Mixed Signals (3 page)

“Hello,” I say in a voice that I hope conveys I'm put out by his calling.

“Hey,” he says. “How you doing?” His tone is friendly, like he's calling from work to check in and didn't recently move everything he owns out of the apartment we've shared for the past year and a half—plus all the painkillers.

I decide to play the game with him. “I'm okay.” It comes out much louder and more forceful than I usually speak. “Have a bit of a headache though and can't find any aspirin. Could have sworn there was a brand-new bottle in the medicine cabinet.”

He hesitates before responding. “I didn't know if you'd want to hear from me.” His voice is hoarse, which happens whenever he's tired. “But I've been worried about you.”

I don't know whether to think it's sweet that he's worried or incredibly arrogant. “Why?”

“Well, I've been wondering what you're eating without me there to cook for you.” He laughs like he's joking.

It makes sense that he'd be concerned about that though. I'm a disaster in the kitchen. “I'm eating fine.” I glance toward the counter at the box of Rice Krispies I plan to have for dinner, if I get hungry.

Nico yawns.

“You sound exhausted,” I say, being nicer because being angry with him is something that I haven't mastered yet.

“No kidding. Between the baby crying and that little yappy dog barking all night, it's hard to get any sleep.”

“I don't know how much longer I can take it.”

“I'm gonna have to find my own place soon.”

“Or you could just come home.” Sometimes I hate myself.

The fifteen or so seconds that neither of us says anything seems longer than my entire workday. Finally Nico breaks the uncomfortable silence. “Okay, so bye for now, Jill.”

I go to bed at eleven, wondering exactly what he meant by
for now
. Until he calls again? Until he moves back in? Until he unexpectedly runs into me on the street? At three o'clock, I'm still awake. Only now I'm berating myself for asking Nico to come home. The toilet flushes on Mr. O'Brien's side of the duplex. Somehow I'm sure the old man's telling me what he thinks of my telling Nico to come home too.

“I
'm calling to confirm your appointment for a tour tomorrow at ten.” It's Janice from the Westham Country Club. It's Friday, just past nine. She called my office phone, catching me off guard because I don't remember giving her this number. Then again, I didn't remember that Nico and I were supposed to meet with her either.

We scheduled the appointment the day after we got engaged. It was Nico's idea. He's always wanted to play golf there, but it's a private club with the exception of the function room, which is open to the public for events with at least one hundred people.

“I heard if you have your wedding there, they give you a free round,” he said. “We can get married in the late afternoon, and I'll play in the morning.” He planned to have two groomsmen and a best man to complete the foursome.

“I have to cancel,” I whisper, afraid to say it loudly because I don't want Ben and Renee to overhear and figure out that Nico and I are having problems. On some level, I realize this is ridiculous because even if they hear me, they would have no idea what I'm talking about.

“Excuse me,” Janice says. “I couldn't hear you.”

“Something's come up. We won't be able to make it.” I speak louder, but my voice cracks.

“I see,” Janice says. “Would you like to reschedule?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Yes, but I'll have to call you back.” I hang up before she has a chance to respond.

Then, even though I know I shouldn't, I can't help myself; I text Nico:
Westham CC called to confirm our appt. Said we'd reschedule. When do u want to go?
As soon as I hit send, I wish I could reach into cyberspace and retrieve the message. Damn, why do I ignore my good instincts and listen to the bad?

I sit completely still, staring out the window waiting for him to respond. My office park is nestled in a wooded area behind the highway. In the spring, summer, and fall, the view of the trees is beautiful. This time of year though, there are no leaves. All I see are barren limbs, gray skies, and a waist-high covering of snow. As I knew it would, my phone remains silent on my desk. I shove it in my top desk drawer so that it will be out of sight, and I won't be tempted to send any more pathetic texts.

For the rest of the morning, I work on the website rewrite and don't leave my cube. Every now and then, Ben or Renee shouts something over the walls, and they both laugh. Usually I would join in on their banter, but Janice's call has further soured my mood. Sunday will mark two full weeks since Nico left. It's the longest we have been apart since we met. It might be time to face the fact that he isn't coming back.

“Yo, Jill.” Ben is standing in his cube, looking down over the almost-six-foot wall separating it from mine. I hate that he's tall enough to see over it because I can't get any privacy. “Renee and I are going out to grab some grub. Do you want to come?”

“No, thanks.”

“What are you going to have?” he asks, running a hand through his hair.

I shrug. “Cereal.”

“Cereal's not lunch. Why don't you come with us?”

“Because I don't want to,” I snap, immediately regretting my tone. It's Nico I'm mad at, not Ben.

Ben sways backward, as though my words hit him with force, momentarily knocking him off balance. We stare at each other without speaking.

“Sorry,” I finally mutter, spinning my chair away from him.

“Did you and Nico have a fight?”

I whirl back toward him. “No! Why would you ask that?”

“Because he's in a terrible mood today too.”

In the hallway, there's a stampede of footsteps and loud voices as people make their way toward the cafeteria.

“How do you know that?”

“Branigan and Smyth were talking about it this morning.”

I stand and walk over to Ben's cube. “On air?”

“No, at the coffee shop where I had breakfast with them.”

I look at him blankly.

“Of course, on air.”

“What did they say?”

“That he's been miserable for a couple of weeks.”

He's miserable because he misses me!
“Did they mention why he's miserable?”

Ben shrugs. “Just that he took it out on the intern. He fired her.”

“Nico fired the intern?” I can't imagine him doing that. On the other hand, maybe after dismissing me as his fiancée, he's on a power trip. Or maybe Branigan insisted on hiring someone he would rate higher than a 4.6 for the job.

“Yup. Branigan indicated he's not getting along with the women in his life.” Ben cocks one eyebrow.

“Are you two fighting, honey?” Renee asks. I didn't realize she was standing in the aisle listening.

“No!”
Tell them
, a rational voice inside me urges.

“Are you sure?” Ben asks. “Because you haven't been yourself lately, and you've stopped listening to his show.”

It's true that I haven't listened all week, but I'm surprised Ben pays enough attention to me to have noticed.

“And you look horrible,” Renee says, entering his cube. “Could pack enough clothes for a week's vacation in the bags under your eyes.” She taps Ben on the shoulder. “Doesn't she look awful?”

“Hey,” I say.

Ben studies me. “You look sad.”

“Cucumbers or tea bags will help with those.” Renee swipes the area under her eye.

“What else did Branigan and Smyth say?” I ask.
Damn! Why haven't I been listening?

“Chilled tea bags,” Renee adds. “I have some in my cube that you can put in the freezer.”

Ben sighs like he's had enough of this conversation. “That he made a big mistake that he intends to fix this weekend.”

For the first time in weeks, I smile. “He's going to fix it this weekend.” I'm giddy as I repeat the words.

I imagine Nico showing up at my door with a dozen roses, confessing that he can't live without me. Mr. O'Brien watches the apology from his side of the porch.
Take care of the oil leak before you park in the driveway again
, he growls.

Should I play hard to get? Make Nico grovel? No. I will accept his apology with class. We'll move on. Plan our wedding. Years from now, we'll laugh about this entire thing; I'm sure of it.

“So what happened?” Ben asks.

“Nothing. Just a minor misunderstanding.” I glance down at my diamond, not sure if it or I am sparkling more.

“Expect to fight a lot while you're planning the wedding,” Renee says. “Lenny and I had some knock-down-drag-out arguments. I would have dumped him if the makeup sex wasn't so good.”

Sometimes when people say things, I automatically picture them. I feel myself blushing as I see Renee and her robust husband tumbling onto a bed.
Think of something else. A puppy.

Renee continues, “All these years later, it's just as good.”

“Last night, he—”

“Let's go to lunch,” Ben says.

“Good idea,” I say, suddenly starving.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Ben, Renee, and I are in Ben's cube reviewing images he's considering for the home page. “I like this one,” Renee says. “Do you like it, Jill?”

I didn't see which of the five she pointed to because I was looking at my phone, which just vibrated with a text from Rachel. Now that I know Nico plans to apologize, I keep waiting for him to call or text.

“Which one?” I ask.

“Give me that,” Ben says, snatching the phone off my thigh.

I try to get it back, but he jumps up and holds it high in the air above his head. “You'll get it back when we're done here.”

Standing on my tiptoes, I try to reach it. “Give it back.”

“Nope.”

“Fine.” I pretend to return to my seat. When he drops his arm, I pounce, grabbing the phone.

“Hey,” he yells, trying to wrestle it away from me.

“You two are worse than my kids,” Renee says.

Ben pins me against the wall. I try to squirm free but can't. I place my hands behind my back so that he can't get to them. He reaches behind me with both his arms like he's hugging me.

Outside his cube, there's a throaty laugh. “What's going on here?” It's Ellie Gardner, the company's top salesperson and my best friend at work. Ellie and I started on the same day and went through orientation together. I'm not embarrassed to say that in those first days of working together, I developed a girl crush on her. With her trendy short blond hair and big blue eyes, she's adorable. Before Ben found out she was married, he used to always flirt with her. “Would HR approve?”

Ben releases me. “He stole my phone,” I say.

“Because she's paying more attention to it than me,” he says.

The phone vibrates in my hand. I look down at it.

“See. It must be from Nico,” Ben says, placing all the emphasis on my fiancé's Greek name. “Look at how excited she is.”

It's true that I have a big smile on my face and am bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet as I see Nico's name flash across my screen and read his message:
I need to talk to you. Will you be home tomorrow afternoon?

My response is fast and brief:
Yes!

“You sound jealous, Benjamin,” Ellie says.

“Jill's my work wife. I don't like him interfering with our time together.” He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me closer, making it clear that he's mimicking a possessive boyfriend. “When she's with me, her full attention should be on me. I don't want her thinking about Nico.”

F
or the first time in weeks, I'm able to sleep through the night on Friday and wake up well rested. It's going to be a long day waiting to talk to Nico. I've been trying to figure out why he wanted to meet in the afternoon instead of the morning. All I can come up with is that he's planning something special. He'll show up in a limousine and whisk me off to the airport, where we'll board a plane for Aruba. Maybe we'll even elope there. It's not that far-fetched. It's a slow time of year for him. Football season just ended, and it's still a few months before baseball starts. Branigan and Smyth don't like talking about basketball and hockey, so they sprinkle in discussions about politics, television shows, and movies. It's the time of year Nico dreads most because they usually get in trouble for saying something inappropriate on air.

At ten o'clock, my phone rings. For a split second, I think Nico's calling early, but then I realize it's time for my weekly call with my mother. “Any news on your wedding plans?” she starts right off.

“We're going to talk about it later today,” I promise.

Thankfully, she drops the subject. She tells me she had dinner with my brother, Christian, and his family last night. He's the reason my parents moved to Atlanta—well, he and his daughter, my adorable niece, Molly. A few months before Molly's second birthday, my sister-in-law, Susannah, decided she didn't want to raise her daughter so far from her parents, so she and my brother moved to Georgia, where Susannah grew up. My mother and father decided they couldn't live so far away from their granddaughter, so they left too. It's been four years, and I still can't believe they left me here by myself. I had always suspected Christian was their favorite child, and my parents' move south of the Mason-Dixon Line confirmed it. After they moved, Nico and I became our own unofficial family of two. He was there for me when no one else was.

My mother ends her discussion on my brother's family by bringing our conversation full circle. “Molly expects to be a flower girl in your wedding,” she says. “She's excited about it.”

“I have to go. I have a tennis match,” I say, grateful for an excuse to get off the phone. I'll be much more comfortable talking about the wedding after I speak with Nico this afternoon.

Zachary's Civic is parked behind my car, blocking it in, so I have to knock on Mr. O'Brien's door. The old man answers with a donut in his hand. He takes a bite, chews but doesn't say a thing.

The cold wind feels like ice on my bare legs, making me wish I were wearing sweatpants over my tennis skirt. “Can you ask Zachary to move his car, please?”

Mr. O'Brien glances toward the driveway before shouting for his grandson. Dressed in red-and-black plaid pajama pants and a red sweatshirt, Zachary bounds to the doorway. Powdered sugar covers his mouth. “We were just talking about you,” he says.

I imagine Mr. O'Brien and Zachary sitting at the old man's yellow Formica kitchen table, Zac's elbow inadvertently resting in a sticky old syrup spill as he listens to his grandfather.
The boyfriend left weeks ago and she's still wearing the ring
. Mr. O'Brien rotates his finger near his head to indicate I'm crazy.

“Why were you talking about me?” I'm not sure I should have asked that.

“Well, not really about you, about your boyfriend. I heard he fired the intern yesterday.”

Mr. O'Brien takes another bite of his donut and chews deliberately while staring at me.

“Do you think—” Zachary pauses to brush the white powder off his chest. “I need an internship. I was thinking it would be really cool to work at a sports show.” He looks at me expectantly.

I notice one black hair in his blond eyebrow and immediately look to the wiry dark stray hair in his grandfather's. Could it be genetics?

“Can you ask him? I haven't seen him around or I'd ask him myself.”

Mr. O'Brien watches me through narrowed eyes.

“Oh, I don't know,” I say. “I think you need to be eighteen and out of high school to work there.” That's a complete fabrication. I have no idea if there's an age requirement. Lying has become a bad habit since Nico left.

“I am eighteen, almost nineteen,” Zachary says. “I'm a freshman at Northeastern.”

Whoa, how did that happen? He wasn't even a teenager when I moved into the left side of his grandfather's duplex.

“When will he be home?” Zachary asks. “I'll talk to him myself.”

“Maybe later today.”

Mr. O'Brien scowls. I swear I see the word
liar
flash through his mind. “You know, Zac,” he says, “her boyfriend goes to work very early. In the middle of the night practically.” He makes
boyfriend
sound like a dirty word.

Zachary shrugs. “I'm used to getting up early for hockey.”

Mr. O'Brien walks away without another word. In my mind, I shout after him:
I'm not lying. He texted me yesterday. He might be coming home. This afternoon even.

* * *

A crowd of members dressed in white surround the floor-to-ceiling window looking over court one. I wedge my way in to see what they're all watching. Down below, Sean Branigan and his wife, Tammy, are playing doubles against another couple whom I don't recognize. Tammy stands behind the baseline. The ball bounces near her. She uses a backhand to return it, but she swings wildly, and it lands out of bounds on the other side of the court. Sean bangs the net with his racquet and screams something at her.

“That guy hates to lose,” the man on my right says.

“It's a wonder they stay married playing together,” a woman on my left says.

It's a wonder she married him in the first place
, I think.

Tammy tosses the ball up in the air for the next serve. She faults and tries again. This time the ball lands in the service box, and her male opponent returns it to her. She hits it back with a perfect backhand. The other side tries a drop shot on Tammy's half of the court, but Sean races crosscourt, cutting off his wife, and reaches the ball just before it bounces twice. The rally lasts for several strokes and ends when Sean smashes an overhead shot the other team can't return. He looks up at the crowd by the window and bows. He fancies himself king of the court out there.

A bell rings. Everyone in the lobby hustles down the stairs to the tunnels leading to the tennis courts. I wait for my opponent, Jenny Stanton, who just arrived and is checking in. By the time she finishes, a second bell has sounded. We race downstairs to court one, where the Branigans were just playing. Their opponents are making their way through the revolving door, but the Branigans remain by the court.

Sean is sitting on the bench eating a banana. Next to him, his sweatshirt and sweatpants are folded neatly. His unzipped tennis bag rests on the ground in front of him. His wife sweeps loose clay off the court's lines.

Jenny frowns and looks at the clock. Players are supposed to stop the game and clean the area at the first bell and be off the court by the second. She drops her racquet and walks around picking up balls scattered near the baseline, something that Sean should have already done.

He reaches for his sweatpants and slides them on over his shorts. I put my bag down on the bench next to him. He watches me open it. “How are you, Jillian?” he asks.

“Great,” I answer.

“Really?”

I can tell by the surprise in Branigan's voice that unlike me, Nico is telling people about our breakup. I wish he weren't because I can see it now, Branigan whispering to the guests at our wedding:
He almost didn't marry her. Got a bad case of cold feet three weeks after popping the question.

I busy myself taking the plastic cover off a new can of tennis balls. Sean watches me carefully. His wife waves as she hangs the broom on a hook on the wall behind us. She walks over to the bench where we're sitting. “Your ring is gorgeous,” she says.

It really is. Two emeralds flank a two-karat diamond in a white gold setting. Nico picked it out without any input from me. It's exactly what I would have chosen on my own. After six years together, he knows me well.

Sean's mouth drops open and his gaze falls to my left hand. “Have you talked to Nico today?” he asks.

“Not yet.” I yank on the metal tab on the lid of the tennis balls. The can hisses as it opens. I breathe in the new ball scent, something I've always liked.

Sean places a hand on my shoulder as he stands. “I didn't think so,” he says.

* * *

Dressed in his usual black sweatpants and blue polo shirt, David, the owner and my best friend Rachel's brother, leans against the counter, talking to another member as I head toward the exit after my match. Despite its stupid name, WimbleDome is the most prestigious tennis club in the area. Members shell out more than four hundred dollars a month to play here. Luckily, I pay less than two hundred. David gives me a break in exchange for marketing work that I do for him and because I grew up with him. He motions with his finger for me to wait. While he finishes his conversation, I study the brochure for the upcoming annual WimbleDome Mixed Doubles Tournament. There's a picture on the cover of Sean and Tammy Branigan hoisting a trophy over their heads with the caption “Club Mixed Doubles Champions, 2007–2015.” The club opened in 2007, so no one has ever beaten them, something Branigan takes great pride in and brags about on the air at the time of the tournament. “For the ninth consecutive year, Tammy and I are the WimbleDome mixed doubles champions,” he boasted last year. I swear he purposely mispronounced the name of David's club so that his idiotic listeners would think he was talking about the famous grass courts across the pond. Branigan then went on to waste a full hour of his show recapping each of the matches leading to the championship.

When I asked Nico why he allowed it, he shook his head. “Didn't have a choice. Winning that silly tournament means everything to the guy.”

Nico's answer made me think Branigan must have always been the last kid picked in gym during elementary school and is still haunted by the memories. Why else would winning a title at a local club mean so much? It almost made me feel sorry for the guy.

David taps my shoulder. “Rachel says you're not returning her calls. She asked me to find out what's going on.”

“Work has been super busy,” I say. “I'll call her today.”

“Make sure you do. She's worried.”

* * *

The only good thing about Nico being gone is that I can watch something other than sports on television. When I get home from tennis, I set up camp on the couch and queue up some of my favorite movies, starting with
Pitch Perfect
. Forty-five minutes into the movie, a car door slams outside. I rush to the window, expecting to see Nico. Nope. It's Mr. O'Brien, weighed down with four or five plastic sacks of groceries. One of them rips open. A bottle of cranberry juice rolls down the walkway and boxes of frozen dinners spill to the ground. I think about going outside to help him, but by the time I put my boots on, he'll have picked up everything. I make a mental note to get him reusable cloth bags. Before returning to my movie, I head to the kitchen for a scoop of ice cream.

The movie ends a few minutes after four. Nico still hasn't called. I think about Branigan this morning, asking whether I had spoken to Nico yet today, and the condescending way he said
I didn't think so
after I told him I hadn't. The ice cream churns in my stomach. For the first time, I wonder if I'm wrong about the reason Nico wants to talk to me. I text him, but he doesn't respond. By six o'clock, all my nerves are frayed, and I'm tired of waiting. I decide to call him. His voice mail picks up. I hang up without leaving a message. Forty-five minutes later, he calls back.

“Sorry I didn't have a chance to talk earlier,” he says. “It's been a crazy day.”

“That's okay.”

The line is silent. I imagine Nico working up his courage to apologize. Maybe he's afraid I won't take him back? Outside a car door slams. I look out the window. Mr. O'Brien's daughter and Zachary's mother, Colleen, is carrying a dish covered with tinfoil to her father's door. Whatever is on the plate has to be better than the TV dinners that fell out of his torn shopping bag.

“You know Zachary, Mr. O'Brien's grandson,” I say, glad I have a way to end the silence.

“Sure,” Nico answers.

I tell him about Zac wanting to intern at the station.

“That's great. We need someone. Give him my number.”

My stomach churns again. If he were planning on coming home, I wouldn't need to give Zachary his number because Nico would see him in person.

“Jill, I need to talk to you about a couple of things.”

I sink into the couch. “Yes?” I kick my feet up onto the ottoman, trying to relax as I wait for him to confess how much he misses me and wants to come home.

“I found a place,” he says. “I was out all day looking.”

A place for our wedding? Did he go to Westham Country Club without me?

“It's in Brookline. Not too far from the studio. I'll be able to sleep later.”

My breathing becomes shallow as I realize what he's referring to. Is it too late to hang up? Pretend I never answered.

“Jill, are you still there?”

My back is perfectly straight. My feet are back on the floor. “You're moving out of Nina's into your own apartment.”
Please tell me I misunderstand what you're saying.