by Diane Barnes
“Jill, I need to talk to you about a couple of things.”
Here we go. Finally getting to the good part.
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.
“Yup. I can’t get in for a few weeks. They need to fix up the place, but it’s really nice. Even has its own parking spot.”
“You’re really not coming home?” My voice breaks. I wish I could kick my own butt.
“Look, Jill, I know this all seems sudden to you, but it’s not. I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”
“How can that be, when only a month ago you proposed?”
In the background, dishes clank. Is Nico having this discussion in front of Nina and her entire family? Why aren’t they trying to stop him? Surely they don’t want him to break up with me. The girls love me.
“At the time, it seemed like the right thing to do,” he says.
“And now it doesn’t?”
“I knew it was what you were expecting. What you wanted, so I did it.”
“Are you saying you never wanted to marry me?”
The line goes quiet. For a moment I think he hung up, but then he says, “It’s killing me that I’m hurting you. That was never my intention.”
I leap to my feet. “You’ve confused me, and you’ve pissed me off, but you didn’t hurt me. I’m fine.”
He sighs. “Whatever you say.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Wait.” He swallows. “The show. Branigan has this idea. We’re going to be do—”
“I don’t care about Branigan or your stupid show!” I pound on the end key and hurl the phone against the wall. The back falls off as it crashes to the floor. I pick it up and snap it back together. It rings in my hand. I look down at caller ID expecting to see Nico’s name. Instead it’s Mr. O’Brien’s. Crap!
“Everything okay over there?” Colleen asks.
It was stupid to throw the phone against the wall, especially one that I share with my landlord. “Fine.”
“We heard a loud bang. Did something break?”
Only my heart. Into a billion little pieces. “No. I dropped my phone. Everything’s fine.” My response is met with silence, so I go on. “Tell Zachary to call Nico about the internship. I’ll give you his number.”
“Let me get a pen,” she says. I hear drawers squeaking open and banging shut. “Okay.”
I spit out Nico’s number.
“Jillian, are you all right? My dad told me about—”
“Did you get the number?”
She repeats it back to me.
“I have to go,” I say and hang up quickly.
Chapter 5
On Sunday morning, I wake to my doorbell ringing over and over again. I glance at the clock. It’s quarter to nine. Early for anyone except maybe Mr. O’Brien, unless Nico’s had a change of heart? I pull my hair into a ponytail, brush my teeth, and throw on sweats and the Brady Number 12 Patriots shirt he gave me our first Christmas together. The ringing has been replaced by pounding. I make my way downstairs and pull open the door.
“Why are you avoiding me?” Rachel yells.
“I’m not avoiding you.”
Mr. O’Brien’s door swings open. He steps outside, eyeing Rachel and her five-year-old daughter, Sophie, like he’s trying to determine if they are friend or foe. I wave to him. “What’s all the shouting and pounding?” he asks.
“It was knocking,” Rachel says. She pushes her way past me with Sophie following behind her.
Mr. O’Brien backs into his house and slams the door.
“Hi, Aunt Jillian.” Sophie reaches up to hug me. I scoop her up and plant kisses all over her tiny face.
Rachel studies me as she removes her gloves and coat. “Are you sick?”
I shake my head.
“Well, you look awful.” She continues past the staircase into the living room. She freezes in front of the couch. “It looks different in here.”
I lower Sophie to the ground and concentrate on removing her jacket so that I don’t have to look at Rachel when I speak. “We de-cluttered.”
Rachel’s quiet. I sneak a look at her. She’s staring at the empty spot where Nico’s hideous orange recliner used to be. “Nico let you get rid of his chair?”
Rachel’s known me since preschool and can always tell when I’m lying. She says my voice gets higher and I tilt my head to the right. I tell myself to keep my voice low and my head straight. “We’re getting a new one.”
She takes off her jacket and throws it on the couch. There’s a blob of spit-up or something stuck to her gray sweatshirt, and her black yoga pants are dusted in baby powder. Seeing her like this makes it hard to believe that once upon a time, our Westham High classmates voted her best dressed. Since having Sophie, her wardrobe consists almost exclusively of clothes like she’s wearing today. She calls them her mommy uniform. “Where’s Nico?” she asks.
“Playing basketball.” That’s probably the truth. It’s what he does most Sunday mornings after football season.
Sophie tugs on my arm. “Can I have a snack?”
The three of us head to the kitchen. Rachel stops by the chair with Nico’s leather jacket and rests her hands on it like she’s trying to figure out the last time it was worn, by touching it. Why hasn’t he come back for it? There must be a reason.
I open the cabinet and take out a bag of Oreos, which are Nico’s and Sophie’s favorite. I’m surprised he left them behind.
“Just two,” Rachel says. I hand Sophie three. She gives me one back. I don’t blame her. I’m a little afraid of Rachel too. I pop the cookie in my mouth as I go to the refrigerator to get Sophie milk.
“So why haven’t you been to the club?” Rachel asks. “David told me you haven’t been playing.”
“I was there yesterday. Work has been busy.”
Sophie finishes her cookies and wanders out of the kitchen.
Rachel has that look she used to get when I watched her cross-examine witnesses in mock trials before she met Mark and quit law school. “What’s going on?”
Maybe I should tell her. She is my best friend, and it would be good to have someone to talk to about this. Yes, when Nico returns, he will have to experience her wrath for a while, years really, but maybe at this point he deserves that. He got his own place!
A loud crash from the hallway interrupts my thoughts. A second later Sophie cries. Rachel and I rush to her. The door to the closet is open. All the games are scattered over the floor. Sophie sits in a pile of Monopoly money, Trivial Pursuit cards, and other game pieces. “I was trying to get Trouble,” she sobs.
“You’ve got trouble now, missy,” Rachel says, picking up her daughter by the arm. “Stop crying. You’re not hurt.”
“I just wanted to play.”
“You should have asked,” Rachel snaps.
“It’s okay,” I say. “We can play.”
Rachel helps me pick up the games and return them to the shelf. I carry Sophie to the living room and set up Trouble. Sophie chooses the green pegs; I take the blue. We put them into their spots on the board. In the hallway, Rachel continues straightening the closet.
“I go first,” Sophie says. She’s kneeling on the floor in front of the leather ottoman where the game is set up and reaches for the dice bubble. She p
resses down on it so it pops. The dice flips and lands on three. Sophie frowns. She needed a six to be able to move one of her pieces.
I hear Rachel’s footsteps moving away from us and climbing the stairs. I pop the dice. It lands on six. Sophie gives me the evil eye. I swear to God, it’s just like playing with Rachel when we were that age. Sophie has Rachel’s curly black hair, huge brown eyes, and exact dirty looks.
Upstairs, the bathroom door squeaks shut as Sophie takes another turn. The dice lands on five. She pouts. I get a four on my turn.
We play for a few minutes before Rachel calls my name. “Can you come up here?” she asks.
“Go ahead,” Sophie says. “I’ll go when you’re gone.” As I walk away and climb the stairs, the dice pops over and over again. Her mother used to cheat too.
I enter the bathroom. The medicine cabinet and linen closet are open. The shower curtain is pushed to the side. What the hell? “Why are you going through my stuff?”
“I was trying to fix the medicine cabinet’s door.” She puts a hand on her hip, her tell for lying. “Why is there nothing of Nico’s here?”
I feel my eyes filling up and squeeze them shut to prevent tears from flooding out. I take a deep breath and open them slowly. “He moved out.” My voice sounds like it’s far away.
“He moved out. Oh, Jillian.” Rachel pulls me into a tight embrace. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
There is no stopping the tears now. “He said he doesn’t want to be a husband or a father.”
“But he loves kids,” Rachel says. Her ponytail is now wet with my tears.
“Right!” I sniff loudly as I pull myself away from her to get a tissue from the box on the vanity. “He just has a case of cold feet. He’ll be back. I’m sure of it.”
Rachel’s expression remains neutral, so I can’t tell if she agrees. “How long has he been gone?”
I blow my nose. “He moved to Nina’s the day after Mark’s birthday.”
“That was weeks ago! Is that why you’ve been avoiding me, because you didn’t want to tell me?”
I nod.
“Have you spoken to him?”
“He called last night to say he got his own place.” Saying it out loud causes me to panic more than I did last night. My pulse throbs in my throat. He got his own place. He’s not coming back. Ever.
Rachel folds her arms across her chest. “Bastard.”
“You said a bad word, Mommy. I’m telling Daddy,” Sophie says. I have no idea how long she’s been standing there. She looks at me. “I got a six. It’s your tur—Why are you crying, Auntie?” She rushes by Rachel to hug me.
I pick her up and hold her close to me, resting my nose in her watermelon-shampoo-scented hair. For the first time since Rachel married Mark, I’m jealous of the family she has with him and afraid that I won’t have one of my own. I’m almost thirty-five, and my boyfriend of six years, my fiancé, has dumped me.
Chapter 6
Maybe it’s because I confessed to Rachel what happened, or maybe it’s because of the awful phone call with Nico, but for whatever reason, I wake up Monday with a new attitude. For weeks I’ve been asking myself, what will I do without him? Today I replace the question with, who needs him anyway? Before I get out of bed, I slide my diamond off and throw it into the top drawer of my nightstand. A thin red circle scars my finger where the ring used to be.
As I apply moisturizer to the indentation, I think about the night Nico proposed. We were at Vincenzio’s Cucina in the North End of Boston. After we ordered dessert, he dropped to one knee. Right there in the middle of the restaurant with all the other diners looking on. “Let’s make this official, Jillian. Marry me.” Remembering it now, it doesn’t seem all that romantic, but at the time, I was swept off my feet and joined him down on the carpet for a long kiss. People at nearby tables all applauded. Vincenzio brought us each a complimentary glass of champagne. How could I have known Nico would change his mind three weeks later? Should I have known?
Surely Renee will notice that I’m not wearing my ring, so I’ll have to break the news to her and Ben as soon as I get into the office. In the shower, I rehearse what I’ll say. I don’t have to tell them the ugly truth. I work in marketing after all. I know how to spin a story. Nico and I mutually decided not to get married. We’re going to spend some time apart and see how it goes. It was an amicable split. Of course, they’re in the same profession and know BS when they hear it. No matter, they won’t call me out on it.
Instead of jeans, I dress in a short black skirt, a fitted blue blazer, and tall boots. Looking good will make me seem less upset. I bundle up in my long coat, hat, and gloves and head out the door. As soon as I step outside, the bitterly cold air stings my exposed skin. I hurry across the porch and down the walkway to my Accord, thinking I should have started it early to give it time to warm up. I turn the key in the ignition. There’s an irritating whining noise, but the car doesn’t turn over. I try again with the same result. Perfect!
Mr. O’Brien, back from getting his morning coffee, pulls in next to me. I turn the key one more time and hold it. Mr. O’Brien, who is now standing in the driveway in front of my car, holds his hands over his ears. Instead of his usual Red Sox baseball cap, he’s wearing a blue wool hat with a red B that’s pulled low over his forehead. I get out of my car and slam the door.
“Your battery is dead,” he says. He places his cup on the roof of my Honda. “Do you have jumper cables?”
“No, but I have Triple A.” I step toward the walkway, wanting to get inside. It’s so cold that it hurts to breathe. I imagine my lungs icing over.
“On a day like today you’ll be waiting for hours. Don’t you have to get to work?” He returns to his car and lifts the hatchback to retrieve his cables. “Pop your hood,” he instructs. He does the same to his station wagon.
I remain in my driver’s seat, shivering while waiting for him to clamp the cables onto the battery terminals or whatever it is he has to do, but he beckons me to the front of the car. “Do you know how to use these?” he asks.
My eyes widen. I thought he knew. “I’ll call Triple A.”
His sour expression reminds me of something my mother always said to me when I was a kid: Be careful or your face will freeze like that! The things that pop up and make me miss my parents always take me by surprise.
“I know how to use them,” he says. “You should too. Pay attention.” He tells me the red clamps go on the positive terminals of my battery and his, and the black get clamped to the negative terminal of his battery and on a piece of metal somewhere under the hood. After explaining, he tells me to connect them. I’m hesitant to attach them, certain I’ll electrocute myself or blow up both vehicles. I imagine a fiery explosion. “Go on,” he urges.
His earlobes are bright red, and I can’t feel my face. If I don’t do this soon, we’ll both end up with frostbite or worse. I take a deep breath, hook them up, and duck like I’m taking cover. Nothing explodes. “What the hell are you doing?” my landlord asks. “Get behind the wheel and try to start your car.”
I retreat to the driver’s seat and turn the ignition. Once we get my Accord running, he asks, “If this happens again, would you know what to do?”
“Yes,” I say out loud. Call Triple A, I say to myself. “Thank you for the lesson.”
“One thing I’ve learned through the years is you’re better off learning how to do things yourself because most people will let you down.” The look he gives me and the change in his inflection tell me he’s not talking about my dead battery. He reaches up for his Dunkin’ Donuts cup and takes a sip. “Good thing I like iced coffee,” he says.
* * *
When I arrive at work, Renee is talking to Ben in his cube. The radio plays softly in the background. As I walk by them, their voices drop to a whisper, but they don’t look at me. It’s good that they’re sitting together. It will make it easier to tell them my news. I go to my desk to drop off my belongings. When I join them, I fold my han
ds behind my back so that they won’t notice the missing ring. Neither of them looks at me though. Renee stares down at the gray carpet. Ben turns away from me, reaches for the radio on the windowsill, and fumbles with its volume. A voice blasts from the speaker. Ben hits the power button to silence it. My brain takes a few seconds to process that the voice is Nico’s.
“Why is Nico on the air?” I ask.
Renee taps the toe of her boot against the wall. Ben shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
“What’s going on?”
They look at each other but not at me.
“Put the radio back on,” I instruct.
“Not a good idea,” Renee says.
“You’re better off not hearing what they’re saying,” Ben adds.
Well, now I’m totally curious. What could Branigan, Smyth, and Nico be talking about that has my colleagues so worked up? I reach around Ben for the power switch.
“She didn’t see it coming,” Smyth says.
“Tom Brady got sacked and then you sack your fiancée,” Branigan says.
My knees buckle. I grab hold of the edge of Ben’s desk to steady myself.
A laugh I recognize as Nico’s. “It wasn’t exactly like that.”
On the radio they’re talking about how I got dumped. I won’t be able to show my face in Boston, in the entire state of Massachusetts. Damn, the show’s streamed all over the world on the Internet.
“But you did call off the wedding, and you’re single now, correct?” Smyth asks.
“True,” Nico responds.
Ben and Renee both stare at me. I look back at them, pretending I have nothing to be embarrassed about. Somewhere in the building, the HVAC system roars to life.
Branigan asks, “Are you sure she knows the wedding’s off, because I saw her over the weekend, and she’s still wearing the rock.”
Renee and Ben both look at my bare finger.
“She knows,” Nico says.
“So, Nico’s feeling a little sad,” Branigan says.
“A lot sad,” Nico clarifies.
Branigan ignores him. “What he needs is to get back on the bike, so we’re going to have a contest. Ladies, if you’re single and want a date with our producer, send us an email with your picture. And I can’t stress this enough, we won’t consider applicants who don’t send photos.”
