Mixed Signals (10 page)

S
ometimes when I'm sad, I watch movies that are tearjerkers so that I can have a good sob without feeling like I'm crying because I feel sorry for myself. On this Saturday night, after what I did at the tennis club and while Nico is out on a date, that is my strategy. I'm settled on the couch about three-quarters of the way through
Terms of Endearment
with a giant glass of wine and a big box of tissues, bundled up in Nico's coat because I'm cold.

Outside, I hear a car pull into the driveway. For a minute, I imagine it's Nico. He had a horrible time on his date and wants to get back together. Before I can convince myself of that, two doors slam. Definitely not Nico, unless the Namaste Nitwit is with him. Maybe it's Sean and Tammy Branigan, coming to get their revenge? I tiptoe toward the window and lift the shade. Rachel and Mark make their way past Mr. O'Brien's to my side of the duplex. The old man must be looking out the window because Rachel waves. I picture him looking pointedly at his watch. It's almost ten, too late for visitors in his mind.

I open the door before they ring the bell. “We had dinner in Boston and thought we'd stop by,” Rachel says. Her eyes widen as she notices that I'm wearing Nico's leather coat. “Why do you have that on?”

“Because it's cold in here.”

She eyes the thermostat. “Then turn up the heat.” She stares at me for a few seconds. “Have you been crying?”

“Sad movies.”

Mark hands me a box from Mike's Pastry. “This will make you feel better.”

I grab it from him. Mike's cannolis are my favorite. I haven't had one since the night Nico proposed. We went there after going to Vincenzio's Cucina. The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. I study Rachel and Mark carefully. “You went to the North End tonight?”

Mark looks at his feet. Rachel heads to the living room without answering. I chase after her. “Where did you have dinner?”

“Vincenzio's Cucina. I had the pappardelle. Mark had—”

“Why would you go there tonight of all nights?”

Rachel shrugs. “Mark's mom was available to babysit.”

“You knew Nico was going to be there.” I say it through gritted teeth. “He'll think I spent you there to spy.”

“Who cares what he thinks?” Rachel says. She throws her long wool coat over the arm of the sofa and sits.

Mark slinks into the room and joins his wife on the couch. His dark gray jacket remains zipped up to his chest.

“How could you go along with this?” I ask, looking at him. I drag the ottoman into the center of the room and position myself on it so that I'm facing them. I drop the pastry box to the floor. It lands with a thump.

“I told her it was a bad idea. She insisted,” Mark says.

“You said you're glad we went,” Rachel says to Mark. “Your veal was delicious.”

I imagine Rachel confronting Nico while he's eating his spaghetti. She picks the plate up and dumps it over his head. It's the Chef Boyardee incident all over again. I'm almost afraid to ask, but I have to. “What happened?”

“He wasn't there,” Mark says.

Okay, I wasn't expecting that. Why wouldn't he go? Did he decide he's not ready to date again yet? Maybe he realized he made a big mistake by letting me go. Maybe the entire contest was a publicity stunt and he never had any intention of going, or maybe Nico is sentimental after all and decided to go to a restaurant other than the one where he proposed to me. “Are you sure?”

Mark nods. “You know how small that place is, and we were sitting by the door.”

My heart rate returns to normal. “That could have been disastrous. What were you going to do if you saw him?”

Rachel picks up one of the blue throw pillows and hugs it to her chest. “I hadn't thought that far ahead. I just don't want him to get away with what he did to you. You don't date someone for six years and then dump them less than a month after proposing. We need to get back at him.”

Dump! I hate that word!
“There's nothing I can do,” I say as I take the pastries to the kitchen and put them on a plate.

“Those are for you,” Mark says when I return. “We already had ours.” I take a chocolate-filled one. Rachel has the traditional ricotta filled. The room is silent as we bite into them. Debra Winger's face is frozen on the television screen at the point where I paused the movie.

“Since you're not interested in online dating, I asked David to fix you up with someone at the tennis club,” Rachel says when she finishes chewing. “He told me about a dermatologist who sounds promising.”

The piece of cannoli tastes sweet in my mouth, but my mind fills with bitter thoughts:
I don't want to start dating again. I can't believe Nico is putting me through this. I hate Branigan and am glad I called the ball out.

“That's the last thing I want right now.”

Rachel reaches for the dish of pastry and helps herself to another half. “Jillian, if you want to have kids, you have no time to lose.” Mark shifts uncomfortably beside her on the couch. “You're going to be thirty-five soon.”

“I have plenty of time.”

“At the very least get your eggs tested.” Rachel wipes her mouth with a napkin. “Or freeze some.”

Mark jumps up and excuses himself to go to the bathroom.

“Maybe I should just pick out a sperm donor,” I say. Rachel and I stare at each other. The only sound in the apartment is the sound of Mark's footsteps climbing the stairs.

“Jillian, you wasted six years of your life with Nico. You should have cut bait a long time ago. You can't diddle around now.”

Wasted six years. Is that what I did? What about the good times Nico and I had together? Don't those count for something? I gather up the plates and head to the kitchen.

When I return to the living room, Rachel and Mark are standing. Rachel buttons her coat. “Sorry if we upset you,” Mark says.

“You didn't,” I say, because he didn't. Rachel did.

“Call me,” Rachel says before going through the front door. “We'll go to a movie or out for drinks.”

I watch them walk down to their car. When Rachel reaches the driveway, she yells up at me. “Love you, Jillian.”

I know that she does, and I know that's why she tried to find Nico tonight and said the things she did. So no matter how misguided her effort is, I really can't be
all
that mad at her.

“Love you too,” I call out.

O
n Monday morning, my alarm goes off to
BS Morning Sports Talk
. Branigan's voice fills my room, sending chills down my back. He's talking about the Celtics, but I have an overwhelming feeling that something is terribly wrong. Whether my nerves are frayed because I fear Branigan is going to extract revenge on me, because I'm afraid Nico will announce on air that it was love at first sight with Bonnie the Namaste Nitwit, or because I'm worried about seeing Ben again after my crazy thoughts on Friday night, I'm not sure. All I know is, I'm so nervous that my left eye won't stop twitching.

I remain in bed under the covers, listening to the radio, and fall asleep again. When I wake up, Smyth is still talking about basketball. Branigan interrupts. “The intern screwed up my coffee again. Zachary, two sugars, two creams. How hard is that?”

Feedback from a microphone and then Nico's voice. “Maybe it would be easier if you got your own coffee. Zac's busy with me in the control room.”

Through the wall, I hear Mr. O'Brien break into a coughing fit. He's probably choking on his breakfast, hearing Nico talk back to Branigan.

Branigan chuckles. “If Zac's too busy, you can get it.”

I look across the room at the alarm clock but can't make out the numbers without my contacts.

Branigan and Smyth resume talking about the Celtics. A few minutes later, Branigan says, “Thanks, Nico.”

Why doesn't it surprise me that he actually fetched his boss's coffee? He'd do anything Branigan told him to. I head to the bathroom for my shower but make sure the radio's volume is loud enough to hear over the water. I need to know what happened on Nico's date, if he even went on it. By the time I leave for work, they still haven't mentioned it, convincing me that he didn't go.

They actually talk about sports on my drive to the office, but as I pull into the parking lot at eight thirty, Branigan teases that they will have the can't-miss details about Nico's date in the next hour.

“Good morning,” Ben calls out as I pass his cube. He's sitting with his legs up on his desk next to his computer, sipping a coffee and reading Boston.com. His radio plays softly behind him.

After I deposit my bags and coat in my cube, I go to his. He's wearing a crisp green oxford shirt and tan khakis with a perfect crease ironed into them. I always wanted Nico to dress like Ben. Instead, Nico has a bureau filled with T-shirts branding Boston teams' championship seasons and a closet filled with jeans. While most men match a tie to their shirt, Nico coordinates his baseball cap.

“Sit,” Ben says. “I got you breakfast.” He hands me a coffee and a pastry from a bakery he passes on his way to the office. At least once a week, Renee and I plead with him to stop there, but usually he saves his visits for someone's birthday or when one of us returns from a week-long vacation. I wonder what the special occasion is today as the jingle for
BS Morning Sports Talk
plays in the background. It occurs to me then that he stopped at the bakery for me, as a way to make me feel better when Nico recounts his date on air.

“Thanks,” I say, biting into my pastry.

He nods. “So Friday night was fun.”

“Yeah, I saw you chatting up the bartender.”

He grins. “We went out Saturday night.”

I'm surprised by the sinking feeling in my heart. “Good for you.”

“Oh, it was good for her too.” He laughs.

Renee's been in the kitchen making her oatmeal. Now she joins us, sitting on Ben's desk and stirring the lumpy white mush in her bowl. “I need to give the caterer a head count for the party. Jill, are you coming? Ben, are you bringing a date?” She looks at us expectedly.

I shake my head. “Sorry, no.”

Ben nudges my foot with his. “Come on.”

“Why don't you take the bartender?” The suggestion leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

“Maybe I will.”

“Who's the bartender?” Renee asks.

“The one from Friday night,” I say.

* * *

One of the sales assistants is using the copier at the end of our aisle. The constant groaning of the machine drowns out my radio playing softly in the background. I turn up the volume so that I can hear Branigan and Smyth. It's just before nine. They're interviewing a football reporter about possible moves the Patriots will make in the off-season and still haven't talked about Nico and his date.

Minutes later, Branigan thanks the guest for appearing on the show. “After the commercial break, Nico's going to tell us about his date,” he says. “Believe me, you don't want to miss this.”

Tyler, Ryan, and Ellie have congregated at the copier to talk to their assistant. They laugh at something she says. I turn up my radio even louder.

The commercial ends. Branigan speaks again: “We've been getting texts all morning from listeners wanting to know how you made out with Bonnie. So, let's not keep them waiting any longer. Nico, tell us what happened.”

Feedback from a microphone and then Nico speaks. “So I got lost on the way there.” His voice is much softer than usual, and I wonder if he's nervous. I lean toward the radio. “My GPS took me to the total wrong place.”

When did he get a GPS? He has a stack of old dirty maps in the pocket of the driver's door because he doesn't trust technology.

Ben's head appears over the top of the wall. “Are you sure you want to listen to this?” he asks.

Renee enters my cube and makes herself comfortable in the guest chair. In the hallway at the end of our aisle, the sales team breaks into laughter again.

“So I finally find the place,” Nico continues. “She lives in one of those fancy brownstones. An amazing place. Brick wa—”

Branigan cuts him off. “We don't want to hear about her house. Tell us about her. How did she look?” He pauses. “I assume she looked like the original picture we posted and not the one of Miss Piggy that somehow appeared over the weekend.”

“Nothing like Miss Piggy.” Nico whistles. “She's wearing this itsy-bitsy black dress. Killer body. I mean supermodel material.”

“Well, she does work in a gym,” Smyth says. “Yoga instructor and all.”

“She hugs me hello.” Nico's voice is louder with a trace of amusement now.

Branigan interrupts. “Was it a loose hug or a tight one, where she's pressing every bit of her body against yours to let you know how much she wants it?”

Renee shakes her head and mutters, “What a pig.”

“She was rubbing up against me,” Nico says. “She kissed me hello.”

“Tongue?” Branigan asks.

“Affirmative. This girl was ready for a good time.”

Ben sinks back into his seat. Renee scratches her cheek.

“You lucky dog,” Smyth says.

Nico continues. “She takes me for a tour of her place. We go in every room but the bedroom.” He laughs. “She says, I'll show you that after dinner. And now I'm really revved up, wondering if I should suggest ordering in.”

“But I don't. We leave for the restaurant. We end up going to another place in the North End, not Vincenzio's. And this girl, she orders a tray of olives, telling me they're an aphrodisiac.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Branigan says. “Why didn't you go to Vincenzio's?”

“We just didn't.” Nico's voice breaks as he says it.

“They're one of our biggest sponsors. They deserve to know why you didn't go to their place.”

It's suddenly a hundred degrees in my cube. Sweat pools above my lips, and my cheeks feel like they're on fire. I look at Renee, expecting to see her shedding layers of clothing and fanning herself, but she's sitting there with her arms wrapped around herself like she's chilly. Maybe I'm having my first hot flash?

“Well, we get to Vincenzio's. We're just about to go inside, and I see—” He stops.

My stomach turns. I may get sick in my cube. I pull the trash can closer. Renee gives me a sympathetic look.

“Don't keep us hanging,” Smyth says. “What did you see?”

“My ex's best friend and her husband.”

“No!” Branigan and Smyth both scream.

I'm going to kill Rachel
.

“Jillian must have sent them there to spy,” Branigan suggests.

Renee nudges my leg with her boot. “You didn't?”

“Jesus, Jillian,” Ben mutters.

“I don't know,” Nico says. “Maybe it was just coincidence, but I figured we sh—”

“There's no such thing as coincidences,” Branigan says. “A woman scorned. Who knows what she's capable of.”

Ben looks down into my cube again.

“I knew nothing about it,” I say.

I can tell by the skeptical expressions on Ben's and Renee's faces that they don't believe me.

“I don't think so,” Nico says.

“Oh, I saw Jillian at the tennis club Saturday night. Let me tell you, she's definitely not taking this well. She looks like she's gone crazy and is hitting the Ben and Jerry's hard,” Branigan says. “A woman in her midthirties. She knows you were her last hope. She's desperate.”

At some point the sales team must have moved away from the copier because the only sound in the room now is my blaring radio, letting the whole company know what's going on in my personal life. I scramble to turn it down, knocking over a glass of water on my desk.

“Let's keep Jill out of it. She—”

Branigan cuts off Nico. “She even made up a story that she's dating someone else.”

Renee wipes up the spilled liquid with tissues.

“Maybe she is,” Nico says.

“I'm pretty good at detecting BS. She was lying,” Branigan says, his voice notably louder than it was before. “She's a lying bi—” The name he calls me is bleeped out.

“Sweetie, did you tell him you were dating someone?” Renee asks while Ben stares down over the cube wall at me.

“Um, I might have.”

Renee and Ben exchange a look that I guess means
she's so pathetic
. Imagine if Ben knew he's the one I was pretending to date.

“She's so mad at me about us helping you move on that she stole the tennis match from me,” Branigan says. “Called a ball out that was clearly in. The entire club saw it. Believe me, Jillian will get hers.”

A chill runs up my back as I imagine Branigan bludgeoning me with his tennis racquet.

“Did you purposely make a bad call against him?” Ben asks.

“I couldn't tell if the ball landed on the line.” I close my eyes and see the green felt on the white chalk.

Branigan is still blathering.

“Calm down, Sean,” Smyth says.

The show breaks for commercial. Renee jabs at the radio's power switch. Ben sinks back to his chair. They both disappear into their cubes, leaving me with my anger. I want to kill Rachel. Murder Nico. End Branigan's life. Triple homicide. Details at eleven.

* * *

After the humiliation I suffered on
BS Morning Sports Talk
, Ben and Renee insist on taking me out to lunch, so the three of us pile into Renee's SUV and head to an Italian restaurant not too far from the office.

While we wait for our meals, Renee entertains us with stories about her son, Joel, whom she's teaching how to drive. “I need to take a Valium before getting in the car with him,” she says.

I break off a piece of my roll and dip it in the oil, wondering if I should ask to borrow some of her pills to get over the jittery feeling I've had since Branigan promised revenge. The waitress arrives and hurriedly passes out our meals. Ben ordered sausage on his pizza, but the one she throws down in front of him has pepperoni. “Excuse me,” he says, but she's already gone, on her way back to the kitchen on the other side of the restaurant. He watches her, shaking his head. The table goes quiet as Renee and I wonder if we should start eating. “Go ahead,” Ben says, but we don't. After several minutes, he decides to eat the food in front of him.

Every now and then, I catch him watching me. When I meet his eye, he looks down. “What's up?” I ask after this happens three times.

“Why would your friend go to the restaurant where Nico was taking his date?” he asks.

I just picked up my chicken panini, but I return it to my plate to answer his question. “I didn't ask her to do it, if that's what you're getting at.”

He holds my stare and raises one eyebrow.

“I didn't!” I pick up my sandwich again. Before I take a bite, I add, “She wants to help me get him back.”

Renee reaches for the salad dressing and pours more on her plate. The lettuce is already drowning. “Why would you want him back?”

Ben and Renee both stare at me, waiting for an answer. I swallow before clarifying. “Get back at him for what he did. Revenge.”

“Ah, good!” Renee stabs a carrot onto her fork. She makes a loud crunching sound as she chews it.

“Just let it go,” Ben advises.

“No,” Renee says. “I like the idea of getting him back.”

The waitress reappears at the table next to ours, delivering their food. Ben's on his third slice and doesn't try to catch her eye, which is probably a good thing because she uses the same dump-it-and-run delivery style she used with us. “I wanted pepperoni,” I hear the man at the table saying as she walks away. He whistles to get her attention. She continues walking in the opposite direction.