Mixed Signals (6 page)

R
achel still lives in the town where we grew up. To get to her house, I have to pass my childhood home, a brown split-level ranch. When my parents first moved away, my eyes would well up each time I drove by, and I wondered if I was the only person who felt homesick in the town where they were raised.

As I ride by on this mid-February evening, I see the new owners still have their Christmas lights up—red, green, and blue bulbs, a colorful contrast compared to the white lights my mother insisted upon. She would go crazy if she saw the house now because she firmly believes the Christmas tree should be down and the decorations packed away by New Year's.

On the day the moving truck drove off with all my parents' belongings, my father and I stood on the front landing watching it roll down the street. He draped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. “I wouldn't be able to leave you behind if I didn't know you had Nico to lean on,” he said.

Tonight, I briefly imagine that after our weekly call tomorrow, when I tell my parents that Nico and I split, my father will sit my mother down in the living room of their English Tudor.
It's not right that she's there by herself
, he'll say.
She needs us. We have to move back
.

* * *

Smoke billows from Rachel's chimney, and the smell of the fire permeates into her yard. She rarely uses her fireplace because she worries the kids will get hurt, but she's pulling out all the stops tonight in an effort to cheer me up, making my favorite roast beef dinner with crème brûlée for dessert. I take my time walking up her driveway, breathing in the smoky smell, my favorite scent of winter. When I reach the front door, I rap on it once before entering the house. “Hello,” I call out.

I sit on the bench in the foyer and pull off my boots because I don't want to drip water on her hardwood floors.

Sophie is the first to greet me. She climbs up next to me and hugs me. I'm surprised to see that she's already dressed in her pink footie pajamas. Usually Rachel has to battle with her to change. “Auntie Jillian, Mommy said I'm not allowed to ask about Uncle Nico,” she says.

The mention of Nico's name pierces my heart. It's strange to be at Rachel's for dinner without him, but I guess I will have to get used to doing everything without him now.

“Sophie!” Mark yells. He's coming down the stairs. Jacob, the baby, is cradled in his arms. Laurence trails behind, sucking his thumb and carrying a toy minion. There is also a picture of the little creature on his pajama top.

“What did she do?” Rachel hollers from the kitchen.

“Nothing,” I say.

Mark trades me my coat for Jacob, who immediately starts crying when handed off. I place him over my shoulder and rub his back, wishing someone would do the same to me.

“Auntie, do you want to play Connect Four?” Sophie asks.

“Auntie came to talk to me tonight,” Rachel says. She's standing in the hallway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Mark, bring all the kids into the living room and keep them there until supper.”

He takes Jacob from me.

“Don't let them too close to the fire,” Rachel calls out as I follow her into the kitchen. She checks on the roast before pouring me a glass of wine.

In the other room, Mark and the kids break out into belly laughs. I peek in and see him crawling on all fours with both Laurence and Sophie on his back. Rachel and I both grew up in the same sort of family, with loving parents and brothers who teased us in good fun. We wanted the same things out of life, a husband and a household filled with kids. She got that. Today, her home is filled with love and laughter, a stark comparison to my quiet, lonely apartment. I wonder if I had never met Nico, would I have met someone else and have what she does?

She interrupts my thoughts. “I can't believe Nico blindsided you by announcing your breakup on air.”

“I think he tried to tell me about the contest, but I hung up on him.” I get up from my stool to finish setting the table while Rachel makes gravy.

“Don't defend him. It was unacceptable for them to talk about you like that.”

“It really was,” I agree.

“You should do something to get back at him,” Rachel says.
Vengeful
should be her middle name. In high school she dumped ten cans of Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatballs over the hood of a Ford Mustang belonging to a boy who had the nerve to break up with her. His car was parked in the school lot at the time, and she got detention for a week.

“Believe me, I'd love to. Any ideas?”

“What did you do with the ring?”

Instinctively I touch the finger I used to wear it on. “It's in my bureau drawer.”

“He paid a lot of money for it,” she says in a way that makes me think she knows exactly how much it cost him.

“How do you know?”

She sighs. “Who do you think picked it out?”

“Nico told me he picked it out by himself.” I point a knife at her. “You never told me you helped.”

There I was, thinking how well he knew me because he selected my dream ring. I am such a fool.

She sighs. “He made me promise not to tell. The point is, you should sell it.”

I can't do that. I'm going to wear it again someday.
The thought pops into my head with no warning. I imagine striking it with a mallet to send it back to the crevice of my brain it crawled out of. “Why do you think he hasn't asked for it back?”

Rachel's spoon clanks off the side of the pan as she stirs the gravy. “Don't even go there,” she says as if she's reading my thoughts. “I can see you waiting around for another six years because you think if he really didn't want to marry you, he would ask for it back.”

No one knows me better than Rachel. Maybe she's my soul mate.

“After he humiliated you like that, you can never take him back,” she says.

“I know that.” Even to me though, my words don't sound convincing. She gives me a look that says she doesn't believe me.

* * *

After dinner, Rachel and I are sitting by the fire in the living room. Mark is upstairs, putting the kids to bed. “I'm going to show you something, but you have to promise not to be mad,” she says. She empties the remaining pinot noir into my glass. “Do you promise?”

I swear her expression is the same as when we were seventeen and she was trying to convince me to steal a bottle of vodka from my parents' liquor cabinet. “They'll never know,” she promised. Meanwhile, the very next day they noticed the alcohol was missing; I got grounded for a month.

I get up to throw more wood on the fire, wondering what she's up to. “No, I don't promise.”

“Well, remember that I'm trying to help you.” She reaches for the iPad that's sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch and swipes at the screen. As I watch her fiddle with it, I figure out she had the same thought that I did to create a fake entry for the
BS Morning Sports Talk
win-a-date-with-Nico contest. Great minds think alike.

She hands me the tablet. My own face stares back at me. The words
30-Something-Love
appear above my picture. “What is this?” It can't be what I think it is.

“I created an online dating profile for you.” It's exactly what I think it is. Rachel sounds pleased with herself, like she's giving me her kidney instead of soliciting dates for me on the Internet.

“Why would you do that?” I scroll though the page searching for a way to delete my profile.

“How else are you going to meet someone?”

“I don't want to meet anyone.”

A bang comes from the fireplace as a log falls against the glass door. I get up to reposition it.

“Do I have to remind you that you're going to be thirty-five in April? Ticktock. Ticktock.”

“Screw you!” I jab at the log repeatedly with the poker. Embers shoot out of the fire onto the hearth. “I'm not doing Internet dating.”

“It's how single people our age meet people these days.”

I give her a look that means
How the hell would you know? You've been happily married for eight years.

She reads my expression accurately. “Mark's sister met her boyfriend on this site and Sophie's preschool teacher met her husband.” She's listing other people who work with Mark who do online dating, but I'm not paying attention because I'm reading the description she wrote of me. She called me “hopelessly optimistic”; no doubt that's a reference to my waiting six years for a proposal that lasted three weeks.

“There are other sites too,” she says. “I think you should be on them all to increase the odds of meeting someone you like. It's a numbers game after all.”

“I'm not doing any!”

“Shh, you'll wake the kids,” Rachel whispers.

I search all over the dating site for a delete button. Finally, I found it in the Account Settings tab. I click on it. A message instantly appears:
Are you sure you want to delete your profile?

Damn straight I am. I click on yes.

Another message:
We hope you're leaving because you found someone. We hope it works out, but because love's unpredictable, your profile will remain in an archive and can be reactivated at any time.

I won't be reactivating it. That's for sure. Then, just to be sure Rachel doesn't either, I ask her for the password she used to create the account and change it.

* * *

The hardwood feels cold on my bare feet as I pace up and down the hallway listening to my mother. I was up all night, worrying about how I'm going to break the news to her that Nico and I broke up. I meant to do it as soon as I answered, but she began the conversation by telling me she stopped into a bridal shop to look at dresses. She found one she thinks will be perfect on me.

“It's an empire silhouette with a sweetheart neck,” she says, making me feel like a disappointment as a daughter because I have no idea what either of those things means—not to mention that I have no use for the dress anymore but can't bring myself to say it.

“Mom,” I interrupt.

She keeps talking. “The one I saw has short sleeves—”

“Mom, I have to—”

“But they can alter them to cap—”

“Mom!”

To my surprise, she stops speaking. The line goes quiet. Here's my chance. I'm going to tell her now before she starts up again. I take a deep breath. “Nico and I broke up. There's not going to be a wedding.” I exhale loudly, feeling better now that it's out there. I wait for her response. She says nothing. I give her a few seconds to digest the news. One. Two. Three. Nothing but silence from the other end. Four. Five. Six. “Mom?” Seven. Eight. Nine. “Are you still there?”

The other line clicks in. I glance at caller ID. It's my mother.
Un-freakinbelievable!

“I must have lost you,” she says.

“Did you hear anything I said?”

“No. I was telling you about the dress.”

I take a deep breath and prepare to say it again.
Keep your voice calm.

“They're getting more in next week. I'm—”

“Nico and I broke up,” I blurt out in a shaky voice.

“Going back—What did you say?”

“I don't need a dress. Nico and I broke up.” I repeat it without a trace of emotion this time, like I'm telling her about our horrible winter weather.

“Are you arguing about wedding plans? Because all couples do. You'll work it out.”

“We won't. It's over.”

“Did you fight today?” she asks.

“He moved out almost a month ago.” Not sleeping last night catches up to me all at once. All I want to do is go back to bed and pull the covers up over my head. Instead, I fall onto the couch.

“That can't be,” my mother says. “We've spoken every week. You never said a word about it.”

“I thought we would work things out, so I didn't want to worry you with it.”

“Oh, honey,” she says.

I can't fight back my tears, because really all I want right now is my mother to hug me, but she's a thousand miles away because she'd rather live near my brother than me.

“Did he meet someone else?” she asks.

“What? No! It was nothing like that.”

“Men don't leave unless they have someone to move on to.”

Except Nico did. “Well, he did.”

“Don't be so sure,” my mother says like she knows something I don't, and I briefly wonder about her life before she met my father. “Are you able to afford your rent on your own?” she asks. “Didn't your landlord raise it when Nico moved in?”

“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.

T
he 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.”

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.