Friends Without Benefits

I grabbed a stack of plates and called over my shoulder, “Forks go on the left, knives and spoons on the right.”

“Thanks.” I heard him respond distractedly, “I think you’re right.”

Milo reminded me a lot of my father. They were both distracted in a way that might be misconstrued as lofty. Since both were professors—Milo a professor in the physics department at NYU and my father a professor in the agriculture department of Iowa State—I guessed that the behavior was not unusual for tenured faculty.

I stacked the plates at the start of the buffet then ferried over another pile while keeping one eye on Sandra and Rose and another eye on the door to the kitchen. I was waiting for Nico to emerge, wondering if he were going to speak to me, or if he’d also decided to go with the de facto plan of acting like everything was normal.

I didn’t have to wait long to discover the answer.

Nico exited the swinging kitchen door carrying a stack of medium-sized plates just as I’d set down my last load. I immediately stiffened, straightened, and averted my eyes to the buttery croissants on the buffet table. I needlessly shifted the platter containing the croissants and fiddled with the edge of the tablecloth.

He stopped at the end of the table.

“Hi,” he said.

I failed at swallowing again and lifted my eyes to his. Even at this distance I could see that his eyes were twinkling.

“Hi? Oh, hi.” I wondered at my ball of nerves. I didn’t even recognize myself. Who was this girl who was anxious around a man? I hadn’t been anxious like this around a man since ever, and I hadn’t been anxious around a boy since. . . well, since Nico.

He set the plates on the table—at the other end—then sauntered over to where I stood; I tried my best to cease fiddling with the croissant dish.

He halted just in front of me, crossed his arms over his chest momentarily then let them fall to his sides. “I’m glad you decided to come.”

“I said I would.” My eyes were darting all over the restaurant. I forced myself to settle down and meet his gaze directly. When I finally did I began to understand why my subconscious preferred to look everywhere else. It was trying to defend me against his eyes, so large and open and mesmerizing.

A small, playfully wry smile pulled his mouth to one side. “Actually, you said you couldn’t. I believe it was your friend who said you would.”

I swallow-failed again. “Well, I’m here now.”

“Yeah, you are.” His expression turned serious, thoughtful as he added, “I like seeing you.”

“I like seeing you too.” The statement was out of my mouth before I realized I’d said or thought it.

He blinked at me, obvious surprise made his eyes widen and his brows lift. “You do?”

I nodded. I nodded because it was true, but I felt a pang of guilt because I didn’t know what it meant.

He shifted an inch closer; but, before he could speak, Robert’s booming voice reverberated from the galley door, “Alright—everyone—the food is hot and it’s time to eat so stop what you’re doing and circle around the big table.”

Someone shouted, likely a teenage boy, “God’s neat, let’s eat.”

“Your grandmother does not approve of such jokes, Lello.” Rose’s authoritative voice reprimanded.

“Hey guys.” Sandra, seemingly out of nowhere, was suddenly standing at my elbow. She tucked her arm through mine, drawing my attention from Nico. “I’ll need some introductions at some point, but for now let’s get a move on so we can get some grub.”

She, not waiting for my response, pulled me toward the big table, and I allowed her to lead me away. It was a relief actually. I hadn’t meant to be so honest with Nico and was trying to decide if I regretted it.

After a great deal of blustering and bustling, the buffet was laid, the large dining room in the main restaurant was set, and the Manganiellos—plus Sandra and I—had said grace and were lined up to pile our plates with food.

I kept stealing glances at Nico. Two of his nephews were monopolizing him; excitedly and animatedly speaking in a way that only children do. I realized that I hadn’t yet seen Angelica—Nico’s niece, Tina’s daughter. The realization made me frown, and I craned my neck, glancing around the room.

My attention rested on a constellation of small children at one end of the big dining table; they were laughing, rough housing, shouting, and just generally behaving like small children. Each resembled the other, looked like cousins, siblings, relatives, but none of them were Angelica.

I skimmed the crowd then finally caught sight of her. She was sitting on Christine’s lap—Nico’s oldest sister—holding the same blue blanket that she’d been gripping at the hospital. The four-year-old looked like her cousins, but she wasn’t laughing, wasn’t shouting. She was sitting very still, holding her blanket to her cheek, a mask was over her face, and she was watching her other cousins’ merry making.

The image pulled at my heart. I felt equal measures of frustration and resolve. Frustration because there was nothing I could immediately do to improve her quality of life. Resolve because, even if she didn’t enroll in the study, I would find a way to do something for her.

With my plate in hand, I planned to select a seat nearby Angelica. I made it to the large arch that separated the two rooms when my path was abruptly blocked by both Sandra and Rose.

“Oh.” I rocked backward to keep from spilling my food.

“Hey, Elizabeth, Rose was just telling me the funniest story about you and Nico from when you were kids.” Sandra placed her hand on my shoulder and pulled me about a foot and a half forward, as though positioning me to her liking.

I braced myself for the story and attempted a polite smile. “Is that so?”

“Niccolò. You come over here now and speak to your mother.” Rose caged me in on the other side and bellowed to her youngest son.

I took a deep breath and glanced over my shoulder. Nico left his plate at the buffet and was, rather reluctantly I observed, walking over to where we stood. I closed my eyes briefly so neither of the ladies would witness my eye roll. I was sure whatever the story was would be an attempt to horribly embarrass me, Nico, or—more likely—both of us.

He sauntered then stopped a few feet away, his eyes moving from me to Rose then back again.

“Come over here.” Rose motioned with her hand. “Listen to your mother.”

Nico took two unenthusiastic steps forward and stopped just adjacent to my position, my shoulder almost touching his arm. “Yes?”

“Oh look!” Rose and Sandra took three shuffling steps backward; Nico’s mother clasped her hands and rested them against her cheek. “You’re standing under the mistletoe.”

I blinked at her then noticed where Nico and I were standing—under the arch that separated the two main dining rooms. My eyes lifted upward and, sure enough, we were standing under a brand new bunch of mistletoe. It was even tied in place with an obscenely wide red ribbon.

“I must’ve forgotten to take it down after Christmas.” Rose said. The statement was, of course, a lie.

The restaurant was famous for keeping the kissing bough up all year. I glanced briefly at Nico and found him glaring at his mother. Growing up with this family, I’d witnessed Nico’s current expression with a great deal of frequency coming from each of the Manganiello children when dealing with their mother.

He was mortified. Mortification is more than embarrassment. It’s stunned embarrassment with a healthy dose of anger. His scowl told me that this setup was just as much of a surprise to him as it was to me.

“You didn’t forget, Ma. In fact, it looks brand new.”

“Well I can’t very well have old mistletoe up, now can I? Anyway, you and Elizabeth are standing under the mistletoe now and it’s tradition.”

Nico turned to me. He looked unhappy. He shook his head. “Just ignore her.”

“Don’t be a dummy, Nico.” Milo walked passed us and purposefully bumped into Nico’s shoulder. His taller brother paused, winked at me. “If you don’t kiss her, I will.”

“No one is going to kiss her.” Nico growled.

“Someone has to.” Robert called over his shoulder from the buffet table. “It’s bad luck if you don’t, she’s standing directly under the damn thing.”

Nico’s eyes lifted briefly to the greenery above our heads then closed. I was rooted in place, holding my plate of scrambled eggs, manicotti, and melon. I watched him, the emotions that played over his features—annoyance, frustration, exasperation.

“Fine.” Before I knew what was happening he’d already brushed a kiss against my cheek, his eyes avoiding mine. He turned away.

I swallowed what tasted like bitter disappointment. But it couldn’t have been bitter disappointment because I didn’t actually want Nico to kiss me. I also noticed that I was sweating.

“No.” Milo placed his hands on Nico’s shoulders and turned him to face me once again. “That wasn’t a kiss. If you can’t do it then, like I said, I volunteer.”

“Fatti i fatti tuoi[2], Milo,” Rose snapped happily at her son.