Friends Without Benefits

“Lizzybella. My beauty—it is so good to see you.” Rose charged toward us and engulfed me in a tight hug.

I tried to speak, but found the task impossible. Words were caught in my throat. I was choking on apprehension, guilt, and anticipation.

Rose didn’t seem to notice. She released me and promptly pulled Sandra into a hug while she continued to address me, “I made Nico promise, I told him you better come and visit me while you are here.”

“I’m Sandra,” she said, somewhat stupefied, when Rose finally released her.

“Of course you are, dear.” Rose smiled at Sandra and patted her hand then turned her attention back to me. “Now Lizzy, please go to the kitchen and help get the settings for the big table out here. Robert, Franco, Milo, and Manny are in the back. I’m sure they want to say hi.”

Rose dismissed me by linking her arm with Sandra and pulling her in the direction of the jukebox. I watched them stroll away, leaving me by the front entrance. I forced my hands to relax and shook them, hoping to shake off some of my nerves. I glanced at the galley door to the kitchen, still feeling weary and worried, but resolved to get through this moment by playing the part of a mature adult.

I managed one step forward when Franco and Milo—two of Nico’s brothers—burst through the swinging door. In their hands were large trays of food and, as was typical, they were arguing with each other.

“No, no—over here. Robert said over here.” Milo, the tallest and second oldest, indicated to a long buffet table with a tilt of his head.

“That’s stupid,” said Franco, third in the family. “Why don’t we just put it all on the big table? Why are we doing this buffet style?”

Milo shook a head full of dark curls. “Robert said that ma said that Nico is—you know what, don’t ask questions, dummy. Just put the food down.”

Through his ranting, Milo’s tray slipped, and I quickly moved forward to assist. His large green eyes widened when I stepped in front of him, steadying the tray.

“Well, hello.” Milo tried to balance the tray with one hand and reached his other out to me. “I’m Milo.”

I frowned at him. “Yes, Milo, I know. It’s me, Elizabeth Finney.”

He blinked at me, clearly startled, then grinned. “Oh, hey. I didn’t recognize you. Nice to see. . . you again.” I noted that his eyes moved over me, perhaps trying to find the waifish teenager in the woman who stood before him.

Milo was twelve years older than Nico and therefore thirteen years older than me. I knew him only as a heart breaking teenager when I was in elementary school; then, later, as a serious and studious graduate student then physics professor—who only transiently visited—as I grew up.

He indicated toward a long table at in the smaller dining room. “We’re taking these over there. Can you go in the kitchen and start bringing out the silverware?”

I stepped to the side, and he winked at me as he passed. Just like the restaurant, he looked exactly the same. Even though he had to be nearing forty, he still looked like a twenty something graduate student.

I turned to Franco and gave him a small smile. “Hey Franco.”

Franco’s smile mirrored my own, small and shy. He was by far the quietest member of the Manganiello family. He was ten years older than Nico and used to play with us when we were kids, allowed us to help him fix his trucks or tinker around with strange machine parts. Franco Manganiello was the reason why I knew how to change the oil in a car. When I left for college he’d just opened his own auto-mechanic’s shop.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that, growing up, I hero-worshiped Franco Manganiello.

He nodded at me once then carried the tray over to the long table. With no new excuses presenting themselves for delaying my trip to the kitchen, I took a deep breath and plowed through the swinging door.

I was greeted by a scene of chaos.

Children were everywhere—running around, playing with pots and spatulas, “helping” adults put the finishing touches on dishes of food, wrapping silverware in napkins or poking each other with the butter knives. A cluster of kids were busily pairing crayons with coloring books at one of the far tables, and that was where I found Nico.

He was bent over a coloring book; a little boy was on his right, and a little girl on his left. He looked just really, honestly, achingly adorable. A small frown of concentration pulled his dark brows low over his eyes, and a memory of a seven-year-old Nico—in the same spot, doing the exact same thing—spurred stirrings and symptoms of nostalgia. My heart and stomach engaged in a fencing match, both poking at each other.

I was still staring at him when he glanced up and did a double take. I held my breath. His gaze tangled with mine, like thorny vines. If I looked away first the thorns would draw blood. I didn’t want to draw blood. I wanted to gently disentangle him from my life. I wanted him to move on from whatever fake memories and feelings he’d imagined to be real. I wanted to pretend like the last twenty-four hours never happened.

Except, the last twenty-four hours did happen, and I couldn’t forget, and I didn’t want to look away, and a growing part of me liked being tangled with him and his thorny vines.

“Elizabeth. The silverware.” Milo knocked my shoulder as he rushed passed, and I automatically turned toward his voice.

The moment was over, but I could still feel Nico’s eyes on me. I thought about meeting his gaze again, really wanted to. But if I looked at him now, if I allowed our gaze to tangle on purpose, then it wouldn’t be fair. Not to him. So I kept my attention focused on Milo and his rushing about.

Milo crossed to the counter, and I followed him, opened my hands and arms to receive forks, knives, and spoons.

I spied Robert, the oldest of the Manganiello children, instructing a teenage girl on the appropriate ratio of parsley to parmesan cheese. I realized the girl must be his daughter, the same daughter who was only four the last time I saw her. This realization made me feel each of my twenty-six years and then some.

Milo made introductions to any member of the family I didn’t know. This included: Robert’s wife Viv and their five children; Franco’s wife Madeline and their three children; Christine’s husband Sam and their six children; and Manny’s wife Jennifer and their three children. It was explained to me that Lisa—Nico’s second sister—couldn’t come as she was a busy and important attorney in Chicago and hardly ever made it to family events anymore.

I was thankful for Lisa’s absence and the fact that Milo was still single—less names to remember.

I tried to make mental notes in order to remember names, pairing spouses and children with the Manganiellos I knew; after a while I accepted the fact that I just wasn’t going to remember everyone. So I did a lot of smiling and nodding and calling little girls “dear” and boys “cutie”.

Through all of the introductions and handshakes and smiles, the back of my neck itched and tingled. I could feel Nico’s gaze intermittently follow my movements. I didn’t want him to see my confusion, my lack of a specific plan so I went with my de facto plan—pretend everything is fine, feign ignorance, act normal.

I didn’t mind that Milo appointed himself as my handler. Once he seemed to be satisfied with the introductions we left the kitchen with stacks of plates, cloth napkins, and silverware and set to the task of setting the large table in the dining room.

“We’ll put the silverware and napkins around the table, but leave the plates on the buffet,” Milo announced, indicating with his chin toward the long buffet table in the smaller dining room where he and Manny had already placed some of the food.

My attention moved to the indicated table, but snagged on the sight of Sandra and Rose with their heads together, engaged in deep conversation by the jukebox. This sight made me frown. This sight also made the back of my neck itch and tingle.

I kept my eyes on them as I placed the flatware. Rose had her hand on Sandra’s arm. Sandra bent her head lower to hear something that Rose said. Rose laughed at something Sandra said. It all looked very benign and was therefore extremely suspicious.

“Do forks go on the right or the left?” Milo’s question pulled my attention away from Sandra and Rose. I blinked at him then at the settings I’d just placed. Some places had two knives and no forks, some had all spoons.

“Oh, I’ve made a mess.” I immediately moved to remedy my mistake.

Milo laughed and it caused a twinge of awareness between my shoulder blades. He and Nico had the same laugh. Except for Milo’s curly hair, they also looked a great deal alike.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s actually something I would do. In fact—” Milo winked at me—again—and gifted me with a crooked smile; a smile that looked a lot like Nico’s. “—I think I’ve done that before.”

I returned his smile with a grateful closed-lipped one of my own and realized that his green eyes were twinkling at me. This gave me pause. Perhaps the eye twinkling was simply genetic and hard coded into Manganiello DNA.

“Why don’t you take the dishes over, I’ll finish with the place settings, if I can remember which side the forks go on.” Milo glanced at the table and moved a fork to the left then the right.