Friends Without Benefits

His eyes narrowed, he studied me through half-lidded dark lashes. “Okay.”

“I mean it.”

“Okay.”

“No, really. I may not watch your show, but—” I took a deep breath. I was going to admit to something I had no intention of admitting to anyone. Ever. “—but I may have seen or caught part of—well, it was on while I was walking by—your stand-up special . . . thing . . .” Finally I huffed and just owned it. “I saw your New York to LA stand-up special on HBO last year. It was funny. I laughed.”

The truth was I ordered HBO for the month when I learned he was going to have a stand-up special. I couldn’t wait for it to come out on DVD or Bluray; but I would never tell him that. I was officially ridiculous.

His stare and expression betrayed befuddled amusement as I struggled to speak; then, finally, comprehension and something like smug satisfaction. It was in his smile, the way he stood a little taller, the twinkle in his eye.

“What was your favorite bit?”

“The one about universally funny concepts.”

He waited then prompted, “Specifically?”

My jaw flexed. “Specifically about interpretive dance and synchronized swimming, about how synchronized swimming is funny if attempted by anyone but a professional and then you paired it with interpretive dance. I like how you . . . you’re just a very physical comedian and it was funny.” I rolled my eyes again. “Don’t get a big head about it.”

“Too late. Dr. Finney thinks I’m funny.”

I warred bravely against my own grin. “I saw it in the middle of the night after a long shift.”

Actually and more precisely, I used to watch it all the time in the middle of the night after my long shifts.

“But, when I remember this conversation later I’ll tell myself that you watch it every night before you go to bed.” His voice was both teasing and intimate.

“Whatever.” I shook my head and turned my face away; but I saw nothing because he was everywhere I looked. “Believe what you want.”

Leisurely, Nico brushed his soft beard against my cheek then dipped his mouth to my ear, nuzzled the space beneath it, his hot breath on my neck as he whispered. “There’s nothing wrong with having fun.”

His movements and words caused an electrical shock of awareness to course from the tip of my head to the center of my belly.

I jerked away, glared at him; “I know that.”

“Do you?” He smirked, his fingers flexing on my back, held me tighter. “When is the last time you had fun?”

“Last Tuesday.”

“Oh yeah? What did you do?”

“I went to my . . . knitting . . . group.” I realized, just as the words left my mouth, how lame and sedate that sounded. He probably pictured me sitting in a reindeer sweater, drinking tepid peach-and-mango tea while exchanging cocktail recipes.

Doh!

Non-knitters just didn’t understand the dynamics of a knitting group. It wasn’t just a good time or a fun time; it was the best time.

“Ooooh, okay. I didn’t realize that you are part of a knitting circle. I stand corrected.” His smirk intensified, it was an intensa-smirk, and his eyes glowed with plain enjoyment at my expense. “You have fun scheduled for every Tuesday night.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then tell me about it.”

We engaged in a staring contest for several stanzas of the song. A whisper of a smile on his features, a frustrated glower on mine.

I felt the need to run, to escape.

My hands moved from his neck to his chest and pushed against him. Before I could move even an inch he covered one of my hands and pressed it to his heart. His other hand, on my back, held me in place.

“The song is almost over.” His expression turned serious, his eyes beseeching, his body tense. “Stay with me.”

Stay with me.

Nico’s words set off a gathering thickness in my throat; I could only press my mouth into a line and nod.

It was what I said to him the first night, the first time he climbed in my window, the first time he held me while I slept and then every night after until I turned him away.

I wondered if he remembered. I wondered if that was why he said it. It didn’t matter, not really. The song would be over, and he would walk away. Sandra and I would go back to the farm house, and I would try to forget this dance ever happened.

He pulled me closer, held me tighter, his chin against my temple, his hand gripped mine over his heart, his other hand and arm completely wrapped around my middle. He was holding me as we danced.

Once habitual feelings of familiarity, sentiments of comfort, safety, and serenity were now laced with confusion, uncertainty, and anticipation. Most troubling was how good he felt, how my body curved and bent and molded to his without my consent. These sensations reminded me of the last time we’d held each other.

These feelings, and the fact that he would never return the sentiments, were why I’d left him.

Ending notes of the song filtered through the speakers, but I heard nothing. Surrounded by Nico quicksand, I sunk deeper with every beat of his heart; it echoed in my ribs. I blinked against a perplexing stinging within my eyes.

Then, Beyonce sang, “I’m feelin’ seeeeexy,” and I was promptly yanked out of my vortex of warm and fuzzy Nico quicksand.

There were a number of contributing factors to my rude awakening, and they occurred all at once:

The tempo of the music escalated from slowmo “True” to the substantively more upbeat Beyonce’s “Naughty Girl.”

Three women appeared out of nowhere—or rather, what felt like nowhere in that moment—and surrounded us.

Two of the women grabbed Nico’s arms.

One of the women said very loudly and very close to my ear, “Come on, Nico—we want to dance!”

Nico, looking a bit stunned, turned toward the very loud woman, and I was forced to step back; the group of three was hip gyrating and arm waving and hair flinging. I lifted my own arms to protect against incidental bodily injury and glanced around me, somewhat surprised that Nico and I were in a room full of people—because sometime during the last several minutes I apparently forgot that he and I were not alone.

I searched the perimeter of the dance floor looking for Sandra. My eyes met with a tall, brown-haired man that I didn’t recognize; he was watching me openly. Disconcerted, I glanced to his left and I met the gaze of medium-sized woman—also watching me. It was at that point I realized everyone in the room who was not currently dancing—and even some who were—was blatantly watching me. It didn’t seem to occur to them that openly watching a person was strange.

Someone pinched my elbow, and I turned to find Sandra at my side. She was shaking her booty. Next to her was a man I almost recognized, and he was also booty shaking. She flung a toothy smile at my frowning face and leaned into my ear.

“Hey—you remember this guy?” Sandra indicated with her thumb toward her dance partner. “He said you two were lab partners in biology.”

I brought the tall semi-stranger back into focus, and, once my brain started working again, I was surprised that I could confirm he was indeed Micah Becker. “Yes—oh my gosh, hey Micah—nice to see you.”

I extended my hand to him, and he gave me a lopsided grin. He accepted my hand and—instead of shaking it—he twirled me. “Elizabeth, it’s so good to see you—I didn’t recognize you until Sandra told me who you were.”

“Oh—” I stumbled through the twirl then, once I was certain I wouldn’t trip, gave his hand a firm shake and released it. “Good to see you too—you look a lot different . . . also.”

I didn’t really remember much about Micah because we’d barely spoken during high school. He’d been even quieter than I was. I remembered that he wore flannel shirts every day with jeans and Dr Martens. His hair had been a buzz cut, and his blue eyes were hidden behind large glasses.

Now his black hair was stylishly cut, his blue eyes no longer concealed, and he stood a good six inches taller. The dress shirt he wore clearly signaled that he had a decent body. In fact, I could barely see the seventeen-year-old kid in the booty shaking man before me.

“Dance, girl.” Sandra bumped her hip against mine and smiled at Micah. “Do you think you can handle both of us?”

Micah turned his smiling blue eyes to Sandra. “No—I’m pretty sure I can’t, but I’d like to try.”

My mouth dropped open. Who is this person?

This was not the Micah I knew. This Micah was confident and sorta handsome. It’s amazing what ten years and nice clothes can do for a person.

Or, maybe more precisely, it’s amazing what maturity and adulthood can do for a person.

Sandra threw her head back in laughter and grabbed my hand as she encouraged me to dance. I complied, a little dazed at first, still feeling lingering gazes from the crowd. At first I kept my eyes on Sandra and Micah and the floor, because every time I glanced around the room I found people were still watching me.

However, without any conscious intent to do so, my gaze eventually sought Nico. He was still surrounded on all sides by women wielding sharpened elbows. Instead of just the three, he’d amassed six or seven, and he was smiling at them, all of them. But it didn’t look like a welcoming smile; it looked like a beleaguered, pacifying smile.