by Diane Barnes
“Good morning,” I say.
Mr. O’Brien acknowledges me by lifting his Styrofoam Dunkin’ Donuts cup in my direction as he plods his way past me. The smell of coffee makes me wish he had brought one for me, something he sometimes did before Nico moved in. When he reaches his front door, he calls out, “Did he leave his key?”
I throw the ice scraper into my backseat, feeling like I missed part of this conversation. “Who?”
“Who?” He repeats it in a way that makes me feel like the dumbest person in the world. He clears his throat. “The young man who’s been living in my house with you.”
“No.”
Mr. O’Brien sighs loudly before slamming his door.
* * *
On the drive to work, I tune into Nico’s show as I do every morning. The hosts, Sean Branigan and Barry Smyth, aren’t discussing sports. Instead, they’re insulting a female sideline reporter who covered one of the playoff football games over the weekend. “She’s hideous,” Smyth says.
“How many times do you think she hit the concession stands during the game?” Branigan asks.
My jaw locks. I don’t like these guys. Then it occurs to me: I don’t have to listen to them—not until Nico comes home anyway. I smile as I change the radio to another station. Take that, Nico! You just lost a listener. I keep changing channels until a song I like comes on. I sing along with Taylor Swift about haters hating.
I’m still singing when I lower my window to order coffee at the drive-thru window. “Shake it off and order,” the voice from the speaker says.
* * *
As I walk across the pedestrian bridge that leads from the parking garage to my office building, an icy gust of wind stings my face. I lower my head and run the rest of the way. When I enter the lobby, I tell myself that I need to be on my game today. In addition to changes in my personal life, my professional life is unstable as well. The company I work for, CyberCrimeBusters, was recently acquired by a venture capital firm, which immediately changed our name to Cyber Security Consultants. Clients hire us to assess the security of their websites and technology applications. Basically they pay us to hack into their systems and close up the holes that allowed us to do so. Our new owners have big plans for expanding our business, starting with refining our brand. As one of a four-person marketing team, I have a lot of work to do to change the company’s image. My coworkers are Renee Boudrot, who, like me, is a writer, and Ben Colby, the graphic designer. The three of us report to Stacy Taylor, who is the vice president of marketing.
Now, as I board the elevator, Ryan and Tyler, two twenty-something salesmen, get on with me. “Tell Nico great show today,” Tyler, the light-haired one, says. My body tenses at the mention of Nico’s name. In the four years I’ve worked here, he has attended every holiday party with me and several of our frequent after-work outings. The sports fans among my colleagues are impressed by his job. All night long, they buy him drinks and talk about Boston’s teams. Most of the men outside Sales and Marketing don’t know me as Jillian Atwood but instead think of me as that girl who dates the guy who produces BS Morning Sports Talk.
The elevator stops. “Any chance you can hook me up with tickets to Friday’s Celtics game?” Ryan, the tall one, asks as we all step out onto the fourth floor.
“Sorry, no.” If Nico doesn’t come back, my coworkers and I will mourn together.
At the entrance to my section of the building, I fumble through my purse for my access badge. When I find it, I hold it up to the card reader, and the door clicks open. As I walk by row after row of dull gray cubes, I hear the slogan for BS Morning Sports Talk coming from several of them: “The number-one-rated sports talk show in New England—and that’s not BS.”
I push my diamond around my finger with my thumb. Nico saying he doesn’t want to get married is BS. If he meant it, wouldn’t he have asked for the ring back?
I reach the aisle by the windows, where my department sits. No one is there. My coworkers’ jackets are hanging on the hooks outside their cubes, so I know they’re somewhere in the building, probably getting coffee. I settle in behind my computer and log into email. An alert for this morning’s meeting flashes in the bottom right corner of my screen, telling me I’m eleven minutes late. So much for being on my game today. I run to the end of the hall to Stacy’s office and burst through the door. Ben’s and Renee’s heads both snap in my direction. Stacy looks pointedly at her watch.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“We’re brainstorming images for the new website,” Stacy says.
“So far we’ve come up with a lock,” Ben says. As usual, his light brown hair is still damp, and he smells like Irish Spring soap.
“We’ll think about the images later,” Stacy says. “Let’s spend some time coming up with buzzwords and catchphrases we can use in our messaging.”
Renee and I throw out ideas. Ben remains quiet, doodling on his notepad. I look down and see he’s drawing a picture of Renee with her short, spiky black hair on fire and smoke coming out of her nostrils and ears. Over the past few months, she has started having hot flashes, and Ben teases her mercilessly about them.
“Prevent penetration,” he offers.
“Gross,” Renee says.
I scrunch my nose. Although the words definitely relate to cyber security, coming from Ben, who never sleeps with the same woman more than once, they sound dirty. As far as I can tell, his relationships usually last the same amount of time as the company’s pay period: two weeks.
Stacy’s computer beeps. “I have another meeting. Email me a list of catchphrases and images ideas by Wednesday.”
Ben, Renee, and I stand. “Jillian,” Stacy says, “how come I haven’t seen a draft of the article on security risks in the health care industry?”
Yikes! With all that’s going on with Nico and the acquisition, I forgot I’m supposed to be ghostwriting an article for our CEO. “I’ll send it to you at the end of the day.”
“Send me what you have so far,” she says.
“I haven’t started it yet.” Embarrassed by my oversight, I can’t meet her eyes, and look at the ground as I speak.
Stacy pulls a red and yellow stress ball, with the old CyberCrimeBusters name circling it, from her top desk drawer. “It’s due tomorrow.” She’s squeezing the ball so tightly that her knuckles are white. “Send it to me by three today,” she says.
I nod. Renee, Ben, and I file out of her office.
“What’s going on with you, Jillian?” Ben asks when we are out of Stacy’s earshot.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re coming in late, forgetting projects, and you look like you didn’t sleep all weekend,” he says.
“Concealer, sweetie,” Renee says. She’s a few steps behind us. “Cover those dark circles right up.”
Dark circles are only part of the problem. My long brown hair refuses to hold a wave. My usually dark complexion is pasty. The dimple on my cheek seems shallower. Even the blue of my eyes seems muted. It’s like Nico took my sparkle with him when he left. For a minute, I think about confessing that he moved out, but being dumped less than a month after getting engaged is too embarrassing to talk about. Besides, when Nico returns, Renee will make it her mission to convince me not to take him back. From the moment she first laid eyes on him, she didn’t like him. You’d think knowing he was meeting your coworkers, he would have bothered to shave, she said. He looks dirty. She didn’t believe me when I told her that he had in fact shaved an hour or two before we left the house. While Renee dislikes Nico’s facial hair, to me, his fast-growing beard is the epitome of masculinity, part of his sexual prowess. I can’t imagine him without it.
Ben and Nico aren’t friendly either. They met at a holiday party a few weeks after I started. I was wearing a short black sleeveless dress that showed off my well defined arms and legs. Ben told me I looked smoking hot. He said the exact same thing to Renee and Stacy, but Nico insisted he had a different tone and look in his eyes when h
e said it to me. I think Ben makes him insecure. Nico never would admit it, but he’s jealous of Ben’s good looks. A green-eyed devilish version of Bradley Cooper is what Renee calls Ben, and her description is spot-on.
* * *
When I get home that night, the driveway is empty and my side of the duplex is dark. The thick row of long, pointy icicles hanging off the roof makes the house look haunted. In a way it is, with memories of Nico.
Usually when I make my way across the front porch, I can smell dinner cooking—steak on the grill Nico used on the back deck all year long, or garlic and basil from the Italian dishes he liked to whip up. The lack of a scent tonight is another reminder that he’s gone.
Inside, the apartment is quiet. SportsCenter isn’t blaring from the television. Worse, Nico isn’t there to greet me with a kiss or tease me by rubbing his razor-stubbled face over my cheek. The only sign that he was ever here is his jacket hanging over the back of the chair. I take mine off and slip into his. It’s big and cozy and smells like his woodsy aftershave. I take a deep breath and imagine him hugging me. He always squeezes a bit too hard, as if he can’t get a good enough grip on me. Turns out I was the one who should have been holding on tighter.
I push back the sleeves, reach into the pockets and pull out a handful of cinnamon candies from one and a folded piece of paper from the other. I unfold the note. It’s Sean Branigan’s letterhead. Below his name, the number 4.6 is written in thick black ink. I pop one of the candies in my mouth while I try to figure out what the number means. I come up with a pretty good guess: Branigan and Smyth are fond of rating women. Like they did today, they often waste on-air time discussing women’s appearances: the hottest sports wife, the ugliest female sports reporter, the actress they’d give up ten years of their lives to sleep with, the star that they would choose death over sleeping with. A female intern started on the show a few weeks ago. The 4.6 is probably Branigan’s rating of her looks. The guy is such a pig, but Nico idolizes him. I imagine him laughing when Branigan slipped him the note. That’s a little harsh. She’s not that bad, he probably said in a halfhearted attempt to defend the poor girl. As I think about it, I’m chomping the sucker into tiny pieces with my back molars. It drives me nuts the way Nico never stands up to Branigan. I rip off the jacket and fling it back over the chair.
As if he can see what I’m doing, Nico chooses that moment to call. My phone vibrates on the kitchen table as I debate whether to answer it. What if he’s calling to get his coat back, or the ring? I’d have to admit it’s really over. Nope. I’m not answering. Maybe he’ll think I went out with Ben after work for drinks. That would make him insane. I imagine him jumping in his truck and driving by the restaurants near my office. When he finds me, he muscles his way past Ben and confesses he’s made a horrible mistake. By the fourth ring, I’ve convinced myself Nico wants to come home and that’s why he’s calling. I scramble to answer before he hangs up because Lord knows, he won’t leave a message.
“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.”
Then come home.
Do not say that out loud.
“I don’t know how much longer I can take it.”
Do not ask him to come back.
“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.
Chapter 3
“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.”
