Friends Without Benefits

“No. You haven’t.” Sandra exhaled loudly. “‘My Best Friend’s Girlfriend?’ ‘Mr. Brightside?’ Hello!? This CD is the story of you and Nico. This CD is him telling you how he feels. Wake up and smell the obvious for Thor’s sake!”

“Ooohh!” Janie, finally seeing what I was missing, met my gaze directly. “I get it! “Swing Life Away” is like when you were kids and then “Mr. Brightside”—he’s jealous.”

“’What Sarah Said’ by Death Cab for Cutie, that’s when Garrett died.” Fiona caught my gaze. “Love is watching someone dying.” She quoted the song.

I gawked at her, felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. I couldn’t decide if they were right. Furthermore, if they were right, I couldn’t decide how I felt about it. The only thing I felt certain of was the sensation that I was drowning.

“When he stayed with you after Garrett’s death, over the summer, that’s what the next three are about.” Sandra nodded. “Then, ‘One Love’—that’s obvious. ‘Criminal,’ that’s when you left him after. . .”

“Stop!” My heart was racing. “Just—Just stop.” I stood and crossed to the CD player, ended the music before Shirley Bassey could ask me again: Where do I begin?

I was hot with a surge of unidentified feelings. I took the CD out of the player, left my knitting group staring at my back as I hurried to my bedroom and shut the door behind me.

I didn’t turn on the light switch. Instead I paced back and forth in the dark, wringing my hands.

Lyrics from the songs competed for my attention, pounded through my brain.

My first reaction was anger, with him. When I turned that over in my head a few times and realized it didn’t make sense, I then directed the anger inward. After a few laps around my room the anger dissipated—unable to gain traction—I felt bereft and unbearably alone.

I needed to talk to him. I needed to ask him about the CD.

I needed to call Nico.

A light tapping on my door yanked me from my contemplative kerfuffle. I turned just in time to see Fiona and Janie peek their heads into my room.

“Elizabeth? Are you. . .” Janie squinted at me. “Are you okay?”

I walked to the door and opened it a bit further, motioned for them to come in. “Yes. I’m okay. I’m fine. I just—” I rubbed the space between my eyes with my index finger and thumb. “I’m just feeling somewhat ridiculous at the moment.”

Fiona walked over to me and engulfed me in a hug. Janie, without hesitating, followed suit, and we stood in my room, a hug tripod.

“Whatever you decide, about Nico, that’s your business.” Fiona’s soft voice helped melt some of the cold rigid anxiety in my bones. “But, no matter what, no matter if you tell that sexy Italian dreamboat to hit the road and no matter if you quit your job to become a belly dancing figure skater, there are six women here who love you and support you in all things.” Fiona pulled back, snagging my gaze with her large, elfish eyes. “No matter what.”

~*~

The first, and only, person I called after the ladies left and I finished Angelica’s 10:00 p.m. study visit was my dad. I needed to hear his voice.

I knew he and Jeanette would be back from their two week cruise by now. With all the media calls, I had not yet let him know about my change in phone number. We were long overdue for a chat.

He was so reasonable, so logical, so honest, so everything I’d always tried to be. If anyone could help me see reason, set my feet on the ground, and find a clear path, it was my dad.

The house phone rang three times before someone answered, and that someone was not my father.

“Um, hello?” A sleepy, female voice sounded from the other end.

I glanced at the clock on my nightstand; it was 11:00 p.m. I winced.

“Hi, Jeanette. I didn’t realize how late it is. I’ll call back tomorrow.”

“Oh! Elizabeth, honey, don’t apologize.” I heard rustling on the other end as she adjusted the phone. “Your dad is so worried. We haven’t heard from you.”

“I know. Things have been a little strange.”

“Let me go get him. He’ll be so happy to hear your voice.”

“Thanks, Jeanette.” I picked at a frayed hole in my jeans, breaking the white cotton threads that ran horizontal and twisting them between my fingers.

“Elizabeth? Are you okay?” My father’s steady voice soothed my nerves. I gathered a deep breath.

“Yes. I’m good. I’m fine. I just wanted to call you and give you my new cell number, explain why I’ve been missing in action, see how the cruise was. But I can call back tomorrow.”

“No. It’s fine. I’m still up working on a grant proposal for the department. The cruise was really great. Just a minute.” I detected soft voices then a door close, the distinct sound of my father sitting in the chair behind his desk. It always squeaked. “What was I saying?”

“The cruise.”

“Yes, yes, the cruise. Listen, Elizabeth, there is something I’ve been needing to talk to you about. I really wanted to do this in person; but, with your schedule and mine, I think the phone is probably just fine.”

I frowned. He sounded suspiciously hesitant, somber. This sounded serious. I braced myself. “Are you okay? Are you sick?”

“No, no—nothing like that. This is good news. At least, I think it’s good news, great news in fact.”

“Oh. Good.” His words only served to increase my disquiet. Great news?

“Well, you see, the thing is,” I heard him huff. It was the kind of huff that is accompanied by a smile, a huff-laugh. “I’ve asked Jeannette to marry me and she has said yes.”

I opened my mouth with no intention of speaking. It was just open. Wide open. To say I was shocked was a gross understatement. My mind was blown. I thought for a moment that I was dreaming.

“Elizabeth?”

This was the man who’d said my mother was his soul mate, his one true love. This was the man—throughout my entire childhood—who told me there was one right person for him, no one else, and that person had been my mother. This was the man who’d regale me with stories about them, how they met, how they fell in love, how much they loved me.

But this couldn’t be the same man because he was about to marry someone else.

“Elizabeth? Are you still there?”

“Yes! Yes, I’m here.” Inexplicably, my eyes stung. “God, dad, I’m so happy for you.” I looked at the ceiling, blinked away the moisture and swallowed the sudden bitterness in my throat. “Congratulations.”

“You can see why I’ve been trying to call you. It happened while we were on the cruise and,” he huff-laughed again, “I just can’t believe she said yes.”

Chapter 18

I called Nico on Wednesday.

Learning about my father’s engagement felt like taking the red pill in the Matrix. Everything he’d told me—about him, his unwavering love for my mother, about soul mates and true love—everything felt like a lie. I knew he’d meant well, I knew his intentions had been good, and I knew he believed the sentiments at the time.

But that didn’t change the fact that he’d lied.

The rug had been pulled out from under me, my balloon had been popped, the wind vacated my sails, and—for maybe the hundredth time in two weeks—I felt adrift, unanchored, and unsteady.

I spent the day talking myself in and out of calling Nico; I rationalized that I had two very good reasons for calling.

First of all, I couldn’t be one-hundred-percent sure, but I thought I saw the fancy stalker lady in the hospital on Wednesday afternoon. I only saw her from the back, and it was in the crowded cafeteria, but I was almost positive the fancy stalker was back.

This excuse didn’t really work, because I’d immediately told my assigned guard, Dan, about the incident. Dan contacted Quinn. Quinn, most likely, would have told Nico.

However, my second excuse was perfectly sound. I reasoned that is was appropriate for me to call him about Angelica’s progress. He was likely wondering why I hadn’t called about it already. I figured any further delay in calling would be unprofessional on my part.

Yeah. That’s the ticket. Unprofessional.

The first time I called Nico it was just after Angelica’s 2:00 p.m. clinic visit. I had a shift at the hospital; therefore, Rose and Angelica had driven down to the clinical research unit for the infusion. Seeing them made me miss Nico, and I called him on a whim, before I could talk myself out of it.

It rang four times then went to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message.

The next time I called Nico was during my dinner break. One of my patients had been listening to “Mr. Brightside” by the Killers on their iPhone. The aggressive melody carried through the teenager’s headphones. The song reminded me of Nico and his mixtape CD.

I let the phone ring twice then I hung up before it went to voicemail.

The third time I called him I was just leaving the hospital at midnight, on my way home. I was sitting in the backseat of a large black SUV, one of Quinn’s cars that drove me back and forth to work.

The phone rang only once before I pressed the End button.