Friends Without Benefits

“You and your Star Trek analogies.”

“I’m trying to get used to this new kinder, gentler, softer Nico.”

“Softer?”

“Well, smoother.”

“Oh my stars! Did you just—was that a compliment? Did you just call me smooth?”

“Did you just say, ‘Oh my stars?’” I laugh-snorted.

“I’m just shocked you complimented me. I’m going to write this day down so I can remember it. Dear Diary, today I was complimented by Elizabeth Finney. I think she’s starting to like me. When oh when will she let me feel her up?”

I laugh-snorted again. “Very funny. That wasn’t at all smooth by the way. Just be happy I called you smooth and not slick or, or charismatic.”

“Hmm, I don’t at all mind slick . . . We should spend more time discussing that, and you think I’m charismatic?” I could almost see the devastating small smile that accompanied his question.

“Oh, please. You know you’re charismatic. Your superhero name would be Captain Charismatic. Your superpower would be stupid exploding charisma. I mean, you walk into a room and people, everyone, can’t keep their eyes off you.”

“You don’t think my TV show has something to do with that? The fact that they recognize me?”

“No. It’s you. If you put a paper bag over your head people would still be looking at you. Before you were famous, when we were in school it was the same way. You were always so visible and I was always so . . .invisible.” I hadn’t meant to say that, about myself. It just came out and, honestly, startled me. I swallowed a strange thickness in my throat.

“You were never invisible to me.” Nico’s voice was insistent and—for some reason—I felt that he was frustrated with me.

“Sometimes you made me wish I had been invisible to you.” I stared at the toes of my comfortable shoes, lost in an unpleasant memory from high school; specifically when Nico introduced me to a new class member as Skinny Finney, the brainiac boy everyone cheats off of. There were so many hurtful things about that moment I had difficulty settling on just one.

“Well . . .” Wisely he decided to sidestep my last comment. “I can compliment you.”

“Please don’t.” I sniffled, surprised to find my eyes stung a little. I blinked away the beginnings of unwelcome emotions.

“Why not?”

“Because . . .” I closed my eyes. “Because it makes it hard to talk to you.”

“As physically incapable as you are of complimenting me, I’m physically incapable of not complementing you and how amazingly smart you are—”

“Nico.”

“Listen, you are. I remember in high school, we had classes together, in specific biology, and you ruined the curve.”

“I liked biology. If you’d put me in public speaking I would have gotten an F.”

“The other thing I can’t help complimenting you about—and I wish I’d brought it up at the reunion when we were dancing—is that you are funny.”

This statement caught me by surprise. I never really thought of myself as funny. Sarcastic, yes; funny, no. “I’m funny?”

“Yes. You are very funny.”

I twisted my free fingers in the hem of my scrubs. “. . . really?”

“Yes. Witty. I love how witty you are, I love talking to you because you’re going to say something intelligent and hilarious. I love it.”

Warmth suffused my cheeks at the thought of Nico, The Face, calling me funny. He was, after all, an expert on the matter. In addition to being charismatic, he always seemed to know the right thing to say. It was aggravating and sexy.

“I like talking to you too.” My voice was small because my words were sincere.

I could feel his exploding charisma through the phone. “Was that a compliment?”

I rolled my eyes, but my smile widened. “Yes. Fine. I complimented you. I love talking to Nico Mangenigelino or however the heck you pronounce your last name. Are you happy now?”

Blast of charisma. “I’m getting there.”

Chapter 19

That night I pondered the fact that I’d been avoiding speaking with Nico about his fancy stalker. It felt like an unpleasant, heavy topic; like a rusty car or unmanageable box of poo. Whenever he asked me how I was doing in relation to the pressure of paparazzi or the stalker I changed the subject. I didn’t want to talk about it.

We were having such a good time during our conversations I didn’t want to ruin it. I loved them.

In fact, it dawned on me just as I was drifting off to sleep on Sunday night that I loved hearing about his day—not because it was exciting, but because I loved being there for him. I loved being his sounding board, offering support, and helping him reason through issues, problems. I loved giving him that part of myself.

All of this added together meant that I was letting him in. In fact, he was already in. He’d breached my fortress walls, he had a mancave in my citadel of seclusion and we were picking out curtains for the barred windows. The thought was both thrilling and terrifying.

I needed to decide what to do, what to say to him when he returned. Instead I rolled over in my bed, pulled the covers with me and, again, ensconced myself in avoidance. I justified my avoidance by reminding myself that we were just friends. I didn’t need to make any decisions because there were no decisions to make. I could just enjoy the conversations for what they were: two friends talking on the phone.

And that was a load of horse manure.

But I didn’t want anything to change. I loved how much we laughed together; we shared the same sense of humor, as sick and twisted as we were. I loved that jokes that might make others cringe sent us both into long, breath-stealing, stomach cramping bouts of laughter.

Therefore, I didn’t particularly want to dwell on any modification to our relationship that would likely ruin it; and I didn’t want to discuss the stalker while we were joking about the phallic qualities of pasta.

However, on Monday, I saw the fancy stalker again, and this time I knew for certain that it was her. She was sitting in the ER waiting room, and I spotted her from behind the discharge counter. Sure enough, she was wearing fancy shoes, fancy sunglasses—while inside . . . weird—and a fancy trench coat—also weird.

I hurried to the doctors’ lounge, the only place in the ER with cell phone coverage, and dialed the direct line of Detective Carey Long, the officer who’d come the last time. I also paged my guard, Dan. But, by the time I made it back to the discharge desk, the fancy stalker was gone. In the chair where she’d sat was another envelope.

I didn’t touch it, and I didn’t open it. I waited for Dan and Detective Long to arrive and gave her the honor. She picked it up with official-looking tweezers and placed it in a plastic bag, promised to let me know the contents as soon as she could.

Before she left she suggested to Dan that he follow me all day—stand outside clinic rooms—rather than walk the halls of the floor. She also recommended to Dan that Quinn’s security team alert the hospital security about the issue, circulate a picture of the Fancy Stalker so that staff and providers could keep an eye out. Dan informed her that they’d already taken that precaution, but would circulate her picture again.

Before she left she reminded me to tell Nico about the incident.

I decided to notify Nico of this latest episode in person. He would be home Tuesday, just one more day, and I would be able to draw him aside and describe the situation face-to-face. I didn’t want him to become twisted in knots about it while he was in New York, as he was prone to do.

My Monday shift ended at 4:00 p.m. and, after trying but failing to reach Nico on the phone, I decided to take Rose up on an earlier offer of dinner and a movie with her and Angelica. It gave me an opportunity to give Angelica her new sweater, and Rose, although crazy as a loon, was still an amazing cook. I was hoping to pick up some tips. Since my father never cooked I’d never learned.

But I wanted to. Marie from my knitting group had taught me to make Belgian waffles and a few simple dinners. I could always use additional instruction and practice. Rose did not disappoint.

She was making ravioli from scratch. Angelica was sitting at my elbow, seemingly perfectly at ease. This was remarkable because I wasn’t typically a kid magnet. In fact, kids seemed to sense my apprehension and usually—from a radius of at least six feet—cast disapproving and/or suspicious glares in my direction.

But, with Angelica, we’d developed an easy rapport since I’d shared my inventory of kids’ jokes and given her the pony paraphernalia purse a few weeks ago. She was easy to like. In fact, I noted with some reluctance, she was easy to love. The fact that she adored the sweater I knit her didn’t hurt matters either.

“What is that?” Her little munchkin voice pointed to my poorly constructed square of pasta.

“It’s ravioli.”

“No it’s not.” She shook her head, reached for a slice of pineapple and popped it in her mouth.

“Well, what does it look like to you?”

“It looks like Pinky Pie’s alligator.” Her mouth was full of pineapple, and a little juice dribbled down her chin. Instead of gross—which is what it should have been—she pulled off effortless adorableness.