Friends Without Benefits

His brown eyes, usually so guarded, were soft and sincere, and he held me, didn’t seem to mind that I was getting blood all over his nice suit.

“Dr. Finney, Elizabeth, I’m so sorry. I never should have left.”

“Shh. No, no, it was my idea. I—I shouldn’t have . . .” I shook my head, unable to finish the sentence, my brain no longer capable of forming words.

Instead I leaned into him, wrapped my arms around him, thankful for the comfort, but all the while wishing he were someone else.

~*~

The police came. In fact, a lot of police came. I gave a statement. Ken gave his statement. And, when it was time for Meg to give her statement, I punched her in the face.

It took both Ken and Dan holding me back to keep from giving her a second black eye.

Ken pulled me aside, and Dan hovered at my shoulder. “Elizabeth, are you okay?”

I nodded, flexed my hand. I noted absentmindedly that none of the police officers seemed at all concerned that I’d just assaulted someone.

Ken nodded, pulled his hand through his curly blond hair. “I just wanted to say, I wanted to tell you . . .” His eyes bored into mine with surprising intensity, and then he frowned as though just deciding something. “But none of that’s important now. We should just—let’s just agree to be friends again, normal friends.”

He stuck out his hand, and, after only a brief pause, I accepted it in mine. We shook.

“Good,” he said, still frowning. “Good.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Good. And thanks, by the way, for . . .” I glanced around the break room, the blood and coffee on the floor. “Thanks for shooting her.”

Ken grimaced and sighed. “I was actually aiming for her knee.”

I didn’t respond, but I’d wanted to tell him that I didn’t care where he’d shot her, I was just thankful that he did. I was thankful to be alive.

I was sent home shortly thereafter with instructions to take off my Tuesday afternoon shift. However, I was asked to return for the evening shift at 11:00 p.m. Dan argued against this, argued with me as we left. He expressed his opinion quite loudly that I needed time off to recover, and, at the very least, I needed to see a therapist or a trauma counselor. In fact, during the entire drive back to my building he ranted that I was a ridiculous and unreasonable person and, therefore, when I collapsed from exhaustion it would serve me right.

I could only shake my head—which hurt like the devil—and try to pacify him in small ways.

What he didn’t understand and what most laypeople don’t get is that you can’t call in sick when you’re an emergency room physician, especially not in an inner-city Chicago trauma center. There are no mental health days. If you don’t show up, people suffer, people die. Sure, sometimes the hospital can find a replacement in a true emergency. But my situation wasn’t an emergency.

I could walk, talk, and think. I could see patients.

In the end I made a few concessions. I agreed to make every attempt to reduce my shifts over the next two weeks, I further agreed to ask Dr. Botstein to allow me a few extra days off. By the time I arrived at the penthouse door it was close to three in the morning, and I likely would have agreed to hosting a panty dance party for all of Quinn’s security and body guards.

I wondered what it was about life and death situations that bonded people in such an indescribable, intangible way. I now felt that Dan and I would be friends for the rest of our lives. We had no choice in the matter. We had an understanding, a shared situation. There was no escape.

We stared at each other in the hall for a full half-minute then abruptly he pulled me into a hug. “You’re an idiot,” he whispered in my ear, his Townie accent suddenly thick and unmistakable.

I laughed. “Thanks.”

Dan pulled away and physically set me inside the penthouse, much like he’d physically set me inside the doctors’ lounge earlier. “For God’s sake, please talk to someone. If you wait too long you’ll be wrong in the head.”

“I’m already wrong in the head.”

“Yeah, but you’re funny wrong in the head. I don’t want you to be basket-case wrong in the head.”

My mouth hooked to the side. “Because you like me?”

“No. Because basket cases are the worst people to guard. I don’t need that shit.”

I laughed lightly as he reached forward for the door knob, essentially pushing me into the apartment, and closed the door.

I stood in the entranceway for several long minutes, dazed, then tiptoed to Nico’s bedroom, careful not to wake up Rose or Angelica. The first thing I did was strip off my clothes and take the longest shower in the history of forever. The second thing I did was brush my teeth. The third thing I did was lay in Nico’s bed and surround myself with his pillows.

And, predictably, I couldn’t sleep.

~*~

I didn’t mention the episode with the stalker to Rose during Angelica’s infusion that morning. But I did ask her the favor of borrowing her cell phone. She happily agreed, obviously feeling guilt-free about ignoring Nico’s text request from Sunday.

I called Nico’s cell, and it went straight to voicemail, which I expected. When the beep sounded I took a deep breath and said, “Nico, it’s me. I’m using your mom’s cell phone because mine was . . . broken last night. I’m not sure if you already heard from Dan or Quinn about what happened, but I wanted to tell you, talk to you about it so, if you could call me back that would be great. I’m on your mom’s phone . . . bye.” I glanced at the phone, I didn’t hang up. After a short moment I brought it back to my ear. “I love you.”

Then, I hung up. I tossed the phone to the bed and sat on the edge, my elbows on my knees, my face in my hands. I breathed out then in, strangely aware of the feeling, the sensation of breathing.

While I listened to myself breathe, my brain and heart abruptly reached an accord: I was going to fight for Nico and that was that. I was going to push, play games, and fight dirty. And if he ultimately left me, if he didn’t want me in the end, I would be devastated and heartbroken and want to drink scotch alone while listening to Radiohead. But I would live.

And, after just living for a bit, I would start eating alphabet soup.

Even if Nico and I didn’t end up together I would always be grateful to him for helping me realize love was a choice that I was capable of making just as much as it was a risk I was capable of taking. I was older and wiser and wouldn’t enter into it lightly because I knew now how precious it was.

I was yanked out of my odd meditation by a buzzing on the bed next to me. Rose’s cell was ringing. I grabbed for it, swiped my thumb across the screen, brought it to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Oh, thank God, Elizabeth!”

My heart jumped, my eyes immediately stung from tears of happy relief. “Nico.” His name was a prayer of thanksgiving. I fell backward on the bed, surrounded again by his pillows, the smell of cologne; all of it now paired with this voice.

He cursed for a while. He ranted for a while after that about Quinn and incompetence and guard dogs and semiautomatic weapons. I just let the sound of his voice wash over me, a miraculous soothing balm for the largest wound—missing him.

After a bit he calmed, quieted. I heard him sigh on the other end. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if . . .” He sighed again, his voice thick with emotion. “I can’t even say it.”

I nodded. “I know. I know how you feel. Nico, I can’t stand this. I can’t stand being away from you, you not taking my calls. Can we just forget about the last few days? Please? Can we forget about me losing my temper on Friday and the stupid, awful things I said?”

My entreaty was met with silence. I worried my lip. Waited.

“Nico?”

I glanced at the phone screen to make sure the call hadn’t been dropped. Sure enough, the call was still live.

“Nico? Are you there?”

“I’m here.”

My heart plummeted, crashed to the earth with each protracted second of silence. I closed my eyes because I knew what his silence meant.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t . . . I can’t believe you’re still going to make me wait, after what happened. You’re going to make me wait until you come back next week, aren’t you?”

“Elizabeth, listen to me. You just went through a terrible trauma, because of me. Because of who I am, what I do—”

“No! I just went through a terrible trauma because a crazy person decided to hold me at gun point. You aren’t responsible for putting that weapon in her hand.”

“There’s something I haven’t told you. She and I, we, I dated her.”

“I know. She told me when she had me trapped. If she hadn’t been holding a gun I might have scratched her eyes out.”

He ignored my attempt at brevity. “It was just once, just one time. She wouldn’t leave me alone after that.”

“Is that why you wanted to be with me? Girl A? Because girl C might be cray-cray? Are you settling for me because you know I don’t—”

“No! I want to be with you because I—I can’t. . .” He man-sighed, I heard a loud whack then crash as though he’d hit something and it broke. “I don’t want to push you. I’ve already done that and now you almost—you could have died.”