Mixed Signals

by Diane Barnes

  He sips his coffee. “There are a lot of listeners who think it is.”

  “Well, there’s nothing I can do about that.”

  “Why can’t you?” he asks. “Don’t you have a phone?”

  I slam the door shut. I could go on the radio and call out Nico on air. Sure, if Ben’s listening, he’ll find out I misled him about my meeting with Nico, but the rest of the listeners won’t think I’m a doormat. “I need the number for the caller line.”

  He waves at me to follow him and leads me through his front door to his kitchen. I’m surprised to see he has a state-of-the-art pod coffeemaker.

  He catches me staring at it. “Do you want a cup?”

  “No. I’m just wondering why you go to Dunkin’ Donuts every day if you have that?”

  He sighs. “Gives me a place to be every morning. Provides structure to my day.”

  A cup of coffee is the highlight of his day? Now I feel bad that I haven’t made more of an effort to get to know him through the years. I should have invited him over for dinner from time to time. I will, from now on. I hope he likes Rice Krispies.

  On the counter next to his coffeemaker, there’s an old black transistor radio complete with the dial for tuning and the strap for carrying. He turns it on.

  “We have a few open lines, so give us a call,” Smyth says before the station breaks for a commercial.

  Mr. O’Brien searches his bulletin board for the phone number.

  Nervous about talking on air, I sway in my seat at his table. “Can you offer any advice about keeping my cool on the radio?” I ask.

  “How would I know? I’ve never called in to the show.”

  I laugh because as he says it, he hands me a scrap piece of paper with the ten-digit number scribbled across it. “You just happen to have this handy and have no idea who uses the alias Frank from South Boston?”

  He clears his throat. “Pretend you’re talking to a friend.”

  “Why don’t you ever give your real name?”

  He smiles. “Carol didn’t like me calling in. Said I got too worked up.”

  “She didn’t recognize your voice?”

  “Oh, she did, but she pretended not to. She’d bring up something Frank said on air and ask me what I thought about it. It was our little game.” He smiles at the memory. It reminds me of something Ben and I would do. “Go ahead. Make your call.”

  I punch the numbers into my phone. I get a busy signal, which I haven’t heard in years.

  “Keep trying,” Mr. O’Brien says. “It takes a while.”

  On the sixth attempt I make it through to a call screener. I give him my name and tell him I want to talk to Branigan on air. “He’s been waiting for my call,” I explain.

  He puts me on hold. Mr. O’Brien carries the radio to the table and sits across from me.

  Branigan’s voice comes out of the speakers and fills the kitchen. “Well, you’ll never believe this,” he says. “On line two, we have a special guest. Jillian, Nico’s ex, err, current girlfriend, is finally calling us. Welcome to the show, Jill.”

  He sounds so friendly that you’d never guess he spent the last few months ripping me apart. My hand shakes so much I can barely hold on to the phone. I can feel my cheeks burning up. I can’t go through with this. I need to hang up. Right now!

  “We’ve been trying to get you to call in for weeks,” Branigan says. “What made you do it today?”

  I glance at Mr. O’Brien. He nods. I can do this. I take a deep breath. “Because I want to—” There’s a horrible echo.

  “Jillian, hold on a minute,” Branigan says. “You need to turn your radio down. Do that for me right now.”

  Mr. O’Brien carries his portable radio into the living room.

  “So we’re glad you’ve decided to give Nico another chance. I guess it’s only fair, seeing how I got another shot at the mixed doubles title, and look how that turned out. I am the club’s mixed doubles champion for the tenth consecutive year.”

  I should have known he’d get that in. “I wanted to set the record straight,” I say.

  “About the incorrect call you made in the first tournament?”

  “No! About me and Nico. We’re not trying again. I don’t want the ring back, ever.”

  “That’s not what Nico just told us.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m calling.”

  Branigan pauses. “Nico’s lying? Is that what you’re telling us?”

  “He’s not being truthful,” I say.

  “Nico, what do you have to say about this?” Branigan asks.

  Dead silence.

  “You have to say something,” Branigan persists. “She’s calling you a liar.”

  “It will take some time, but eventually Jillian will take me back,” Nico says. “I’m going to work hard until she does.”

  “Jill?” Branigan says.

  “It’s never going to happen. I want him and you to leave me alone.”

  Mr. O’Brien peeks into the kitchen and nods.

  “You’re not enjoying your five minutes of fame?”

  “It’s been five months,” I exaggerate. “You’ve been trying to ruin my life all because of a stupid tennis tournament.”

  “It’s not stupid to me,” Branigan says. “Did you purposely make an incorrect call?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Possible?”

  “Yes, I was angry with you so I called the ball out. It was on the line. I’m sorry.”

  Someone at the radio station turns on victory music, Branigan talks over it. “Jillian, our little game has officially ended,” he says. “Since you’re not with Nico, how about we host a contest to give our listeners a chance to win a date with you?”

  Mr. O’Brien shakes his head. I don’t need his encouragement for this decision though. “Thanks, but no.”

  After I hang up, Mr. O’Brien offers to make me a cup of coffee in his pod maker. I can tell he has never used the machine before, so I show him how it works. The radio is still on. Listeners are calling to talk about Nico and how delusional he is if he thinks I would forgive him after what his show put me through the past few months.

  The last caller to comment on the situation is Ben from the car. “If Jill changes her mind about the win-a-date contest, I want to be the first person to enter,” he says.

  “I like Ben in the black Dodge Charger,” Mr. O’Brien says.

  “Me too.”

  When I leave my landlord’s, I text Ben before driving off to work. If we went on a date, would you disappear in the morning again?

  He immediately calls. First, he tells me the reason for his curt text earlier was because he thought I had reconciled with Nico. He then explains why he left on Saturday. “I got up to make breakfast, but you had no food so I ran out to the grocery store. When I got back, your parents were at your door. I thought if I showed up so early in the morning looking disheveled, with breakfast, they’d figure out I spent the night. I didn’t think it would be a good first impression.”

  A chill runs down my spine as I imagine the icy glare my parents would have given Ben. Just as quickly though, a warmth spreads across my chest: Ben was concerned about making a good first impression on my parents! If our sleeping together was a one-night stand, he wouldn’t care what they think. He plans on sticking around! Ben and I are going to be a couple! “So maybe you can meet them another time?”

  “I’m hoping to,” he says. “But in the meantime, when can I see you again? I still owe you dinner.”

  “How about tonight?”

  Chapter 39

  On this beautiful fall day, Mr. O’Brien has his living room windows wide open. His television is loud enough for me to hear the football game that he’s watching. The Patriots are humiliating the Bills. A U-Haul box truck bumps up the road, with Ben’s car trailing behind it. I rise from the step I’m sitting on as Ben, Lucas, and another friend step out of the vehicles onto the driveway. Ben heads toward the walkway to greet me while his friends
circle around to the back of the truck.

  Mr. O’Brien steps out onto the porch as Ben pulls me into an embrace. “Need a hand?” the old man asks as the truck’s back gate rumbles open.

  “The guys and I have it covered, but thank you.” Ben walks across the porch to shake my landlord’s hand. Lucas carries a large box up the stairs. He bobs his blue cap in Mr. O’Brien’s direction.

  After six months of dating, Ben is moving in today. Other than the apartment being more crowded with his belongings, it won’t be much of a change for us, because he’s pretty much been living here since the day he called into the radio show. Before we made it official though, Ben insisted on getting Mr. O’Brien’s permission.

  We had the old man over for dinner and Ben asked him if he minded if there was another tenant living in his duplex. I expected Mr. O’Brien to lecture Ben about how back in his day a man didn’t live with a woman unless he was married to her. Instead Mr. O’Brien pointed out the window at Ben’s Charger. “That thing doesn’t leak oil, does it?” he asked with a laugh. He slapped Ben on the back. “You better do right by her.”

  “Count on it,” Ben answered.

  Ben’s other friend struggles to lift a chair out of the truck. Mr. O’Brien and Ben go down to help him. With the five of us unloading, the truck is empty in no time at all. Ben’s friends drive off, Mr. O’Brien returns to his apartment to watch the game, and Ben and I unpack his boxes in the living room. The television is tuned to the football game, but neither one of us is really paying attention to it.

  “I’ll be right back,” Ben says. “There’s still one more box in my car.”

  I glance at the television while he’s gone. The Patriots’ receiver catches a ball near the forty yard line and runs all the way down the field, extending his arms toward the goal line as he gets tackled. “Is he down on the one yard line or did he make it to the end zone?” the announcer asks. “They’re reviewing the play now.”

  Ben returns with a small box. He kneels on the floor in front of me, opens it, and pulls out the most beautiful diamond ring I have ever seen.

  Next door, Mr. O’Brien yells, “Touchdown!”

  Though she always dreamed about being the shortstop for the Boston Red Sox, Diane Barnes is a marketing writer in Massachusetts. She received her Bachelor of Arts degree in journalism from Saint Michael’s College in Vermont. She participates in two monthly writing groups and regularly attends novel writing workshops in Boston and Worcester, Massachusetts. Readers can visit her website at www.dianembarnes.com