Mixed Signals Read Online Free PDF

bounces near her. She uses a backhand to return it, but she swings wildly, and it lands out of bounds on the other side of the court. Sean bangs the net with his racquet and screams something at her.
    â€œThat guy hates to lose,” the man on my right says.
    â€œIt’s a wonder they stay married playing together,” a woman on my left says.
    It’s a wonder she married him in the first place , I think.
    Tammy tosses the ball up in the air for the next serve. She faults and tries again. This time the ball lands in the service box, and her male opponent returns it to her. She hits it back with a perfect backhand. The other side tries a drop shot on Tammy’s half of the court, but Sean races crosscourt, cutting off his wife, and reaches the ball just before it bounces twice. The rally lasts for several strokes and ends when Sean smashes an overhead shot the other team can’t return. He looks up at the crowd by the window and bows. He fancies himself king of the court out there.
    A bell rings. Everyone in the lobby hustles down the stairs to the tunnels leading to the tennis courts. I wait for my opponent, Jenny Stanton, who just arrived and is checking in. By the time she finishes, a second bell has sounded. We race downstairs to court one, where the Branigans were just playing. Their opponents are making their way through the revolving door, but the Branigans remain by the court.
    Sean is sitting on the bench eating a banana. Next to him, his sweatshirt and sweatpants are folded neatly. His unzipped tennis bag rests on the ground in front of him. His wife sweeps loose clay off the court’s lines.
    Jenny frowns and looks at the clock. Players are supposed to stop the game and clean the area at the first bell and be off the court by the second. She drops her racquet and walks around picking up balls scattered near the baseline, something that Sean should have already done.
    He reaches for his sweatpants and slides them on over his shorts. I put my bag down on the bench next to him. He watches me open it. “How are you, Jillian?” he asks.
    â€œGreat,” I answer.
    â€œReally?”
    I can tell by the surprise in Branigan’s voice that unlike me, Nico is telling people about our breakup. I wish he weren’t because I can see it now, Branigan whispering to the guests at our wedding: He almost didn’t marry her. Got a bad case of cold feet three weeks after popping the question.
    I busy myself taking the plastic cover off a new can of tennis balls. Sean watches me carefully. His wife waves as she hangs the broom on a hook on the wall behind us. She walks over to the bench where we’re sitting. “Your ring is gorgeous,” she says.
    It really is. Two emeralds flank a two-karat diamond in a white gold setting. Nico picked it out without any input from me. It’s exactly what I would have chosen on my own. After six years together, he knows me well.
    Sean’s mouth drops open and his gaze falls to my left hand. “Have you talked to Nico today?” he asks.
    â€œNot yet.” I yank on the metal tab on the lid of the tennis balls. The can hisses as it opens. I breathe in the new ball scent, something I’ve always liked.
    Sean places a hand on my shoulder as he stands. “I didn’t think so,” he says.
    * * *
    Dressed in his usual black sweatpants and blue polo shirt, David, the owner and my best friend Rachel’s brother, leans against the counter, talking to another member as I head toward the exit after my match. Despite its stupid name, WimbleDome is the most prestigious tennis club in the area. Members shell out more than four hundred dollars a month to play here. Luckily, I pay less than two hundred. David gives me a break in exchange for marketing work that I do for him and because I grew up with him. He motions with his finger for me to wait. While he finishes his conversation, I study the brochure for the upcoming annual WimbleDome