by Diane Barnes
“That’s brilliant,” Renee says, rubbing her hands together.
“You have something on your face,” Ben says to me, touching his cheek.
I wipe mine.
“The other side,” he says. He reaches toward me and wipes away whatever was there. The spot where he touched me tingles.
“You don’t really have to date,” Renee says. She bounces up and down in her chair she’s so excited. “You just have to make Nico think you are.”
“How are we going to do that?” I ask.
“You’re still Facebook friends, right?”
I nod, thinking I need to unfriend him.
“Fake posts!” She looks pleased with herself.
Ben does that thing where he raises one eyebrow. “OMG! Slept with Ben for the first time tonight! I didn’t know sex could be so good!” He says it in a voice much deeper than normal. “It was better than the millions of times I fantasized about him.”
“Finally gave in and made Ben’s dreams come true.” I wink at him. “Pretty sure I’ve ruined him for all other women.”
Renee covers her ears with her hands. “Enough,” she says. “You’re grossing me out, but you get the idea.”
Ben leans closer to me and whispers, “Can’t get enough of Ben. Want to do him morning, noon, and night.”
I put my hand on his thigh. “Blew Ben’s mind with that thing I do with my—”
The waitress finally returns to see if we need anything. “The check,” Renee says. “And hurry.”
Ben waits for her to leave. “Tell me about that thing you do,” he says.
Renee points at me. “Not another word.”
“Do you do it with your tongue?”
I lean closer, stare into his eyes, and slowly trace my tongue over my upper lip. Ellie would be proud.
He arches backward in his chair.
“Enough!” Renee warns.
Ben lets it go, but as we drive back to the office, I see him watching me through the rearview mirror, and I know I’ve stirred his curiosity.
Chapter 16
When I get home from work that night, Rachel’s blue Odyssey is parked behind Mr. O’Brien’s Buick. She’s leaning into her backseat, removing Laurence from his car seat. Sophie stands next to her, holding a bouquet of tulips, and rushes across the driveway toward me. “Auntie Jillian, don’t be mad at Mommy. She was just trying to help.”
“I’m not mad at Mommy, honey,” I say as I bend to hug her.
“Good, because she says it’s all Uncle Nico’s fault. Mommy says he was mean to you.”
“Sophie, take this bag,” Rachel says, handing her daughter a small grocery sack. She lifts Laurence out of the car. “I really didn’t know he saw us,” she says. “And I had no idea they’d talk about it on air. I mean, why would they?”
Because Branigan is going to take every chance he can to humiliate me, after Saturday.
On the other side of Rachel’s car, Jacob cries. I go to get him, with Sophie trailing behind me.
“I’m sorry,” Rachel says as she collects a cooler from the back of the minivan.
“We made you dinner to ’pologize,” Sophie adds. “And brought you flowers.” She tries to hand them to me, but I’m carrying Jacob in his car seat and ask her to hold on to them until we get inside.
Mr. O’Brien’s door opens as the five of us traipse by. “How long are you going to be here?” he asks Rachel.
“An hour. Maybe a little more.” She points to the cooler. “I made vegetable lasagna. Would you like a piece?”
“It’s yummy,” Sophie says. “You should have some.” Laurence stands next to his sister, staring up at Mr. O’Brien, who looks down at them.
“Did you two help make it?”
“Mommy made it for Aunt Jillian because the men on the radio weren’t nice,” Sophie answers.
Mr. O’Brien touches the bill of his baseball cap and clears his throat. I’m sure he knows exactly what Branigan and Smyth said. He looks at me but quickly turns away when I meet his eye. “I’m leaving for Keno at seven thirty,” he says to Rachel. “Move your car before then.”
Inside my apartment, I help the kids out of their coats, mittens, and boots while Rachel brings the food to the kitchen. By the time I join her, she has emptied the cooler on the table. In addition to the lasagna, she’s made a Caesar salad and garlic bread. She instructs me to play with Sophie and Laurence while she heats up the food. She keeps Jacob in the kitchen with her.
Sophie sets up Concentration on the living room floor with my deck of cards. We played this game for more than an hour the last time Nico and I babysat. It was Sophie and me against Laurence and Nico. Jacob was asleep in his crib. He woke up crying around the same time Laurence went into meltdown mode. That’s when the fun ended. Nico tried to soothe Laurence, picking him up, carrying him on his back. It didn’t work. I suggested he take Laurence outside to build a snowman. When I peeked out the window, Nico seemed to be enjoying himself, laughing as he lifted Laurence into the spot for the head of the snowman and snapping a picture with his phone. I wonder what he did with that photo? Does he ever look at it now and miss the time we spent together, or did he take the shot to mark the moment he no longer wanted to be part of my life?
“It’s your turn, Auntie,” Sophie says, bringing me back to the present.
“What do you think, Laurence?” I ask the boy. He takes his thumb out of his mouth and places it on the back of a card in the row closest to Sophie. I flip it over. It’s the queen of hearts. “Pick another one.” He chooses the one directly to the right of the queen. It’s the joker. Sophie always insists on keeping them in the deck. I flip the two cards back over.
Sophie takes her turn. She selects a card in the left-hand corner on my side. It’s the queen of diamonds. She studies the board, trying to remember where the queen of hearts is. With his thumb back in his mouth, Laurence makes sucking noises. Sophie looks at him and then down at the board again. It takes her a moment to notice the big wet spot on the back of a card right in front of her. She turns it over, revealing the queen of hearts. She smiles at me.
“Dinner’s ready,” Rachel calls from the kitchen. She has made up an extra plate and is covering it with tinfoil. “Take this to your landlord,” she says, handing it to me.
“He said he didn’t want it,” I remind her.
“He’ll eat it,” she says as she helps Laurence into his seat.
I really don’t feel like facing Mr. O’Brien again after what happened on BS Morning Sports Talk this morning. You sent your friend to spy, I imagine him saying. What do you even see in him? I could tell he was no good from the moment I laid eyes on him. He’ll shake his head, grab the plate out of my hands, and slam the door in my face.
Rachel tries to give me the covered plate, but I won’t take it. “Why don’t you bring it to him?” I ask.
“I don’t think he likes me. Laurence, knock it off!” He has his fingers in the lasagna.
“He doesn’t like anybody,” I say.
“Sophie, wait until we’re all at the table.”
“But I’m hungry,” Sophie whines. She’s biting into a piece of garlic bread.
“I said wait.” Rachel thrusts the plate at me. “Just take it to him,” she snaps. “Sophie! Laurence! Knock it off.”
Jacob starts to cry. I figure it might be safer over at Mr. O’Brien’s, so I head outside with the food without putting on my jacket.
I run across the porch and knock on his door. My teeth are chattering by the time he answers. “Where’s your coat?” he asks. He’s not wearing his baseball cap, and one piece of black hair among his thick white moss stands straight up behind his ear. It’s like a distant relative of the wild hair in his bushy eyebrows.
I hold up the plate. “You might want this later.” He pushes the door open, and I extend the dish of food to him. “Enjoy.”
I start to make my way back across the porch. “Jillian,” he calls, startling me because he rarely uses my name.
In fact, sometimes I wonder if he remembers it. “Now that’s it’s just you over there”—he points his thumb in the direction of my apartment—“I’m reducing your rent. Twenty-five dollars less.”
“Thanks.” He doesn’t hear me because he has already closed the door.
* * *
We’ve finished eating, and Rachel and I are cleaning the kitchen. Sophie and Laurence are in the living room watching television, and Jacob is sleeping in his car seat.
“What is that still doing here?” Rachel asks, pointing to Nico’s jacket.
I can’t believe I’ve left it hanging over the back of the kitchen chair for almost two months. When Nico lived here, I always got mad at him for throwing it there. Put it in the closet, I’d pester. He’d ignore me, so I’d end up hanging it up myself, muttering under my breath just loud enough for him to hear about how lazy he was. He’d counter with Jillian, you need to relax. We would definitely end up fighting about it.
“I’m waiting for him to realize he forgot it and come get it,” I say.
“You should get the scissors and cut it into a hundred tiny pieces.”
I imagine handing Nico a bag of leather scraps, enjoying his crestfallen face. Jacob lets out a small cry. Rachel rocks his seat, and he falls right back to sleep. I wish it were that easy for me, but once I wake up, I’m usually up for hours.
“Or donate it to Goodwill,” she says.
“It’s his favorite coat.”
The look she gives me is similar to the one she gave Sophie earlier for eating the garlic bread before we were all at the table. “You know, Jill, that’s the problem with you. You wait for things to happen.”
I’m on my way to the sink to rinse out a soda can; instead I crush it between my hands. “What are you talking about?”
“You waited six years for Nico to ask you to marry him, and now you’re waiting for him to come back.”
“I’m not waiting for him to come back.” I yank on the faucet and run the dirty dishes under the water.
“Well, you’re not moving on with your life.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to start dating again,” she says. Her voice softens. “Seeing that jacket every day can’t be good for you. It’s a constant reminder of Nico.”
“I don’t think getting rid of his jacket is going to help me forget about him.”
“Well, you need to figure out something that will.”
Ellie’s words pop into my head. The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.
“Ben wants me to go to Renee’s party with him,” I blurt out.
“Ben, the guy you work with?”
I nod.
“Didn’t you tell me he’s a player?”
“I think I said he burns through women.”
“Same difference,” Rachel says. “You need to make a smart choice this time.”
This time. Like she knew Nico wasn’t a smart choice when I was dating him.
Chapter 17
I know as soon as I wake up the next day that Branigan is up to something. Don’t listen. I chant it to myself over and over again, and the mantra works. I immediately switch off my alarm and get ready for work, with the television on instead of the radio. The morning news show is chronicling all the problems the MBTA, Boston’s public transportation system, has had this winter, making it impossible for people to get where they need to be. “The weather, the late trains. They’re making everyone cranky,” the female anchor, who is rumored to have had an affair with Branigan, says.
It must have snowed last night because there is a fresh coating on the driveway. Mr. O’Brien’s Buick is gone, and there is a set of tire tracks from where he backed out this morning. As I hurriedly clear the inch or so off my windows and windshield, he returns from his daily trip to Dunkin’ Donuts. Unlike every other morning, there are no voices blasting from the speakers of his car. When he gets out of the station wagon, he’s carrying two cups of coffee. He makes his way to my car and hands me one without saying anything.
Not listening to BS Morning Sports Talk? Buying me coffee? Whatever it is Branigan and Smyth are saying must be bad, very bad.
Mr. O’Brien sighs as he makes his way to his door. Before he disappears inside, he offers me advice. “Listen to music today,” he says.
Of course I’m not going to do that now. I jump into my car and tune the radio to 108.4 WSPR. Shouldn’t I know what they’re saying about me? As I back out of the driveway, they’re not talking because an advertisement is playing. It’s for an attorney who specializes in divorce, representing men only. I don’t understand how that’s even legal.
“I’ll help you keep what’s yours,” the lawyer says. The commercial causes my back to tense as I picture the show’s angry male listeners plotting with this vengeful man to ruin their soon-to-be ex-wives’ lives. I imagine most of them have children, and my heart breaks for these kids with the bickering parents.
Three miles up the road, as I turn onto the highway, the advertisements end. Branigan’s deep voice fills my car. “Today, we’re talking to noted psychiatrist William Decker, an expert in stalking. Dr. Decker, welcome to the show.”
A stalking expert? Surely this can’t have anything to do with me. I pick up my coffee from the center console to take a sip.
“Stalking is repeated, unwanted attention. It can take the form of harassing the victim with repeated phone calls, emails, texts, or gifts,” the doctor explains.
Branigan interrupts. “Jillian has been harassing Nico with phone calls and texts.”
I flinch, causing coffee to trickle down my chin and drip on my jacket. I return the drink to the cup holder, thinking about that one day I left Nico a bunch of voice mails and text messages. Certainly one time does not make me a stalker. I accelerate while moving from the right lane through the center to the left lane.
“That behavior is certainly consistent with stalking,” Dr. Decker says. “The thing to remember is if the initial actions are ineffective, the stalker may escalate to more intrusive behavior.”
“Like driving by his sister’s house or having a friend spy when he’s on a date?” Branigan suggests.
“Sending a friend to spy is bit unusual,” Dr. Decker says. “More often the person does the stalking themselves.”
“I didn’t send her!” I step on the gas as I scream at the radio.
“The interesting thing,” Dr. Decker says, “is that we don’t know what causes a person to stalk. Sometimes it’s because they want a close relationship with the victim, and sometimes it’s because a close relationship, often romantic, has just ended and the stalker doesn’t know how to respond to that in a healthy manner.”
“In Jillian’s case it’s because she bullied Nico into proposing by giving him an ultimatum, but soon after he gave her the ring, he dumped her.”
Bullied him? Is that what Nico told him, or is Branigan purposely twisting Nico’s words?
Focused on the radio show, I don’t notice the police car sitting in the median until after I fly by it. I spike the brakes and glance in my rearview mirror. The cruiser is pulling out with its blue lights on. Please don’t be coming after me. On the radio Branigan asks, “So how can Nico stop Jillian from stalking him?”
“I’m not stalking him!” I scream as I move from the left lane to the center lane, hoping the cruiser will pass. Instead, it follows me. For Christ’s sake. I can’t catch a break!
I turn down the radio’s volume and make my way to the breakdown lane and stop. Traffic whizzes by as the police car pulls in behind mine. In high school, when we studied the constitution, my history teacher told the class if we’re ever pulled over to always keep our hands in plain sight and not to make any sudden moves. I keep mine on the steering wheel, but after several minutes of waiting for the trooper to get out of his car, I get bored. I reach for the glove box and pull out my registration and then fish around in my wallet for my license. Meanwhile the police officer hasn’t left h
is vehicle. I turn the radio back up. Dr. Decker is explaining the first thing a stalking victim should do is make it clear to the stalker that the attention is unwanted.
The officer finally steps out of his car. He’s wearing aviator sunglasses even though the sky is covered in metallic-gray clouds with no chance of the sun breaking through anytime soon. I turn down the radio again and lower my window, letting in a blast of cold air. The trooper’s boots click on the pavement as he makes his way toward me. When he reaches my car, he bends into the window. “Do you know why I pulled you over?”
I shake my head, figuring I might have a better chance of getting away with my lie if I don’t speak.
“Clocked you at eighty-three in a fifty-five zone.” He straightens himself and adjusts his glasses.
“Sorry, I had no idea.”
“Where you going in such a hurry?”
“Work.”
He points to my license and registration so I give them to him. He returns to the cruiser with my information. I turn the radio back up while he’s doing whatever it is he’s doing.
There’s a commercial on for hair restoration. Branigan is the spokesperson, which, if you ask me, is not a good choice considering his forehead is spacious enough to use as a backboard to practice forehands and backhands. I turn to look at the trooper. He’s staring down at something in his lap. My car shakes as traffic whizzes by.
The advertisement ends. Branigan speaks. “Before we let you go, Doctor, what advice would you give to Jillian?”
“When relationships end, we have a lot of mixed emotions—anger, fear, sadness. It can be a very tough time. Instead of thinking about the relationship that didn’t work, focus on ones that are. Stay connected to family and friends. Tell them what you’re feeling. Take care of yourself. Eat right, exercise, and sleep. Laugh whenever you can.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Branigan interrupts. “Jill, if you’re listening, we hope you’ll take his advice.”
I give my radio the finger. There’s a knock on the car window. “Was that intended for me?” the trooper asks when I lower it.
