Friends Without Benefits

I’m sure I looked completely befuddled. I felt completely befuddled. Why would Nico The Face Moretti—or Nico Manganiello—want to be friends with me? “I don’t understand,” I repeated and, because my brain was on befuddlement-autopilot, I asked, “You mean like friends with benefits?”

. . . did I just say that? Or did I think that? Judging by the amused expression on his features I guessed that I said it.

Out loud.

I grimaced. “I mean, not that you—I mean I just don’t—”

“No, Elizabeth . . .” His gaze swept over me once more; the movement was quick, as though it were an involuntary reaction to my question. “Friends without benefits. Just friends.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean . . .” I huffed so that I would stop talking and promptly leaned against the sofa arm again. I examined him from behind my lashes; he appeared to be earnest. Nothing in his expression hinted that this was a joke or that he was trying to make a fool of me. Nevertheless, my eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Just friends?”

“Yes.”

I shook my head. “Men and women can’t be just friends. Haven’t you seen every romantic comedy ever?”

“I have female friends.” His face relaxed a bit, but his eyes were still guarded.

“I’m sure you do.”

“I do.” He lifted his chin a notch. “There is a clause that if the man grows up with sisters—and I grew up with three—then he is capable of having female friends.”

I considered him, the strangeness of his request. In fact, our entire interaction was verging on Twilight Zone levels of absurdity. Nico Manganiello didn’t ask people to be friends, and he certainly never asked me for anything.

“Okay.” I shrugged my surrender, because I didn’t know what else to do. I felt overwhelmed by him, his request, the gentleness of his voice, the sincerity of his words, the entire situation. It was weird and, as usual, he had an uncanny ability to discombobulate me in a few short moments. Since I couldn’t think of anything else to say, I responded, “We can be friends.”

He nodded once, but didn’t smile. “Good. That’s good.”

And, for the third time, we stared at each other. The moment was the most surreal of my life. I watched his chest rise and fall with each breath. I noted that his eyes hadn’t quite lost all their hostility despite the candor of our conversation. Although, I surmised, my expression likely wasn’t warm and fuzzy either.

I doubted that we could be friends.

I watched as Nico took a deep breath, as though preparing to say something of great importance. He got as far as “Elizabeth, I have to—” before my pager buzzed at my waist.

I pulled my attention from him and focused on the message. It efficiently told me that the ER was expecting seven trauma victims within the next five minutes, all with severe injuries. This typically meant a car wreck of epic proportions.

I frowned first at my pager then at him. “I have to go. There’s been an accident and I need to help.”

“Okay.” He nodded, pressed his lips together in a tight line, his soulful eyes tinged with a shadow of emotion I couldn’t place.

I walked past him in a rush, but paused at the door. I felt like I’d left my stomach and a few select other organs still leaning against the arm of the couch. I glanced over my shoulder.

He stood just where I’d left him, his back to the door.

Chapter 3

My suspicions were correct; the injuries and overflow of patients had been due to a car accident. I’d worked with the trauma team until my shift ended and then for a few hours afterward. Basically, until I’d been kicked out.

But now, since there was nothing more I could do, I was determined to leave the ups and downs and all-arounds of the day behind me: the devastation of the car accident, my shaming encounter with Dr. Botstein, the failed prank, and Megalomaniac Meg’s evil deeds. Furthermore, I needed to tuck Nico Manganiello and all memories of him, all the pain and regret, back into their hiding place.

It was Tuesday, and Tuesday was typically the highlight of my week, because Tuesday night was knit night.

I was forced to admit that the ladies of my Tuesday night knitting group muscled their way inside my heart over the past two years. At first I wasn’t entirely comfortable with letting them all in at once; it made me feel like they were going to storm the castle and plunder the goods. But all attempts at holding off the siege of care and mutual respect vanished with the consumption of bottles and bottles and bottles of red wine, tequila shots, dirty jokes, and bonding over worsted weight Malabrigo yarn.

Under the weight of the day, I staggered into the apartment I shared with my best friend Janie—although, since Janie’s engagement she was rarely at home—and flung my bag and coat and keys on the hall table. I left my hand-knit gloves, scarf, and hat on. I wanted to show off the finished matching set.

“Ai-oh!” Ashley bellowed at me from the living room, “Get’cher butt in here, girl. Sandra said you finished the hat. I wanna see it.” An immediate smile arrested my features, and I walked a bit steadier down the hall.

Ashley was always extremely successful at cracking me up. She was originally from Tennessee and had explained to me once—over several strong margaritas—that she’d moved to Chicago so her parents couldn’t marry her off to “some redneck park ranger.” Lucky for me, she was also a pediatric nurse practitioner at Chicago General so I got to see her for lunch sometimes. Those were good lunch days.

I attempted a dramatic entrance, poking just my head around the corner, the aforementioned hat on my head. I wagged my eyebrows and was met with whoops and hollers.

“I like that hat.” Marie leaned forward in her seat, placed her elbow on her crossed leg and gave me an approving smile; her curly blonde hair fell forward around her shoulders. Marie, out of our bunch of misfits, was the artistic one. She was a freelance writer and illustrator and was extremely talented. In addition, she was an excellent cook. My favorite knit nights were at Marie’s apartment because she always cooked instead of ordered takeout. On those occasions I usually slept over if I could manage it, because she made amazeballs Belgian waffles for breakfast.

I pointed to my head and stepped around the corner. “You mean this hat?” If my grin were any wider it would have split my face.

When Sandra saw the matching scarf and mittens she stood up. “Shut. Up. You. Knitting. Prodigy.” She pointed at me, her mouth open wide. “I can’t believe how awesome that turned out. Let me see, get your skinny bottom over here.” Originally from Texas, Sandra was by far the loudest and most opinionated. Actually, at times, she and I tied for that title, but I liked to think she edged me out of the lead most of the time. Like me, she was finishing her second year of residency at Chicago General, but she was a psychiatry resident.

I hopped into the room and proceeded to wiggle my fingers, a hidden attempt at jazz hands, and crossed to Sandra. She met me half way and immediately grabbed one end of my scarf for closer inspection.

“Is it Fair Isle? Where did you find the pattern?” Fiona turned in her seat and motioned both Sandra and me over. Fiona, likely the most empathetic and arguably the most mature of our group, placed her knitting to the side as I approached. She was five foot two and reminded Janie and me of a pixie. Her hair was short, her lashes were long, and her wide dark eyes always seemed to sparkle with a knowing glow. She was our unofficial den mother and we all loved her.

“It’s based on the Mini Mochi Fair Isle Hat by Sandi Rosner. I just took the pattern and reworked it for the matching scarf and mitts.” I handed a glove to Fiona and watched her inspect it.

“I know that pattern.” Kat volunteered quietly. She brushed a length of brown wavy hair from her shoulder and reached for her margarita glass. Janie met Kat at her previous job where Janie—although highly skilled as an architect—had been under employed as an accountant for an architecture firm. Now Janie worked for her fiancé’s company as a senior account manager and Kat still worked as an executive secretary for the firm. Kat was sweet, kind, sincere, and very, very quiet. I didn’t know her as well as I would like, but had firsthand knowledge of how wonderful she was.

Janie strolled out of the kitchen carrying margarita glasses; she was balancing on stilettos which made her barefoot six-foot frame a towering six foot four inches. She and I shared a weakness for fabulously impractical shoes.

When she saw me she smiled and lifted a glass toward me. “Do you want a margarita? I’m making them with Limoncello and Petron.”

“Yes. I will have margaritas.” I returned her smile. I was very happy to see her. I hadn’t seen her since last week’s meet up, and I missed my best friend.

Janie had been my college roommate, and I loved her like the sister I never had. We’d bonded early over the fact that we’d both lost our mothers at a relatively young age as well as our shared strangeness. I was a sarcastic and caustic tomboy who’d skipped a grade in elementary school, and Janie was a walking calculator and encyclopedia. We were a match made in heaven. Even given our height disparity, we both wore a size eight and a half shoe.

“Okay. Two more coming right up.” She nodded, passing a glass to Ashley and the other to Sandra. She then wiped her hands on the Wonder Woman apron she was wearing. A fire-engine red curl had escaped her loose bun and fell in her face. She puffed it out of the way and turned back to the kitchen.