when I’m having a conversation with his grandfather, I have no idea what Zachary’s talking about and stare at him blankly.

  “I started at the morning show this week,” he clarifies. “Branigan came up with the contest as a way to keep listeners tuned in until the Sox start. Now that the Pats are done.”

  “And Nico went along with it?”

  “He didn’t want to, but ratings are really low. Four point something.”

  I think of Branigan’s letterhead in Nico’s jacket pocket. “Four point six.”

  Zachary nods. “And they want us to grow the number of female listeners to increase advertising opportunities.”

  Mr. O’Brien interrupts. “Did you come to gab or to help?”

  * * *

  Every time I swing my racquet, I pretend the ball is Nico’s head and smash it back over the net. The ball soars over the baseline. My opponent, a woman named Jane Chen, sighs each time the ball lands out of bounds. I don’t blame her. It’s boring playing with someone who can’t sustain a rally. I don’t even win a point in the first game. “Sorry,” I yell across to her.

  We start a new game. She serves. As the ball heads back to me, I hear Nico: I can’t do this, the husband, father, family thing. Whack! The ball bounces off the wall of the bubble on the opposite side of the court. I’m losing fifteen–love.

  Jane serves again. Brady got sacked and then you sacked your fiancée. Slam! The ball flies into the net. Thirty–love.

  Jane’s next serve lands deep in the service box. Win a date with our producer. Smack! The ball flies over my head backward. Forty–love.

  Jane tosses the ball into the air and taps it to me. Send pictures. Clothing optional. Smash! The ball soars high in the air and lands in the court next to ours. “Damn it,” one of the players yells. He picks up our ball and without looking at me whips it over the net separating our courts. “Sorry,” I mumble.

  I hear knocking on glass and look up. David stands in front of the window in the reception area that overlooks our court. He extends both arms in front of his chest and moves his hands in a downward motion.

  I take a deep breath and pace back and forth on the baseline, trying to clear my head. Usually when I’m playing, the only thing I think about is tennis. In fact, I play because the courts are the one place I don’t bring any of my worries. I’m mad at myself for allowing Nico to ruin this sanctuary. When my pulse slows, I return to the baseline and serve. Jane hits the ball back with a backhand. I use a forehand to return it. The ball hits the top of the net, teeters, and then falls onto her side. I pump my fist, excited to win my first point of the set. I look up at the window. David gives me a thumbs-up.

  * * *

  “You were playing with a lot of anger,” David says to me in the lobby after my match. I’m distracted by Branigan entering the club, his wife trailing a few steps behind him. He’s dressed in his white shorts, a white short-sleeved shirt, and a Patriots wool cap with a pompom over his big fat head.

  He walks toward David and slaps him on the back. “We’re looking forward to renewing our title as the club’s mixed-doubles champions,” he says.

  David laughs.

  Branigan looks at me. “Did you hear we’re trying to find a date for Nico?” he asks.

  “Sean,” his wife warns.

  Branigan flashes a huge smile, showing all his capped teeth. “We could have the same type of contest for you,” he offers. “I bet your picture would get a lot more attention than Nico’s. Although you’d be surprised by the number of women who want a date with him.”

  David nudges me toward the lounge. “Let’s go,” he says.

  Once we’re seated, he says, “I’m sorry. For what you’re going through with Nico.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Consider yourself lucky that you figured out things wouldn’t work before rather than after the wedding.”

  Things were working just fine, I think. “I guess.”

  “You guess? Let me tell you, divorce sucks.” David got married right out of college and was divorced a year later. He seems to have figured it out the second time around though. He’s been married to wife number two for eight years.

  A waitress arrives at our table. David tells her to bring a glass of water and a strawberry smoothie, which is my favorite.

  “Rachel asked if there is someone I can set you up with here at the club,” he says.

  I look down at the court where two men are playing singles. “Yeah, she’s on me to start dating right away. Even signed me up for online dating, but I’m not up to any of it right now.”

&n
bsp; Across the room, the bartender fires up the blender.

  “I figured that,” David says.

  We both stop to watch a rally on the court below us. It ends with a shot that lands in the back right corner. “Out,” I say as David calls it in.

  He refocuses on me. “I do think it’s important that you keep busy to distract yourself from what’s going on.”

  “Distract myself, how?”

  “The doubles tournament is coming up.”

  “I’m horrible by the net. That’s why I play singles,” I remind him.

  The waitress returns with our drinks. She puts the smoothie in front of him and gives me the water. He motions for her to switch the glasses. “I know. I need linesmen.”

  “No way!” Every year it’s a struggle to get people to ump the matches because there are always heated disagreements about whether a ball was in or out.

  “Do I have to remind you of the break I give you on your membership fee?” David asks.

  “So unfair,” I answer.

  * * *

  I expect Mr. O’Brien and Zachary to still be fiddling with the lock when I arrive home, but both their cars are gone. With my tennis bag flung over my shoulder, I make my way to my side of the house. I twist the doorknob, but the door doesn’t open because it’s locked. Unbelievable!

  I dig my cell phone out of my bag and call the old man. His phone doesn’t even ring. Instead, an automated message tells me the number I’ve reached and instructs me to leave a message. “It’s Jillian. You locked me out! Call me when you get this.” I repeat the same message on his home phone and retreat to my car. I cruise around the neighborhood. The huge snowbanks and coating of hard snow and ice on the roads make driving on the side streets treacherous, so I head for the highway.

  Unlike during the week, there are few cars on the road with me. Before too long, I pass a sign for Lexington, the town where Nico’s sister lives. My car drifts to the right lane. My blinker goes on just before the exit. Don’t do this, the rational voice inside me warns. As usual, I ignore it and turn onto the off-ramp. Don’t do this!

  A few miles later, off in the distance, I see the street sign for Nina’s road: Harrington Circle. Adrenalin surges through my body. What do you think you’re going to accomplish? the rational voice asks. I just want to see if he’s there. What if he is there? Then what? I drown out my competing thoughts by turning up the radio and singing along with Adele.

  I flip on my directional and turn onto the cul-de-sac. In the distance, I see Nico’s Tundra parked on the side of the road. My hands get sweaty on the steering wheel. The closer to Nina’s I get, the slower I go. Finally, I’m directly in front of her house. I turn down the radio. Someone is standing in the driveway. It’s Nina with the dog on a leash. Crap! She stares at my passing car. I step on the gas and race by. The street dead-ends. There’s nowhere to go. Son of a beeyatch! As I turn around in the circle, Nina, still staring at my car, marches down her driveway into the middle of the road. She’s carrying Baxter now.

  Two houses away from her, I jam on my brakes. She continues walking toward me. We stare at each other through the windshield. Absolutely brilliant, Jillian. I think about shifting into reverse and hightailing it through the snowy woods.

  She makes it to my car and comes to the driver’s window, knocking on it. She has the same dark, squinty eyes as Nico. Looking into them causes my own to fill with tears. I should drive away.

  “Jillian, are you okay?” she asks. “What are you doing here?”

  What the hell am I doing here?

  “Jillian, what’s going on? Are you all right?”

  I remain motionless in the driver’s seat. Tears roll down my cheeks.

  “Put the window down,” Nina says. “Please.”

  I lower it.

  The dog barks at me while Nina stares. Finally she says, “Oh, Jillian, you shouldn’t be here.”

  “I miss him.” I didn’t plan to say this and hate that I did.

  Nina lowers Baxter to the ground but doesn’t say anything.

  “Did he tell you why he left?” I ask.

  She shakes her head.

  “I need to know,” I demand.

  The dog is barking incessantly now.

  “I need to talk to him.”

  She shakes her head. “He’s not even here. He’s out with George and the kids.” She picks up Baxter and looks back at her house. A car turns down the street and comes toward us. “Are you okay to drive?” Nina asks.

  I nod.

  “Text me when you get home.”

  She crosses the street in front of my car and carefully plods her way over the slippery snow-coated road to her house. I stomp on the gas. My tires squeal and my backend fishtails as I accelerate down her street and out of her neighborhood. I’m crying so hard that I gulp for breath. As I pull over to the side of the road to compose myself, my phone rings. Mr. O’Brien’s name flashes across the screen. I let him go to voice mail and then listen to his message. “I told you before you left that I was taking the key to make duplicates and would leave them under the mat.” He sounds like he’s talking to the dumbest person in the world. In this case, he really might be.

  Chapter 10

  I hate Valentine’s Day, and I swear, I’m not saying that just because I’m single. I didn’t like it back when Nico showered me with a dozen roses and chocolates either. It’s a schmaltzy fake holiday that’s depressing for people without a partner and puts too much pressure on those with them. Even going out to dinner is a chore; reservations at good restaurants are impossible to get, unless you live for the day and make them months in advance, and there are waits of over ninety minutes at crappy chains like the Olive Garden. Nope, Valentine’s Day has never been for me. I don’t need Hallmark dictating when I’m supposed to shower my boyfriend with love. And okay, maybe because I don’t have a boyfriend this year, I’m more repulsed than usual by the slow-moving caravan of florist vans driving up the hill leading to my office.

  Inside the building, Barbara, the receptionist, has pasted hearts on the door of the reception area. I experience a strong urge to rip them all off as I walk by, and have to admit that my dislike for the holiday is more intense this year. On the fourth floor, Renee crashes into me, rushing to board the elevator as I step off. No doubt she’s on her way to reception to pick up the dozen roses her husband, Lenny, had delivered here.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetie,” she says. She’s wearing a red dress, and there’s a gold chain with a heart pendant circling her neck.

  Instead of ripping it off her like I’m tempted to do, I force a smile. “Same to you.” Despite my best effort, it comes out as a snarl.

  Ben’s talking on his cell phone when I pass his cube. “I’ll be there at six,” he says. I imagine he’s talking to the girl he met at the gym over the weekend, who I think is a bodybuilder. I overheard him telling his friend Lucas about her earlier in the week. Apparently she asked him to spot her on bench presses. How many women do those?

  I blink twice as I enter my cube. There’s a vase of pink carnations sitting on my desk, next to it a small box of Godiva chocolates. For just a second, I picture Nico sneaking into the building early this morning to drop them off, never mind that he doesn’t have the access card needed to unlock the door to my area. I reach for the small card sticking out of the flowers. When I see my name written across the envelope in black fountain pen, I know the gifts are not from Nico. They’re from Ben. I think about our dinner last week. Maybe it really was a date? He did pay. I tear open the envelope. Written in the same black ink, the message in the card says Happy Valentine’s Day. Renee and Ben.

  Of course Ben didn’t get me the flowers. Renee did. She feels bad because I’m single on this freaking fake holiday. Still, her thoughtfulness causes a lump in my throat. Do not cry at work!

  “Morning, Jill,” Ben says, staring down at me over the wall.

  I can’t look at him because there are tears streaming down my cheeks. It’s
just flowers and chocolate! Get yourself together. “Thanks for these.” I motion to the vase and candy.

  “Renee’s idea,” he says, quickly sinking back into his chair. A second later, he flees the area like a fire truck pulling out of the station in response to a 911 call. I can’t blame him. No man wants to be near an emotional single woman on Valentine’s Day.

  I dive into my chocolates, looking for one filled with caramel. Instead, I get a nasty fruit-filled one, the one people usually take a bite of and return to the box. I toss it into the garbage and choose another. This time I get what I want.

  The smell of flowers suddenly overpowers the area. I glance down the aisle and see Renee turning into her cube carrying a huge number of roses. I go to her desk, where she has arranged them in the corner. I can’t believe how many roses are in that beautiful glass vase. I count them. Thirty-six! “They’re beautiful!” I say, trying to make up for my unfriendly greeting earlier.

  “They are!” she agrees.

  “The carnations you gave me are too, and the chocolates are delicious.”

  “What carnations and chocolates?” she asks.

  “The ones you and Ben gave me.”

  She bites down on her lower lip. She does that a lot when she’s thinking. I’m always afraid she’s going to puncture a hole in it and the collagen will leak out, dripping down her chin like wax from a melting candle. “You’re welcome,” she says.

  “Whoa!” Ben turns the corner into Renee’s cube and spots her flowers. “What did Lenny do wrong that he’s trying to make up for this time?”

  Renee playfully hits Ben in the arm. “Lenny sent them because he loves me, which reminds me.” She reaches into her suitcase-sized pocketbook and extracts two envelopes, handing one to me and the other to Ben. “We’re having a party to renew our vows on our twenty-fifth anniversary.”

  The muscles in my back stiffen as I read how the envelope is addressed: Jillian Atwood and Guest.