Friends Without Benefits

Every time I slept my dreams were filled with Nico. I began listening to the CD almost obsessively—even track six—and could sing along word-for-word with each of the songs. However, I hadn’t yet called him. I stared at his contact information on my telephone screen a few times, but hadn’t yet grown the nerve necessary to dial his number.

Matters weren’t helped by increased attention from the media. They now swarmed the entrance to the hospital and apartment building. I was thankful for the underground garage to my apartment more than ever. On Monday a few photographers posed as patients and tried to get admitted to the ER.

The ease with which the media seemed to infiltrate the hospital was disturbing to me for another reason. Nico’s stalker had been able to navigate to the Clinical Research Unit seemingly with ease, take pictures of Nico and me by the nurses’ station. If the paparazzi could deftly sneak in giant cameras then how easy would it be for Fancy Boots to come and go as she pleased?

I was just thankful that no new pictures of Nico and me had been leaked to the press.

At present, as it was Tuesday night, I sat in my apartment—surrounded by my girls, stewing in my mood—knitting. I was finishing Angelica’s sweater, sitting on my big sofa during Tuesday knit night. We’d all agreed it made the most sense to have knit night at my apartment for the time being; at least until paparazzi and stalkers were no longer a factor.

My next planned project was a new scarf, a man scarf. I was going to use a silvery jade-green cashmere; the color reminded me of Nico’s eyes.

Sandra discussed her recent first-date disaster with the group, a topic that typically amused us all. She had more first dates than Janie had comic books—and that was a hellvalot. Tonight I was only half-listening. Nico’s mixtape CD was playing in the background, distracting me with thoughts of him.

“. . . and so he finally admitted that he wasn’t over his ex-wife. So, bad news—there won’t be a second date. Good news—I think I have a new patient.”

The ladies laughed good-naturedly. Sandra had a talent for adorable self-deprecation that I admired.

I cleared my throat to get her attention. “What ever happened to Micah? From my reunion? You two seemed to get along well. Doesn’t he live in Chicago?”

“Ah! Manly Micah! Yes. He was fun.” Sandra pulled out a length of yarn and adjusted her work in progress.

I waited for her to continue. When she didn’t I pressed her further. “Did you get his number?”

“Ha! Actually, no.” Sandra sent me a Mona Lisa smile. “He spent most of the evening talking about you. Did you know he had a crush on you in high school?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you, dummy.”

“I find that hard to believe. I was such a nothing.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because I was. I was small and scrawny and sarcastic.”

“Well he said you were shy, pretty, and smart,” she said.

“Did he talk about me the whole time?”

She shook her head. “No. We spent some time working through issues with his father. He is still very angry with the man.”

I noted I wasn’t the only one glaring at Sandra with disbelief.

She glanced up from her knitting; her eyes darted around the room. “What? What did I say?”

“You are a freak of nature, Sandra. Can’t you ever go out on a date with a guy without turning into his shrink?”

“This is why you’re such good friends with all your ex-boyfriends.” Marie sing-songed the words, her eyebrows lifting high on her forehead.

“And what, pray tell, is wrong with being friends with your ex-boyfriends?” Sandra didn’t sound upset so much as perplexed.

“Nothing except it’s not just ex-boyfriends. It’s every guy you’ve ever gone on a single date with. How many have you collected? Like thirty?” Ashley shook her head as though disgusted. “You’ll never find a steady beast with two backs, partner, if you keep shrinking and exploding good advice all over the place.”

“I agree,” I mumbled behind my needles.

“You shut it!” Ashley turned slightly in her chair, her refined wrath now focused on me. “You don’t get to talk. You have, quite possibly, the funniest and sexiest guy in the world wanting to give you multiple orgasms—and I don’t mean the cocktail—meanwhile you’ve retired him to friend pastures. Ugh! You disgust me.”

Sandra and I shared a glance, and Marie cleared her throat.

“Ashley,” came Fiona’s soothing entreaty from beside me. “What is wrong, dear? Why so testy?”

Ashley closed her eyes, rolled her lips between her teeth and breathed out through her nose. After a long moment she responded, “I’m sorry, y’all.” She brought her fingertips to her forehead and pinched her nose. “It’s been a long week.”

“Anything we can help with?” Kat’s quiet voice carried from the couch.

Ashley shook her head, but she answered regardless. “It’s my biological father.”

A collective sigh of understanding spread through the room, and she didn’t really need to say anything else.

Ashley referred to her dad as her biological father. She had no other father, and the man was present for her childhood, still married to her mother, but Ashley despised him. When she was fourteen she’d started calling him “my biological father” because it annoyed the jeepers out of her family.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Kat’s quiet voice was soothing.

“No. I honestly don’t. I’m just sorry I’m behaving like a jerk.” Ashley’s mumbled self-recrimination was barely audible.

Maybe partly out of curiosity, but most likely to change the subject, Sandra lifted a finger in the air and addressed her question to both Janie and me. “So, what music is playing? Is this some kind of eclectic, unrequited romance, love song themed Pandora station?”

“No. I believe it’s a CD.” Janie glanced at me.

“Yeah, it’s a CD.” I confirmed her response without looking up from Angelica’s sweater. I would likely finish it tonight. Then, if I spent all my free time on the scarf, I would finish it before Nico returned next week.

“Where did it come from?” Sandra crooked her head to the side. “Is it yours, Janie?”

She shook her head. “No. It’s Elizabeth’s.”

“Elizabeth’s?” Marie asked, her disbelief obvious. My propensity for exclusively boy-band albums was infamous.

“Actually,” I sighed, paused, half-contemplated making up some story, but then—feeling tired of playing pretend—decided to tell the truth. “It’s Nico’s. He made it.”

“What do you mean he made it? Did he make it for you?” Sandra sounded honestly mystified.

I nodded.

“Like a mixed tape?” Kat said.

I nodded.

“Nico Moretti made you a mixed tape of love songs?” Ashley repeated, as though to clarify.

I shook my head. “No. Not of love songs. Just good music.”

The room fell into a suspended hush. I glanced at my friends and found I was the only one knitting; everyone else was staring at nothing in particular and listening to the sorrowful, regretful, passionate sounds of “One Love” by U2 fill the silence.

Kat caught my eye. She was frowning. “What other songs are on the CD?”

My heart fluttered a little, and I shrugged. “They’re all good, like the Cars’s “My Best Friend’s Girlfriend.” My dad used to play that song all the time.”

“Oh my god. . .” Sandra stood and crossed to the stereo.

“What? What’s wrong?” I sat up in my chair.

Sandra pressed the back button and started the CD over. She played only the first twenty or so seconds of each song, and would skip ahead when someone named the song and artist.

“Where Do I Begin,” Shirley Bassey . . . “Swing Life Away,” Rise Against . . . “I’ve Got a Crush on You,” Frank Sinatra . . . “My Best Friend’s Girlfriend,” The Cars . . . “Mr. Brightside,” The Killers . . . “What Sarah Said,” Death Cab For Cutie . . . “The Scientist,” Coldplay . . . “Everlong,” Foo Fighters . . . “Wild Horses,” The Sundays . . . “One Love,” U2 . . . “Criminal,” Fiona Apple . . . “Keep Bleeding Love,” Leona Lewis . . . “Again,” Janet Jackson . . . “I Think That She Knows,” Justin Timberlake . . . “Let’s Get it On,” Marvin Gaye . . . “Let’s Stay Together,” Al Green . . . “Save the Last Dance for Me,” The Drifters.

Sandra stared at me as though she expected something, expected me to say something in specific. I turned my work in my hands, and—feeling compelled to speak—offered, “It was nice of him to do. . ?”

“Nice of him to do. . .?” She gaped, her expression both horrified and incredulous. “Elizabeth, listen to this CD. Listen. To. It.”

I glanced around the room. Everyone was on the edge of their seats, except, of course, Janie who looked just as confused as I felt. I was inexplicably embarrassed. “I have listened to it.”