Friends Without Benefits (Knitting in the City) (4 page)

“Except
 . . .” He motioned to my hair. “Except your hair. You used to have shorter hair.”

Automatically my hand lifted to the braid. “Yeah, well, I don’t have anyone trying to cut my hair during nap time so it finally grew out.”

The corner of Nico’s mouth lifted just slightly at my small barb. “I’d forgotten about that.”

“I hadn’t.” I responded flatly.

“How old were we?”

“When you cut my hair? You were five.”

His face warmed with a smile. “You were four. I remember now.”

The fact that he was smiling at the memory of cutting my hair awakened an old
, long buried injury. I did not return his smile. In fact, as I watched him silently reminisce, other memories from our teenage years turned my blood abruptly cold. I no longer felt flustered by his presence. I felt annoyed by his arrogance.

Furthermore, I realized that—
notwithstanding his perplexing kindness the summer after Garrett’s death, my resulting guilt, and all these years of separation—part of me still simply saw him as the boy who bullied me in school. Disliking, distrusting Nico was an instinctual response.

“What do you want, Nico?”

His eyes flickered to mine, and I witnessed a shadow of surprise pass over his gaze, likely caused by the sudden somberness of my tone. He studied me for a moment. Then, he said something entirely unexpected.

“I wanted to apologize.”

I stared at him. Really, we stared at each other. I inclined my head slightly forward, sure I’d misheard him. “You what?”

“I want to apologize. I’m sorry for my rudeness earlier. Seeing you was
 . . . unexpected. I was caught off guard. I reacted badly.”

I
endeavored to shrug. “It’s okay. I know you must be under a great deal of stress with your niece.”

“Yes, but no more than usual. I shouldn’t have snapped at you
, and I definitely shouldn’t have yelled. I’m sorry. Do you forgive me?”

I frowned, felt abruptly hot, uncomfortable. I couldn’t swallow. “Of course
,” I croaked.

We
stared at each other again. His eyes darted over my face as though committing me to memory. The attention, the focus of his gaze made me feel like protozoa under a microscope.

I stood. It was an abrupt movement. I cleared my throat. “Well, if that’s everything.”

“No. I also . . .” Nico’s eyes moved between mine. He rocked forward on his feet. “I have a proposition for you.”

At his words my stomach
tensed; instead of running from the room screaming, I stood my ground and responded with a much more refined: “What’s that?”

“I
’d like to know you again. I think we should be friends.”

My eyebrows met my hairline. “You want to be friends
? With me?”

“Yes.”

“Uh . . .” I looked at the door behind him, the wall above his head, the linoleum floor. It all looked real, and I was pretty sure I was awake. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”

Nico pulled his hands from his pockets and held them out between us. “If we decide to do this study, for Angelica, I’ll be in town quite a lot.” He watched me expectantly. When I didn’t respond, his hands dropped. “I’d like to see you. Maybe
 . . .” He cleared his throat. “Maybe we could go out?”

I’m sure I looked completely befuddled. I felt completely befuddled. Why would Nico
The Face
Moretti—or Nico Manganiello—want to be friends with me? “I don’t understand,” I repeated and, because my brain was on befuddlement-autopilot, I asked, “You mean like friends with benefits?”

.
 . . did I just say that? Or did I think that?
Judging by the amused expression on his features I guessed that I said it.

Out loud.

I grimaced. “I mean, not that you—I mean I just don’t—”

“No
, Elizabeth . . .” His gaze swept over me once more; the movement was quick, as though it were an involuntary reaction to my question. “Friends without benefits. Just friends.”

“
Of course. I didn’t mean . . .” I huffed so that I would stop talking and promptly leaned against the sofa arm again. I examined him from behind my lashes; he appeared to be earnest. Nothing in his expression hinted that this was a joke or that he was trying to make a fool of me. Nevertheless, my eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“
Just friends?”

“Yes.”

I shook my head. “Men and women can’t be just friends. Haven’t you seen every romantic comedy ever?”

“I have female friends.”
His face relaxed a bit, but his eyes were still guarded.

“I’m sure you do.”

“I do.” He lifted his chin a notch. “There is a clause that if the man grows up with sisters—and I grew up with three—then he is capable of having female friends.”

I considered him, the strangeness of his request. In fact, our entire interaction was verging on
Twilight Zone
levels of absurdity. Nico Manganiello didn’t ask people to be friends, and he certainly never asked me for anything.

“Ok
ay.” I shrugged my surrender, because I didn’t know what else to do. I felt overwhelmed by him, his request, the gentleness of his voice, the sincerity of his words, the entire situation. It was weird and, as usual, he had an uncanny ability to discombobulate me in a few short moments. Since I couldn’t think of anything else to say, I responded, “We can be friends.”

He nodded once
, but didn’t smile. “Good. That’s good.”

And, for the third time, we stared at each other. The moment was the most surreal of my life.
I watched his chest rise and fall with each breath. I noted that his eyes hadn’t quite lost all their hostility despite the candor of our conversation. Although, I surmised, my expression likely wasn’t warm and fuzzy either.

I doubted that we could be friends.

I watched as Nico took a deep breath, as though preparing to say something of great importance. He got as far as “Elizabeth, I have to—” before my pager buzzed at my waist.

I pulled my attention from him and focused on the message. It efficiently told me that the ER was expecting
seven trauma victims within the next five minutes, all with severe injuries. This typically meant a car wreck of epic proportions.

I frowned first at my pager then at him. “I have to go. There’s been an accident and I need to help.”

“Okay.” He nodded, pressed his lips together in a tight line, his soulful eyes tinged with a shadow of emotion I couldn’t place.

I walked past him in a rush
, but paused at the door. I felt like I’d left my stomach and a few select other organs still leaning against the arm of the couch. I glanced over my shoulder.

He stood just where I’d left him, his back to the door.

My suspicions were correct; the injuries and overflow of patients had been due to a car accident. I’d worked with the trauma team until my shift ended and then for a few hours afterward. Basically, until I’d been kicked out.

But now
, since there was nothing more I could do, I was determined to leave the ups and downs and all-arounds of the day behind me: the devastation of the car accident, my shaming encounter with Dr. Botstein, the failed prank, and Megalomaniac Meg’s evil deeds. Furthermore, I needed to tuck Nico Manganiello and all memories of him, all the pain and regret, back into their hiding place.

It was Tuesday
, and Tuesday was typically the highlight of my week, because Tuesday night was knit night.

I was forced
to admit that the ladies of my Tuesday night knitting group muscled their way inside my heart over the past two years. At first I wasn’t entirely comfortable with letting them all in at once; it made me feel like they were going to storm the castle and plunder the goods. But all attempts at holding off the siege of care and mutual respect vanished with the consumption of bottles and bottles and bottles of red wine, tequila shots, dirty jokes, and bonding over worsted weight Malabrigo yarn.

Under the weight of the day, I staggered
into the apartment I shared with my best friend Janie—although, since Janie’s engagement she was rarely at home—and flung my bag and coat and keys on the hall table. I left my hand-knit gloves, scarf, and hat on. I wanted to show off the finished matching set.

“
Ai-oh!”
Ashley bellowed at me from the living room, “Get’cher butt in here, girl. Sandra said you finished the hat. I wanna see it.” An immediate smile arrested my features, and I walked a bit steadier down the hall.

Ashley was always extremely successful at cracking
me up. She was originally from Tennessee and had explained to me once—over several strong margaritas—that she’d moved to Chicago so her parents couldn’t marry her off to “some redneck park ranger.” Lucky for me, she was also a pediatric nurse practitioner at Chicago General so I got to see her for lunch sometimes. Those were good lunch days.

I
attempted a dramatic entrance, poking just my head around the corner, the aforementioned hat on my head. I wagged my eyebrows and was met with whoops and hollers.

“I like that hat
.” Marie leaned forward in her seat, placed her elbow on her crossed leg and gave me an approving smile; her curly blonde hair fell forward around her shoulders. Marie, out of our bunch of misfits, was the artistic one. She was a freelance writer and illustrator and was extremely talented. In addition, she was an excellent cook. My favorite knit nights were at Marie’s apartment because she always cooked instead of ordered takeout. On those occasions I usually slept over if I could manage it, because she made amazeballs Belgian waffles for breakfast.

I pointed to my head and stepped around the corner. “You mean this hat?” If my grin were any wider it would have split my face.

When Sandra saw the matching scarf and mittens she stood up. “Shut. Up. You. Knitting. Prodigy.” She pointed at me, her mouth open wide. “I can’t believe how awesome that turned out. Let me see, get your skinny bottom over here.” Originally from Texas, Sandra was by far the loudest and most opinionated. Actually, at times, she and I tied for that title, but I liked to think she edged me out of the lead most of the time. Like me, she was finishing her second year of residency at Chicago General, but she was a psychiatry resident.

I hopped into the room and proceeded to wiggle my fingers, a hidden attempt at jazz hands, and crossed to Sandra. She met me half way and immediately grabbed one end of my scarf for closer inspection.

“Is it Fair Isle? Where did you find the pattern?” Fiona turned in her seat and motioned both Sandra and me over. Fiona, likely the most empathetic and arguably the most mature of our group, placed her knitting to the side as I approached. She was five foot two and reminded Janie and me of a pixie. Her hair was short, her lashes were long, and her wide dark eyes always seemed to sparkle with a knowing glow. She was our unofficial den mother and we all loved her.

“It’s based on the
Mini Mochi Fair Isle Hat
by Sandi Rosner. I just took the pattern and reworked it for the matching scarf and mitts.” I handed a glove to Fiona and watched her inspect it.

“I know that pattern.” Kat volunteered quietly. She brushed a length of brown wavy hair from her shoulder and reached for her margarita glass. Janie met Kat
at her previous job where Janie—although highly skilled as an architect—had been under employed as an accountant for an architecture firm. Now Janie worked for her fiancé’s company as a senior account manager and Kat still worked as an executive secretary for the firm. Kat was sweet, kind, sincere, and very, very quiet. I didn’t know her as well as I would like, but had firsthand knowledge of how wonderful she was.

Janie strolled out of the kitchen carrying margarita glasses
; she was balancing on stilettos which made her barefoot six-foot frame a towering six foot four inches. She and I shared a weakness for fabulously impractical shoes.

When she saw me she smiled and lifted a glass toward me
. “Do you want a margarita? I’m making them with Limoncello and Petron.”

“Yes
. I will have margaritas.” I returned her smile. I was very happy to see her. I hadn’t seen her since last week’s meet up, and I missed my best friend.

Janie had been my college roommate
, and I loved her like the sister I never had. We’d bonded early over the fact that we’d both lost our mothers at a relatively young age as well as our shared strangeness. I was a sarcastic and caustic tomboy who’d skipped a grade in elementary school, and Janie was a walking calculator and encyclopedia. We were a match made in heaven. Even given our height disparity, we both wore a size eight and a half shoe.

“Ok
ay. Two more coming right up.” She nodded, passing a glass to Ashley and the other to Sandra. She then wiped her hands on the Wonder Woman apron she was wearing. A fire-engine red curl had escaped her loose bun and fell in her face. She puffed it out of the way and turned back to the kitchen.

Marie reached for Ashley’s glass, took a sip, then smacked her lips together. “Oh
 . . . That’s good. The Limoncello adds something nice.”

Fiona handed me back my mitt. “You do beautiful work.” She smiled wistfully at my scarf. “I need more time to knit.”

“Fiona.” I leaned closer to her. “Before I forget, I have something for Gracie and Jake in my room. Build-A-Bear Workshop was having a sale on the bear kits.”

Her e
yebrows jumped, and her eyes lit with surprised pleasure. “Thank you, Elizabeth. But you didn’t have to do that. You need to stop buying them toys.”

“What are you two talking about?” Sandra called from her place on the couch.

Before I could give Fiona the universal symbol for
Don’t tell them!
Fiona lifted her voice and responded, “Elizabeth bought Gracie and Jake Build-A-Bear kits.”

I grimaced, waited for what I guessed would come next.

“Wait,” Ashley lowered her work, gave me an assessing frown. “Do you know anything about the kits that were dropped off to the pediatric unit yesterday? We can’t figure out who did it. There were like thirty of them.”

Yes, I’d dropped off the bears. They were on sale. Kids love bears. Kids shouldn’t be in the hospital.
It was no big deal. I didn’t want to discuss it. Sandra would likely call me Florence Nightingale which would lead to all sorts of biological clock jokes. As a rule, I didn’t mind teasing about my bad behavior, but I hated being teased—or evening admitting to—my good behavior. When attention was drawn to even an arguably good deed I felt like a fraud.

I didn’t meet Ashley’s scrutinizing eye-squint. Instead I changed the subject.

“Fiona—Fiona—” I motioned to my teeth. “You have something in your teeth—right here.” I pointed between my two front teeth.

Fiona did the standard lip-dance-frown-spit-swishing movement then picked at her teeth with her fingernail, “Well, thanks for nothing everyone
. Have I been sitting here this whole time with something in my teeth? Only Elizabeth has the decency to tell me.”

Sandra snorted into her margarita
. “Pshaw. I didn’t notice a damn thing. And Elizabeth is OCD about that kind of stuff. I once spent a better part of a minute trying to remove a spec of pepper from my tooth.
No one
could see it except Ms. Microscope Eyes over there.”

I shrugged.
“Fine. Next time I won’t tell you when you have a huge piece of parsley hanging like bunting between your incisors.”

“I have some news that has nothing to do with Fiona’s disgusting habit of storing food in her teeth.” Ashley
—seemingly ignorant to my Build-A-Bear subterfuge—winked at Fiona; Fiona responded to the wink with a deadpan expression.

“Oh
. Does it have anything to do with Elizabeth’s microscopic eyes?” Sandra wagged her eyebrows at me. I considered sticking my tongue out, but decided against it as Fiona had turned her attention back to my scarf.

“No, surprisingly, it doesn’t.” Ashley’s smile grew secretive
and she paused, milking the dramatic silence. Finally she said, “It has to do with a celebrity at the hospital today.”

My eyes met hers and a chill ran up my spine. I
schooled my expression and did an admirable job of not reacting.

“Was there a celebrity at the hospital? I didn’t hear anything.” Sandra regained her seat on the couch and began rifling through her project bag.
“I hope it was someone good.”

“There was
and he is and you’ll never guess who.” Ashley glanced at each of us, her grin growing as her obvious excitement began to show.

Marie turned her work and
rolled her eyes. “Just put us out of our misery.”

“Ok
ay, it was
Nico Moretti
!” Ashley smiled expectantly and excitedly.

“Whoa
.” Sandra and Fiona said in unison.

“Did you see him?” Even Kat
appeared enthralled.

Ashley shook her head
. “Sadly, no. If I had I likely wouldn’t have been able to contain myself, and you’d all be bailing me out of jail right now.”

Sandra nodded her approval. “It would have been worth it. That guy
 . . . he’s on my Spank Naughty list.”

Marie lifted her right hand toward Sandra. “I approve
.” And the two ladies gave each other a high-five.

“Did you hear anything about it, Elizabeth?” Fiona was ey
eing me suspiciously, likely having discerned that I was being atypically quiet.

An image of Nico from earlier in the day flashed before my consciousness—memorizing my face, his eyes brimming with sincerity and hostility—asking me to be friends. It was so strange and absurd, made me feel hot and cold.
Hot because he’d asked me to be friends, and cold because I knew it was impossible. I couldn’t think about him. When I did I felt tangled and out of sorts.

I
cleared my throat and shrugged; rather than lie I decided to deflect for the second time that evening— subject subterfuge. “I actually got chewed out today by Dr. Botstein.”

“What? Again?”
Kat dropped her knitting to her lap; “What did you do?”

I unwrapped my scarf
from my neck and claimed the seat next to her. “He was on the receiving end of one of my practical jokes.”

Ashley laughed with a mouth half full of margarita. She quickly swallowed. “What was it this time? Mentos in his coke?
My favorite is a tie between the porn tape switch or that time you put ‘I’m a wanker’ in permanent marker on the bottom of Dr. Meg’s coffee mug—she went around all morning like that, just drinking her coffee, what a moron.”

Ja
nie exited the kitchen holding two more glasses, she placed one in front of me then kept one for herself. I smiled my thanks and laid my scarf on my lap.

“I took an unopened box of latex gloves in the E
R clinic and filled a few of them with lotion and rigged it to explode upon opening.”

“
So, Dr. Boty ended up with a face covered in mysterious gelatinous white goo?” Ashley supplied; she looked as though she approved.

“
He definitely wasn’t my intended victim and I actually feel really bad about it. He was strangely nice to me afterward.”

“That is weird.” Ashley eyed me specutively. “Dr. Boty is such a terror on the pediatric floor. I avoid him at all costs.”

“I don’t understand why you do these things. Why risk your career like this?” Fiona kept her voice low and addressed the question just to me; her expression was a mixture of concern and maternal-esque frustration.

“I just—” Under
her disapproving stare I felt ashamed again, felt the need to defend myself to her even if I couldn’t do so earlier with Dr. Botstein. “It’s the job. It’s stressful. Kids come into the ER with gunshot wounds, babies come in sick and there is nothing I can do. I’m not complaining, I love what I do, I feel like I’m making a difference, but it’s . . . It can be frustrating. The pranks, they help me—I don’t know—keep things light.”