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Authors: Diane Barnes

Mixed Signals (5 page)

BOOK: Mixed Signals
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“Relax, Jillian,” Ben says, putting his hand on my wrist. “You're drawing attention to yourself.”
“I can't help it.”
“Deep breaths,” he says, taking one himself, presumably to show me how.
Ryan and Tyler step into line behind us. “What happened with you and Nico?” Tyler says. “I liked that guy.”
I knew I should have stayed at my desk.
“On the radio, they said he sacked you,” Ryan says. He has a loud voice. It echoes through the crowded cafeteria.
Conversations around us stop. The room becomes quiet. At least it seems that way.
“It makes no sense,” Tyler says. “Didn't you just get engaged a few weeks ago?”
“It's like fumbling on the goal line,” Ryan booms.
A few people standing near us laugh.
“Knock it off,” Ben warns.
“I'm sorry, Jillian,” Tyler says.
“Unless he met someone else,” Ryan continues. “Then it's an interception.” He looks around the room, smiling and nodding, like a comedian on stage looking for approval.
Ben steps closer to him. “I said knock it off.”
I grab Ben's arm. “I'm going back to my desk.”
“Come on. We're just having a little fun with you,” Ryan calls as I make my way out of the crowded cafeteria.
* * *
Back at my desk, I navigate to
BS Morning Sports Talk
's website. A headline runs across the top of the page that reads “Win a Date with Our Producer.” Under it is a picture of Nico wearing a green T-shirt I've never seen before. He's clean shaven, and his hair is about a half inch longer than the last time I saw him. I fantasize about ripping it out strand by strand.
The text beside his picture reads, “Our producer recently dumped his fiancée and is looking for a new girlfriend. He's successful, smart, sexy, and sensitive.”
Sensitive! What a pile of rubbish!
“Send a picture (clothing optional) with a description of your perfect date, and you could be the lucky woman who wins a night, and maybe more, with our handsome Nico.”
I look at the picture again and fight the strong urge to punch my fist through the computer screen. I click on the link to enter the “contest” and begin a profanity-laced email. I feel someone looking over my shoulder and click away from the page. “You don't want to send that,” Ben warns.
I whip my chair around to face him. “Don't tell me what I want to do.”
He places a plastic container with a sandwich and chips in it on my desk. “Look, I know how you're feeling. I've—”
“Really, your fiancé went on the radio telling everyone how he dumped you while his idiot bosses rated your looks and then all your coworkers made fun of you.”
“Ryan is a weasel. Everyone knows it.”
“It's not just Ryan,” I say. “It's the guys in IT.” I bury my head in my hands. “Do you know how popular that stupid show is?”
“They're not going to talk about you anymore,” Ben says. “They'll have their fun with the contest this week and then they'll get back to sports.”
I keep my head down on my desk, fighting back tears. Ben rests his hand on my shoulder. “It's going to be okay,” he whispers.
Die before you cry at work.
I chant it to myself. When I feel I have myself under control, I sit upright again. “I know.” I open the food he dropped off and take a bite. It's a chicken salad sandwich with roasted peppers mixed in, on toasted sourdough bread. Nico used to make my lunch so I hardly ever buy food in the cafeteria, but when I do, it's exactly what I order, right down to the salt and vinegar potato chips.
Ben picks up a picture on my desk of me and Nico. “You can do much better than this jamoke. The guy has a unibrow, for crying out loud,” he says. “And what's up with his beady little eyes?”
I take the photograph from him. He's right about Nico's eyebrows. I tried to convince him to have them waxed, but he wanted no part of that. Ben's wrong about Nico's eyes though. They are definitely not beady. They're almond shaped. He always appears to be squinting. It's extremely sexy. I throw the picture in my desk drawer.
“You're better off without him,” Ben says.
Without him, I'm alone. I'm most definitely not better off alone.
As if he knows what I'm thinking, Ben adds, “You'll meet someone else. No worries.”
But I am worried. Where is a single woman in her midthirties supposed to meet a normal single man?
* * *
Rachel calls me on my drive home. “I heard what happened on Nico's show today,” she says. “I'm so sorry.”
I've been in bumper-to-bumper traffic since getting on the highway, but now my lane comes to a complete standstill.
“What a stupid idea for a contest. I bet no one enters,” Rachel continues. “Like a date with Nico is any great shakes. Please.”
She's trying to make me feel better, but she's criticizing the man I've spent the last six years of my life with, the person I wanted to be with forever.
“Come over after I put the kids to bed,” she suggests. “We'll have drinks and talk about what a schmuck Nico is.”
“Thanks, but I'm really beat.” The cars in front of me are moving again. I turn around a bend in the road. A billboard for
BS Morning Sports Talk
comes into view. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel as I look at Branigan's and Smyth's faces. Branigan's short red hair is receding, and his forehead is large enough to house the billboard. Angry red pockmarks scar Smyth's chubby face. Of course no one criticizes their appearance while the two of them rip females in the sports broadcasting profession—or any woman, really.
I'm so busy staring at their pictures that I don't notice traffic has stopped again. I slam on my brakes and just avoid crashing into the Volvo in front of me.
That's all I need.
By the time I pull into my driveway, a feeling of doom blankets me. Rachel doesn't listen to sports radio. How did she find out about the contest? Is everybody talking about it? Do my parents know? Does my brother? Sure, they're all the way in Atlanta, but sometimes they tune in to
BS Morning Sports Talk
over the Internet. Even if they weren't listening today, they're sure to find out at some point. I can't put it off anymore. I have to tell them that Nico and I broke up. I stride into the house determined to break the news to them.
A few minutes later, I'm settled on the couch with a big glass of wine and dialing my parents' number. It rings five times and then Molly picks up. “We're eating at Grandma's,” she announces. Glad to know they're having a nice family dinner while I'm here in our home state, alone and miserable.
I was all hyped up to tell my parents the news, but I can't ruin their happy family dinner, can I? Maybe I should, because it will make them feel guilty for leaving.
“Auntie, do I get to be a flower girl at your wedding?” Molly asks.
The sofa is old and offers little support. I sink deep into its soft leather.
“I hope you're not going to pick Sophie instead of me because you see her more.”
“Of course I'm not going to pick Sophie instead of you,” I say, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable.
“Maybe you could pick both of us,” Molly suggests.
“Sure,” I say because I'm certainly not going to break the news that Nico and I have split to my five-year-old niece. Then again, it might be easier for my mother if she hears about it from her beloved granddaughter rather than her spinster daughter.
“Mommy, Auntie said I could be a flower girl at her wedding.” Her voice is farther away, but I can still hear the excitement in it.
I squirm on the worn cushions.
“Hey, Jillian,” my sister-in-law, Susannah, says. She pronounces my name Jill Ann, like I'm a Southern belle she grew up with instead of a native New Englander. “Molly's really excited about your big day.”
Tell her now before this gets even more out of control.
“Listen Sus—”
“Hey, Sis.” My brother must have grabbed the phone from his wife. “Still can't believe Nico manned up. When's the big day? Better get it done ASAP before he changes his mind.”
Before he changes his mind?
Once, when we were younger, Christian and I were racing across the yard. I tripped over a log and landed so hard on my stomach that the wind was knocked out of me. His comments today have the exact same effect. Was it that obvious to everyone else that Nico would change his mind?
“We're still trying to figure it out,” I lie, because my brother is the last person I would break the news to. He'd make me feel worse than I already do.
“Not getting cold feet, is he?”
“Maybe I'm the one who's getting cold feet,” I say, bringing myself to a standing position.
My brother laughs. “Right. You've been trying to wear him down for six years and now that you've succeeded, you're going to back out. Fat chance.”
I'm pacing the hallway again, trying to make sense of my brother's comment. Wearing Nico down? Is that what I've been doing?
My sister-in-law says something in the background.
“Hey, we got to run. Dinner is on the table,” Christian says. He hangs up without letting me talk to my mother.
The tears that I've been fighting back all day fall freely now, but they're not for Nico. I want to be sitting at the supper table with my parents, having a home-cooked meal. I bet my mom made pot roast with potatoes and carrots that have been simmering in a Crock-Pot all day. My dad probably contributed to the meal by making Pillsbury Poppin' Fresh rolls. Dessert is definitely some type of homemade pie. Before my family all bolted south, we used to have supper together at least once a week at my parents'. I miss those dinners. Damn Christian and his Georgia peach of a wife.
Chapter 7
“H
ow long are you staying?” Ben's voice startles me, causing me to jump in my chair. “Didn't mean to scare you,” he says, zipping his jacket.
At just after six thirty, we are the only two left on the floor. “I want to finish writing this.” I've been working on the new brochure all week, but every word I write triggers a memory of Nico, sending me into a sinkhole.
Ben stares at the blinking cursor on the mostly empty screen in front of me. “Looks like it's going to be a long night then.”
“Maybe.” I've worked until nine every day this week, mainly because I don't want to go home to my empty apartment, where there's nothing to do but think about Nico and listen to Mr. O'Brien coughing on the other side of the wall. It's unusual for Ben to be here after five though. “Why are you still here?”
“I had to finish the mock-up of the home page. Stacy wants to see it tomorrow.” He stands behind me, fiddling with his key fob. “Why don't you wrap things up so we can walk out together.”
His suggestion is tempting because crossing the pedestrian bridge from the office building to the parking garage is creepy this time of night. The lights that are supposed to illuminate the path are all buried in snow. Each time the maintenance crew digs them out, we get another storm, and they have to shovel them out all over again, so they finally gave up.
“I'll be fine.”
“You sure?”
I nod, and Ben reluctantly says good night.
Instead of going back to writing the brochure, I visit the radio station's website to check on the number of entries in the win-a-date-with-Nico contest. There's a running tally by the button where contestants submit their photographs and description of their ideal date. Right now the total is up to 67,504. Last time I looked, which was about five minutes before Ben came to say goodbye, the total was 67,501. Even though my level of angst increases along with the number of respondents, I can't make myself stop checking. I wish I could. In all, I must have checked more than a hundred times since Branigan announced the stupid contest. For a split second it even crossed my mind to enter, submit a fake picture and write an entry so good that they have to choose me. On the night of the date, when Nico finds out that I'm the contest winner, he'll smile and say
I was hoping it was you
. I guess I've seen
You've Got Mail
too many times.
The door at the end of the hall clicks open. At first, I think it's the cleaning crew, but there is only one set of footsteps. They are moving much too quickly for anybody to be doing any cleaning. Whoever it is turns into my aisle. I roll my chair backward to the opening of my cube and peek out. Ben walks toward me with a determined expression. “You're not working late again tonight,” he says. “You're leaving now. We're going to dinner.”
* * *
We each drive our own cars to a steak place on the other side of town. The setting is much more romantic than the sports bars where Nico and I usually eat. The restaurant is dark, and each of the tables, including ours, is covered in a white linen tablecloth and has a lit candle in a hurricane-glass holder placed in the center.
“I feel like we're on a date,” I say.
Ben looks up from the wine menu he's been studying and smiles. “Is it a first date, or have we been together for a while?”
“We're an old married couple going to get something to eat because neither of us feels like cooking,” I say.
“Where are the kids?”
I grin, stupidly happy that he's playing along with me. “Amanda's away at school and Trevor is at friend's.”
“I must really love you if I let you name our son Trevor,” he says. “That's a dog's name.”
“You wanted to name him Ben junior, and call him BJ, but I wanted no part of that.”
Ben laughs. “It's a good thing you talked me out of it because he's at the age now when he might get teased for having a nickname like that.” He gives me a suggestive smile that causes me to blush.
Our waiter arrives and introduces himself as Ian. We each order a glass of cabernet that Ben suggests. Nico never drank wine because he didn't think it was a manly drink.
A few tables away, there's a man in his fifties sitting with a woman half his age. Their clasped hands lie on the table, and they lean toward each other with big grins. “Wife number two,” I say. It's a game I've been playing with Rachel since we were kids. We guess the stories of random people we see in public places. I tried it with Nico a few times, but he refused to go along with it.
“Nope,” Ben says. “Wife number one thinks he's working late. She's the nanny.” He points out a table where a young man of about twenty, wearing a baseball cap, is sitting with an older gentleman.
“Father visiting his son at school. The kid goes to Brandeis,” I say because the college is not too far from where we are.
Ben shakes his head. “The kid's dating his daughter. He wants the old man's permission to marry her.”
I smile, enjoying Ben's romanticism.
“The father's going to say no,” he adds.
I frown. “What? Why?”
Nico never asked my dad.
You're thirty-four. We don't need your daddy's permission
, he argued.
“He thinks they're too young,” Ben answers. “And he knows his daughter is much too good for that slob. Punk kid doesn't have enough respect to take off his hat at the table.”
“I hope you'll go easier on the young man who eventually asks for Amanda's hand,” I say.
“Amanda's smart enough not to date a guy who's always hiding under a baseball cap.”
I think about Nico's collection of hats that used to hang on the outside of our closet door. He must have close to one hundred. I stare at Ben, wondering if he's passing some sort of judgment on me.
The waiter returns with our drinks and to take our order. “We haven't even looked at the menu yet,” Ben says.
The waiter leaves. I open my menu, expecting Ben to do the same. Instead he points to two middle-aged women. “Sisters reunited fifty years after being given up for adoption by their birth mother,” he says.
The waiter has to return two more times before we're finally shamed into stopping our game and choosing our dinners. Ben gets the bone-in rib eye, while I order the filet.
“Wasn't that much better than the cereal you were going to eat?” Ben asks when I finish.
“How do you know that's what I was going to have?”
He gives me a challenging look. “Are you going to tell me it's not?”
“Rice Krispies,” I admit.
“Well, I'm sure Snap, Crackle, and Pop missed you tonight, but I enjoyed your company.”
In the parking lot, he hugs me good-night. Although he's hugged me plenty of times through the years, tonight feels different.
I drive home singing to the radio. When I pull into the driveway, the motion lights snap on. Mr. O'Brien must have knocked the icicles down today because they no longer hang from the roof and the house looks less ominous. As I walk across the porch, I see him sitting in his recliner watching the hockey game. He checks his watch as I pass, making me feel like I missed curfew. It's just past ten o'clock. Ben and I were at the restaurant for more than three hours. I had no idea so much time went by.
Not until I get inside and see Nico's jacket hanging over the back of the kitchen chair do I realize that tonight is the first time I've had fun since he left. I place my hand on the coat's soft worn leather, wondering what Nico did this evening. “You'd be mad if you knew who I went out with,” I say.
On the other side of the wall, Mr. O'Brien claps and cheers. The Bruins must have scored.
BOOK: Mixed Signals
7.77Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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