Mixed Signals

by Diane Barnes

  Mr. O’Brien catches me staring at the collage. “My Carol. It’s like it all happened yesterday,” he says. “You think you have all this time, but it goes by in the blink of an eye.”

  Zac rises from the couch. He places a comforting hand on his grandfather’s shoulder. “What’s up?” he asks.

  “Can you do me a favor and give these back to Nico?” I extend the ring box and coat toward him.

  “Is that what I think it is?” he asks, pointing to the box.

  “Probably. Can you make sure he gets it?”

  “Sure,” Zac says.

  As I hand over Nico’s belongings to Zac, Mr. O’Brien removes his hat, like he’s witnessing a solemn event.

  Chapter 32

  On Wednesday night, Ben and I are sitting at the bar at Donovan’s. This morning when I told him that I returned the coat and ring to Nico, he insisted on taking me out for a drink to celebrate. “So when’s your next online date?” he asks.

  “There’s no way I’m telling you.”

  The bartender slides a glass of wine in front of me and a beer to Ben.

  “So you have one?”

  “Maybe.”

  Ben raises his mug for a toast. “To it going as well as your last one.”

  “My last one was a disaster.”

  “Exactly,” he teases.

  I spin my bar spool so that I’m looking at his profile. “Why are you so opposed to me doing online dating?”

  He turns his chair toward me as well. “Jillian.” He says my name in a low, quiet voice that sends chills down my spine. He looks into my eyes hard, like he’s considering whether he should share the secret of life with me. After several seconds, he turns away and picks up his beer again. “Because there are a lot of freaks on those sites. They’re dangerous.”

  A blanket of disappointment covers me. What did I expect him to say? Because I want to date you. Fat chance. “I can weed them out.”

  Two women plant themselves on the stools next to Ben. He doesn’t notice them. “What happened with the guy from Friday?”

  “He lied about his age and used an old picture.”

  He pokes my arm. “Proving that you can’t weed them out.”

  “Next time I’ll be sure the profile has a bunch of pictures, not just one.”

  Ben reaches into the bowl of peanuts on the bar and tosses a handful into his mouth.

  “You shouldn’t eat those.” I slide the dish closer to me.

  “Why not?”

  “You don’t know who’s had their hands in there or what they were doing with those hands.”

  He pulls the nuts back toward him and scoops up another handful. When he’s done chewing, he says, “You need to lighten up, Jillian Atwood.” He picks out one peanut and extends it toward me. “Eat it,” he commands. “I dare you.” He wiggles it in front of my mouth.

  I lean away from his outstretched arm. “No way!”

  Ben summons the bartender. “Two shots of tequila.”

  “What? No!”

  “I’m going to teach you how to lighten up.”

  “I’m not doing shots.”

  “Fair enough.” He picks a peanut out of the bowl and holds it between his thumb and index finger. He reaches toward my face and traces my lips with it. His finger grazes the tip of my tongue, and just for a second I taste his skin. I swallow hard. “Peanut or a shot. The choice is yours,” he says.

  “Neither.”

  He nudges my chair with his foot. “That wasn’t a choice.”

  He makes a show of eating peanuts until the bartender returns and places the shot glasses in front of us.

  “What’s it going to be?” Ben asks, rolling another peanut over his finger.

  I glance at the bowl and then around the room. A man on the other side of the bar swipes the inside of his ear with his finger and then reaches into the bowl of peanuts in front of him. I pick up the shot glass. “Bottoms up.” I shoot down the tequila in one large swallow. YUCK! It burns going down and the taste makes me want to vomit. I frantically reach for my wine, gulping it down to wash away the nastiness of the tequila.

  Ben doubles over, laughing. “You should see your face,” he says. “I wish I had recorded that.”

  “Your turn.” I point to the second shot glass.

  He slides it toward me. “That’s for you too. If you want me to drink it, you know what to do.” He pops another nut into his mouth and chomps down on it. He swivels in his bar stool and rests his feet on the bottom of mine, grazing my leg with his and sending sparks all the way up my body. Why does he have this effect on me after all these years of knowing him?

  I pick up the glass. Ben’s eyes widen. “Seriously? You’d rather do another shot than eat one lousy peanut?”

  He reaches into his coat pocket for his phone. I slam down the contents of the glass before he can video me. This time I make a noise to go with my twisted expression. Several people around the room turn to look. I ignore them and guzzle down my remaining wine.

  Ben smiles. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Jillian. I’m impressed.”

  The tequila and the wine must be working their magic because I’m feeling wonderfully buzzed. “I am impressive.” Salt from the peanuts dots his navy oxford. I reach out to wipe it away, letting my hand linger on his chest, my fingers drifting to the hair exposed by his open buttons.

  He stares down, then slowly lifts his eyes to mine. “Jillian.” He says my name the same way my mother used to when she was losing patience with me and I was about to get in big trouble.

  I drop my hand to my lap. Damn. How many times does he need to reject me before I take the hint. I swivel my chair so that I’m not facing him. He grabs the backrest and turns it back. His expression reminds me of a sympathetic doctor about to break bad news to a favorite patient. I can see the excuses going through his mind like the news ticker on the bottom of a television screen as he thinks of a way to let me down gently: You’re not over Nico yet. It would ruin our friendship. You’re like a sister to me.

  No matter which one he chooses, I’ll know what he really means: I’m not attracted to you.

  What he says is, “Not while we’re working together.”

  Chapter 33

  As Ellie and I look through the shelves of nail polish, picking out colors for our manicures, her stomach grumbles. “I need to get something to eat after this,” she says. It was my idea to come here at lunch. She wanted to go to the sandwich shop.

  She chooses a shade of red called Size Matters while I select my usual light pink to go with my standard French manicure.

  “Do something different,” Ellie encourages. She hands me a bottle. I laugh as I read the name: Get to Bed Red.

  We take seats in side-by-side stations. My manicurist inspects my nails and says something to Ellie’s manicurist in what I think is Vietnamese. They both laugh. Every time I get my nails done, the person doing them speaks to another salon employee in a language I can’t understand. I always think they’re talking about me, saying something like her fingers are fat or how is it possible to chip your nails like that. They go on for so long though, that their conversation can’t be about only my hands, so I worry that they’re critiquing my entire appearance. Have you ever seen hair so limp? She’s too old for acne, don’t you think? What was she thinking when she got dressed this morning?

  Ellie, of course, is not bothered by her manicurist speaking a language she can’t understand. She scrolls through her phone with the hand the manicurist isn’t working on, paying no attention to the foreign dialogue. It has probably never occurred to her that they might be talking about her. If it did, she would assume they were complimenting her. Her hair is so pretty. Have you ever seen eyes so blue. She must work out eight hours a day to get a body like that.

  “What’s your name?” I ask the woman working on me.

  “Kimberly,” she answers.

  “I’m Jillian. Nice to meet you.”

  Ellie’s manicurist says something, and the
y burst out laughing again. I raise an eyebrow at Ellie, who only shrugs as she drops her phone into her purse. Kimberly removes the old polish from my left hand and points to the small bowl of soapy water for me to soak it in while she works on the right one.

  Just as Ellie is about to dunk her fingers, her phone rings. Instead of ignoring it, she pulls it out again. “It’s a client,” she says to her manicurist by way of an apology. She doesn’t want to miss any opportunities, because Ryan is threatening to overtake her as the top salesperson this quarter. Last week, he closed a big deal with the sports radio station. They were an obvious target, the way Lucas and Ben have been hacking their website, and Ellie is furious with herself for not cold-calling them herself.

  “Ellie Gardner,” she says cheerfully into her phone. A second later, she mouths to me, “Candace from SharkBytes.” They are by far our top client, outspending our second and third clients combined. Landing that account was Ellie’s biggest coup.

  The two manicurists talk among themselves, occasionally glancing at Ellie, who smiles at them.

  “Ben Colby,” Ellie says. My head snaps toward her. “Sure, I know him.” She widens her eyes at me. “About four years.”

  Kimberly lightly slaps my hand to get my attention. “Switch,” she says, pointing to the hand that’s soaking. I take it out of the bowl and dunk the other. She drips oil on the nails of the hand that just came out of the bowl and pushes back my cuticles.

  Ellie changes the hand she’s holding the phone with so that her manicurist can begin working on it. “He’s extremely creative,” she says. “He recently redesigned our website.”

  A feeling of dread overtakes me. “Why are they asking about Ben?”

  Ellie holds her finger to her lips and turns her back to me.

  Kimberly taps my knuckle. “Relax your hand,” she says.

  “I’d hate to see him go, but yes, I think he’d be a great addition to your team.”

  An addition to your team.

  “So tense,” says Kimberly, who’s now massaging moisturizer into the back of my hand.

  Ellie returns her phone to her purse.

  “Did you just give a reference for Ben?”

  She nods. “They’re hiring a new creative director for their in-house agency. Ben interviewed.”

  “He’s getting a new job,” I say in a panicked voice, trying to imagine work without him. It would be miserable.

  “I guess so,” Ellie says. “I wish he had given me a heads-up on needing a reference so I would have been better prepared.”

  How could he be interviewing without telling me? And then it hits me. Maybe he did tell me last week when we went out for drinks. I replay his words in my head: Not while we work together. Maybe he wasn’t letting me down gently like I thought. Maybe he was telling me to be patient.

  * * *

  Back at the office, Ben is at his desk working on an image that’s enlarged on his monitor. The tip of his tongue is folded over his top lip as he maneuvers his mouse, dropping and dragging letters and shapes in different spots on the screen. He’s focusing so hard on what he’s doing that he doesn’t notice me standing in his cube entrance, watching him. He loves this job and he’s good at it. Why would he want to leave?

  “Is that for the brochure?” I ask.

  His hand jerks so that the mouse skids off its pad. “I had no idea you were there,” he says.

  As I step into his office, he moves a bag off his guest chair so I can sit. “I was just with Ellie.” I pause.

  Ben turns back to his computer. “Okay.”

  “SharkBytes called. About you.”

  “Oh.” He spins his chair so that he’s facing me again. “They weren’t supposed to do that.”

  “What’s going on?”

  His cell phone rings. He reaches across his desk to silence it. “This isn’t how I wanted you to find out.”

  “So you are leaving?” I whisper.

  He bends toward me and answers in a low voice. “If I get the job.”

  “Why?”

  He gives me the same look he gave me at Donovan’s last week, like he’s weighing the weight of the world. “It’s been eight years. It’s time,” he finally says.

  Renee calls out to us, “Hey, guys. Time for our meeting with Stacy.”

  I stand. “It won’t be the same here without you.”

  He reaches for my arm as I turn to leave. “Jill, there are other reasons.”

  His intense expression causes my knees to buckle.

  “We should talk, but this isn’t the time or place,” he says.

  Chapter 34

  Thursday night I’m in the kitchen pouring my bowl of Rice Krispies for dinner when someone tries to open the front door. At first I think it might be Mr. O’Brien, but he always rings the bell. When whoever is at the door can’t get in, they fiddle with the lock. My entire body stiffens. I scramble for my phone and punch in 9-1. I leave my finger hovering over the 1 as I tiptoe toward the hallway. Before I reach it, the person gives up trying to unlock the door and knocks.

  “Jill?”

  I recognize Nico’s voice immediately and move my hand away from the phone’s number pad. What’s he doing here? For months I was sure his leather coat would lead him back. Now that he has it, he decides to come over?

  “Hey,” he says when I pull the door open. We stare at each other for a few seconds. The first thing I notice is that even though it’s about seventy degrees and there’s no need for it, he’s wearing the stupid jacket. The next thing I realize is that he looks better than he did when I saw him at the mall. His Greek skin is darker than usual, and his chocolate brown hair has streaks of gold, like he’s been out in the sun. The mustache and goatee are gone, replaced by his usual light beard this time of night.

  He pulls open the storm door. I quickly step in front of him, blocking his path so that he can’t get in. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  There’s a loud slapping sound. Mr. O’Brien hovers nearby on the porch, banging his doormat over the railing, something I’ve never seen him do before.

  “Can we talk?” Nico asks.

  Mr. O’Brien clears his throat. I glance over at him. He tugs on the bill of his baseball cap, scratches his nose, and then wipes his mouth. I wonder if he’s trying to give me signs like a third-base coach.

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  Mr. O’Brien nods.

  Nico turns toward him and back to me. “All you have to do is listen.”

  Mr. O’Brien shakes his head. I wish he would go inside. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with him here listening to me and Nico.

  “Can I come in?” Nico asks.

  Okay, I’m definitely more comfortable with Mr. O’Brien eavesdropping than Nico coming inside. “You can say whatever it is you need to say right there.”

  “Please, Jill. Give me a chance to explain.”

  Most of me is outraged that he would show up here and expect me to talk to him after everything he has put me through the past few months. Still, there’s a tiny piece of my heart that wants to hear him say he’s sorry, that he misses me, and wants to try again—even if it’s just so I can shoot him down. “Months ago when I wanted you to explain, you wanted no part of it.” I’m trying to sound confident but even to me, my voice sounds shaky. Why do I always have to get so emotional?

  Mr. O’Brien, still banging the mat over the railing, shuffles down the porch closer to us.

  “You shouldn’t have come here,” I add in a steadier voice.

  “I get that you’re mad, Jill. I don’t blame you, but please—”

  “You get that I’m mad! You have no idea!” I try to slam the door, but Nico uses his foot to hold it in place.

  “Please, Jillian. Just hear me out.” It’s the same desperate tone he uses when praying to the television during the tense parts of a big game. Please, Big Papi. Knock it out of the park. Come on, Tom. Put it in the end zone. Let’s go, Bergeron, score.

  “It’s too lat
e. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.”

  He starts to speak again, but I cut him off. “You should leave.”

  “Not until you hear what I have to say.” He puts his hands on his hips and widens his stance.

  Mr. O’Brien throws the mat to the ground. It lands with a thud. The old man’s shuffle turns into a deliberate stride as he makes his way toward my side of the house. When he reaches my door, he grabs Nico’s shoulder with one of his large, age-spotted hands. “She asked you to leave.”

  Oh boy! There’s going to be a fight. I can imagine that Mr. O’Brien has wanted to slug Nico for a long time. Would Nico hit him back?

  “Mr. O’Brien, it’s okay.”

  “I’m just trying to talk to her,” Nico says. He jerks his arm forward trying to free himself, but Mr. O’Brien has a firm grip on him.

  “She’s made it clear she doesn’t want to hear anything you have to say.”

  Mr. O’Brien’s face is bright red. The squiggly vein running from his forehead to his right ear is bulging so much that I’m afraid it might burst or he’ll have a heart attack right here at my front door. “Please, Nico, just leave.”

  “Okay, okay.” He raises his arm as he says this, inadvertently bumping Mr. O’Brien’s hat off his head.

  Murder flashes through the old man’s eyes as he shoves Nico against the clapboard. “Don’t give me a reason to hit you.” His spittle lands on Nico’s leather jacket. He pulls Nico toward him and then flings him back against the wall.

  I rush out the door, grabbing my landlord by his shoulder. “Stop!”

  “It was an accident,” Nico shouts, lifting both hands above his head.

  Mr. O’Brien releases him. “Get the hell off my property,” he yells.

  We watch Nico stagger to the driveway with his head down. When he reaches his car, he looks up at me. “Jill, we need to talk. Call me.”

  * * *

  Mr. O’Brien is raking the flower beds when I leave for work the following morning, his jacket tossed on the grass beside him and his cup of coffee sitting on the walkway. At eight o’clock, it’s already above sixty degrees. The meteorologist on the early news said today Boston has a chance of beating the record high of ninety-four degrees set for this mid-April day back in 1976.