Mixed Signals Read Online Free PDF Page B

Mixed Doubles Tournament. There’s a picture on the cover of Sean and Tammy Branigan hoisting a trophy over their heads with the caption “Club Mixed Doubles Champions, 2007–2015.” The club opened in 2007, so no one has ever beaten them, something Branigan takes great pride in and brags about on the air at the time of the tournament. “For the ninth consecutive year, Tammy and I are the WimbleDome mixed doubles champions,” he boasted last year. I swear he purposely mispronounced the name of David’s club so that his idiotic listeners would think he was talking about the famous grass courts across the pond. Branigan then went on to waste a full hour of his show recapping each of the matches leading to the championship.
    When I asked Nico why he allowed it, he shook his head. “Didn’t have a choice. Winning that silly tournament means everything to the guy.”
    Nico’s answer made me think Branigan must have always been the last kid picked in gym during elementary school and is still haunted by the memories. Why else would winning a title at a local club mean so much? It almost made me feel sorry for the guy.
    David taps my shoulder. “Rachel says you’re not returning her calls. She asked me to find out what’s going on.”
    â€œWork has been super busy,” I say. “I’ll call her today.”
    â€œMake sure you do. She’s worried.”
    * * *
    The only good thing about Nico being gone is that I can watch something other than sports on television. When I get home from tennis, I set up camp on the couch and queue up some of my favorite movies, starting with Pitch Perfect . Forty-five minutes into the movie, a car door slams outside. I rush to the window, expecting to see Nico. Nope. It’s Mr. O’Brien, weighed down with four or five plastic sacks of groceries. One of them rips open. A bottle of cranberry juice rolls down the walkway and boxes of frozen dinners spill to the ground. I think about going outside to help him, but by the time I put my boots on, he’ll have picked up everything. I make a mental note to get him reusable cloth bags. Before returning to my movie, I head to the kitchen for a scoop of ice cream.
    The movie ends a few minutes after four. Nico still hasn’t called. I think about Branigan this morning, asking whether I had spoken to Nico yet today, and the condescending way he said I didn’t think so after I told him I hadn’t. The ice cream churns in my stomach. For the first time, I wonder if I’m wrong about the reason Nico wants to talk to me. I text him, but he doesn’t respond. By six o’clock, all my nerves are frayed, and I’m tired of waiting. I decide to call him. His voice mail picks up. I hang up without leaving a message. Forty-five minutes later, he calls back.
    â€œSorry I didn’t have a chance to talk earlier,” he says. “It’s been a crazy day.”
    â€œThat’s okay.”
    The line is silent. I imagine Nico working up his courage to apologize. Maybe he’s afraid I won’t take him back? Outside a car door slams. I look out the window. Mr. O’Brien’s daughter and Zachary’s mother, Colleen, is carrying a dish covered with tinfoil to her father’s door. Whatever is on the plate has to be better than the TV dinners that fell out of his torn shopping bag.
    â€œYou know Zachary, Mr. O’Brien’s grandson,” I say, glad I have a way to end the silence.
    â€œSure,” Nico answers.
    I tell him about Zac wanting to intern at the station.
    â€œThat’s great. We need someone. Give him my number.”
    My stomach churns again. If he were planning on coming home, I wouldn’t need to give Zachary his number because Nico would see him in person.
    â€œJill, 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