Friends Without Benefits (Knitting in the City) (10 page)

I choked on my own breath,
“Wait—what? Why were
you
charged with assault?”

He appeared to be stalling, as though struggling to avoid t
elling me something unpleasant. “I elbowed one of them in the face and broke her nose.” He swallowed and didn’t precisely roll his eyes. “It was an accident.”

My eyebrows shot upward.
“Were you convicted?”

“No, but she won a civil suit.”

“What a freak.”

“She’s crazy.”

The comment, seemingly offhanded, sounded strangely meaningful and loaded. “How crazy?”

He wiped a hand over his face. “She actually
. . . she’s actually a bit of a stalker.”

“A stalker? You have a stalker?”

Nico grimaced, obviously uncomfortable discussing the subject. His tone was flat. “She hasn’t attacked me, but she has—”

“Except for sticking her hand down your pants
.”

“Mostly
a lot of hate mail.”

My mouth dropped open. “Your stalker sends you hate mail?”

He shrugged, like it was no big deal.

“
Only you would have a stalker that sends hate mail. Is that why you just stood there tonight instead of tossing those crazy ladies off of you?”

Nico kicked a soda cup to one side.

Just when I thought he wasn’t going to respond he said, “I wanted to, believe me I did,
 
but I don’t hit women.”

I studied him, his stern expression. He was
seemingly unwilling to say anything further, as though that were explanation enough for not administering a smack down on the pack of she-wolves.

I brought t
he sleeves of his jacket to my nose, breathing out then in to warm the cold appendage, and studied him again. His jacket smelled like him—his expensive cologne as well as light traces of cigarette smoke and mint—and, of course, the scent further aggravated my muddled mind. 

I loved the smell of his cologne; I hated the smell of cigarette smoke; the mint was unexpected
, and I didn’t know how to feel about it.

“
I’m going to have to insist that you hire some security to deal with the nutters, especially the hate mail wackjob.”

“
I have. I do.”

“Where are they tonight?”

“They were there.”

“
What the? You should fire those assho—er—clowns. Or I can do it if you want.”

He did meet my eyes then
, and his mouth was curved in a quizzical smile. “You want to fire my guards?”

“Yes
,” I answered honestly.

I enjoyed firing people when they were bad at their job.
It felt somehow satisfying to be the angel of darkness, the necessary evil, the harbinger of doom. Someone needed to do it, and I didn’t mind dirty jobs.

“
No, that’s okay.” His smile grew, but the bemused expression remained. “But thank you for the offer. It’s hard finding a good team. I like my privacy, and security guards know all your business whether you like it or not. I’ll just call the agency and get new ones.”

I glanced at my feet and considered the scene on the dance floor and my reaction to it. What bothered me almost more than the grabby ladies were all the people who witnessed what was happening and just stared, did nothing, like it was ok
ay for Nico to be groped without his consent.

What a bunch of freaks.

“I will do it, you know. I will fire them for you if you want,” I offered once more.

“I know you will. But
I don’t want to have to go through finding another trustworthy agency.”

“You’re going with the same agency?” I shifted on my feet, bracing them apart
. “Why do you think the next team they put on you will be any better? You should go with a different agency.”

Nico’s eyes narrowed
, a smile dancing over his expression. “You’re just as bossy as I remember.”

I echoed his narrowed eyes
, but not his smile. “I’m not bossy, I’ve never been bossy. I’m just always right.”

“Not always.”

“Mostly always.”

Then, he laughed. It started as a small burst then became a tumbling landslide. It rolled over me, did lovely things to my stomach. I felt lighter and heavier at the same ti
me. I brought his jacket sleeves back to my nose to hide the curve of my mouth.

His display of merriment receded
, leaving him with shining eyes and a wide smile; his teeth looked stark white, likely due to the dark beard framing his mouth. I liked his beard. It made him look a little wild.

“Ah
. . 
. 
Elizabeth.” He shook his head then lolled it to one side; his eyes moved over my face. “I’ve missed you.”

“How could you miss me? This is the longest civil conversation we’ve
had since I was nine.”

“I even miss our
conversations that were arguments.”

“They were all arguments.”

“Not all of them.”

“You’re right, sometimes we didn’t talk.”

“I miss those times the most.”

His open appraisal and words were confusing; I didn’t know if he was being
sardonic or sincere. I never could tell with him so I always erred on the side of caution. I decided to rebuff his maybe praise, probably innuendo with sarcasm. “You’re just saying that because moments ago I was the Kevin Costner to your Whitney Houston.”

“And I will always love you
,” Nico said.

The sound I made was part snort, part laugh
as I faced him. “Yeah right, you’re hilarious. . .” But the words died, caught in my throat, as I met his gaze.

He was staring at me
, solemnly, and with no hint of sarcasm, no twinkle of mischief. The twinkle had been replaced with a cool heat which felt like a bucket of ice over my head.

“I,
uh. . .” I took an automatic and unsteady step backward, and my heart felt like it was trying to escape my chest.

“Elizabeth
. . .” His eyes moved to my mouth. Nico-fed radiant energy filled the expansive bleacher cavern; I heard buzzing in my ears. “I need to tell you—”

ALERT ALERT ALERT

“Can it wait? Because—because I basically left Sandra in a room full of crazy strangers.” I gained a step backward, then another.

I was out of practice. Avoidance, like any skill,
required practice. My excuse for avoiding him and the next words out of my mouth sounded lame even to me. Nico opened his mouth to respond, but I’d already turned away and was jogging toward the opening.

“We’ve seen what they’re capable
of, I should go get her.”

After a short delay
on his part, which afforded me a head start, I heard Nico’s footfalls follow. I quickened my pace until I was nearly running and didn’t stop until I reached the front of the main building.

Nico’
s steps were just behind me; an anxiety riddled electric shiver raced up my spine as I grabbed the door handle to the main entrance and yanked it open.

“Elizabeth
, wait—” Nico called from just behind me.

“Elizabeth
, hey.” Sandra called from just in front of me.

“
Sandra!” I bounded into the safety of her sphere, relieved, anxious, and wanting to leave this epic confusion of a high school reunion as soon as humanly possible.

Nico caught my arm and spun me to face him, “Will you just wait a minute?” His expression, if I were reading it correctly, was a mixture of hope and hurt. It knocked the wind from my lungs. 

“There you are.” Sandra’s voice, then hand on my arm, pulled me away from Nico’s soulful expression. The rescue was not a moment too soon. His eyes were a black hole, and I felt myself being stretched until I thought I would break.

I blinked at her, at the room, at life in general. I blinked against the creeping and tight feeling in my middle. I blinked against the burning sensation of Nico’s stare where, I was certain, it still moved over my face.

I gripped her hand like a lifeline. “Here I am.” I hoped she read the SOS clearly on my features.

“I was looking for you
, I wondered if. . .” She glanced between me and Nico, her pleasant expression becoming somewhat perplexed, but no less pleasant. “I wondered if you would—”

“Yes
. We should go.” I nodded.

She released a breathy laugh, “No
, I meant, Micah and I—”

“I
shouldn’t have left.” I interrupted her and pulled my arm from Nico’s grip. “Let me just get my purse.”

However, before I could complete my escape, Nico stepped in my path.

“Wait—” My heart continued to thump, picking up pace with his words. I fought against closing my eyes, covering my ears, and singing
Mary had a little lamb, la la la, I can’t hear you
. I settled for not meeting his gaze as he sighed then continued, “Before you leave, I promised my mom, I promised Rose, that I would invite you to breakfast at the restaurant tomorrow. Obviously, you’re both invited.”

Again, Sandra and I spoke at the same time.

Me: “Oh, no, we need to get an early start back—”

Her: “Oh
. Yes, we would love to. We don’t have to be back till late. What time should we be there?”

I cringed. I noted that she was smiling.

Again, as though I hadn’t spoken at all, Nico addressed Sandra, “That’s great. I’ll tell her to expect you both around, say, ten?”

I didn’t even attempt to contradict
; instead I allowed Sandra to nod vigorously. “Yeah, yes, we’ll be there at ten.”

“Good
,” he said. I felt him hesitate for a moment before taking a step back and out of my path. “See you then.”

Sandra beamed at him
. He lingered. I knew he was looking at me, but, coward that I was, I just couldn’t meet his gaze. One more painfully long second passed then he walked around us and back toward the gym. I waited until I was sure he was gone then led Sandra by the hand in the direction of Micah. He was waiting for her at the edge of the hall.

“You can loosen your grip on my hand now
before you break something.”

“Oh.” I immediately released Sandra’s hand and rubbed my suddenly sweaty palm against my skirt.

“What did I interrupt between you two?” Sandra handed me my purse.

“What? Nothing
. Nothing is going on.” The words were a little too loud, a little too fast, a little too false. I was out of breath and recognized that it had very little to do with my spurt of exercise.

“Riiiight. Anyway
,” Sandra leaned closer to my ear. “Micah wanted to get out of here and get a drink. I was thinking of going with him, but after that outburst of yours and now that I know you were trying to escape naughty Nico, I’ll just blow off Micah.”

I shook my head.
“No, you should go. I’m good. I’ll just head back to the house and take advantage of this very rare sleep opportunity.”

Sandra wrinkled he
r nose and brought us to a halt. “I’m staying with you.”

“You came with me to see the world’s largest truck stop and I couldn’t even make that happen. Go with
Micah. I’m just going to go to sleep when I get home.”

She wasn’t convinced. “Are you sure?”

I could tell she didn’t believe me so I decided to yawn for good measure. “Yeah.”
Big yawn.
“Yes. Now go, and have a good time.”

Sandra reached for and squeezed my hand. She gave me one last scrutinizing gaze before
she left to join Micah.

As soon as she turned I bolted for the door, not wanting to give her an opportunity to change her mind, not wanting to interact with any more of my high school acquaintances, and
not wanting to chance another Nico interaction.

Boy Bands
are sent by God to aid women of all ages in their quest to avoid reality, but specifically to trick young women into believing that males think about topics other than sex.

When I listen
to boy bands at a loud volume I can almost forget about stress, about sadness, about life and death and the unfairness of both. The innocence lures me into a superficial, cotton-candy world, and it feels so good to be mindless, worriless, unburdened, new, and blissfully ignorant.

Bursting
into the front door of my childhood home, my shoes came off first, then my dress and petticoat. I left both at the bottom of the stairs and rushed up the steps in my strapless bra and underwear. Upon reaching my room on the third floor—which was actually the attic—I placed my phone on the docking station and simultaneously pressed play. Opening bars of “You Don’t Know You’re Beautiful” by One Direction filled the expansive space. I cranked up the volume until I couldn’t hear my own thoughts.

Contentment
that accompanies the avoidance of worry eased my tense muscles, and I sighed, closing my eyes. Eventually I bebopped around the room—pulling on pajamas, brushing my teeth, using my hair brush as a make-believe microphone—until I was ready for bed.

But I didn’t go to sleep. Instead I
rested on the quilt and stared at the ceiling, listening to the song on repeat, trying to believe the words even though I knew they were all lies.

A shadow moved across the wall in
my peripheral vision, and I bolted upward in bed, eyes wide and searching.

I
spotted him immediately.

Freaking Nico
.

His expression betrayed his thoughts about my music choice
, and he hurried from the window to the speaker dock, immediately paused the music and groaned.

“I can’t believe you still listen to
boy bands.”

My hands were white k
nuckled, gripping the sheets. I closed my eyes and shook my head. “Nico! What the hell? You scared me.”

I meant to breathe out a relieved sigh
, but I couldn’t—likely because I didn’t feel relieved. Instead I just kept gulping in air and had to force myself to stop before I ended up with the mother of all hiccup attacks.

“Sorry.” His steps sounded on the wood floor as he crossed to the bed. I felt the mattress depress under his weight. This small action made me scramble to my feet and launch out of the bed.

“What are you doing here?” I went to the docking station and claimed my phone, navigated to the clock alarm feature and set the alert for nine o’clock.

“You have excellent taste in everything except music.”

“That’s why you’re here?”

“No, I’m just stating a fact. Your taste is excellent except for music.”

“How would you know that?”

“Because I know you.”

I didn’t turn, but I accepted the bait. “You don’t know me. I could have terrible taste in a lot of things. For example, I like that shirt you’re wearing.” I gestured to his New York Yankees T-shirt then met his gaze. “See? I have terrible taste.”

His smile was crooked
and sincere and adorable, and it annoyed the heck out of me.

H
e ignored my insult. “I think you listen to these bands—and I use the word
band
lightly with a great deal of disrespect—because you’re trying to hold on to something that’s been gone for a long time.”

I lifted my chin
. “You’re talking about Garrett.”

Surprise g
linted in his gaze and over his expression, made him pause. His eyes searched mine. He stood and walked to me slowly, stalking, as though not wanting to frighten a skittish creature. “So . . . You can say his name now.”

I shrugged
. “Yes. I can say his name now.”

Nico studied me for a moment then scratched his chin
. “The last time we were together—”

I lifted my hands to my ears
, but didn’t exactly cover them. Instead I waved them around my head and turned away. I crossed to the small white vanity where my baseball cards were neatly stacked. “I don’t want to talk about that. I don’t want to talk about what we—what happened.”

He was silent for a moment then I he
ard him release a small breath. When he spoke his tenure was lower, gruff. “I was just going to say, the last time, you couldn’t say his name.”

“Well, I can now.” I picked up the baseball cards and started thumbing through them absentmindedly
. “Garrett. Garrett Thompson. Garrett P. Thompson. Garrett Patrick Thompson.”

It was true
; I could say his name. It was easily done. I could say it and with no residual ache, only a weird numbness where something else used to be.

Oftentimes I wished there were a corporeal mark to demarcate the before and after of Garrett Thompson in my life. Once or twice I’d gone to a tattoo parlor looking for a design to brand my skin, to prove what his prematurely extinguished existence did to me. At least a physical wound
provided proof of the hurt.

“
He’s been gone for eleven years.” Nico’s voice—sabulous, strained—was closer than I expected. He’d crossed the room while I was pretending to look at my baseball cards.

I attempted an unhurried saunter to the window; my objective was distance.

Though still cold, it was unseasonably mild for April and the sky was clear, moonless. I affixed my attention upward. Every star felt within reach, hovering just inches above my window. The soft and relatively moderate spring breeze teased the white eyelet curtains. If it were summer the wind would be rustling the corn. At times a strong gust mimicked the sound of the ocean breaking against the shore.

Again, Nico’s voice was closer than I’d anticipated and this time
quieter, softer. “I don’t know if you. . . Eleven years is a long time.”

I glanced over my shoulder, startled by his
gentle tone. Inexplicably, I couldn’t quite draw a full breath so I whispered, “I know that.”

“I miss him too.”

“I know you do.” I nodded.

“Elizabeth
. . .” In my peripheral vision I saw his hands lift; he hesitated then placed them gently on my shoulders and turned me to face him. “Do you—?”

“I’m not in love with him anymore, ok
ay?” I clenched my teeth. “I’m not. I was just a kid—
we
were kids.”

What I didn’t say was that whether or not I was still in love with Garrett was completely irrelevant. I wasn’t capable of loving anyone
—nor did I want to. That part of me was forever broken because I would never take the risk again. Loving was a kamikaze mission that only ended in misery.

His handsome mouth lifted, a rueful tilt that ended with his lips, and he p
inned me with a searching gaze. “What’s with the boy-toy bands?”

“Well, Judgey McJudgerton, maybe I just like boy bands. Maybe I feel they are misunderstood and their collective artistic contribution to society is undervalued. Where would modern hip-hop be without
’N Sync and the emergence of Justin Timberlake as a solo artist?”

“But you don’t listen to Justin Timberlake, you listen to
’N Sync.”

I
tried and failed not to grumble. “It’s all the same.”

He shook his head
. “No. You’re a purist, you always have been. Boy bands are the high fructose corn syrup of music. It’s the only thing about you that isn’t real. It doesn’t make any sense.”

I narrowed my eyes and ignored the way his thumbs were brushing over the bare skin of my shoulders
, because it was confusing, and every time he did it I thought of his expression at the reunion after he said
and I will always love you
.

I didn’t want to think about that
. “It’s not the only thing about me that doesn’t make sense.”

“Oh yeah, what else?” He surveyed me openly through thick lashes and shifted a half step closer
, into my personal space.

I shrugged out of his hold, leaned away
from him and against the window sill. I needed to gain distance. Nico’s omnipresent restless energy, charisma, and handsome face were proving to be more than I could defend against. That hole in my armor was stretching to accommodate him. I didn’t want to accommodate him. I wanted him to leave my armor intact.

Therefore, I d
ecided to ignore his question. “I think you’re biased.”

“About what?”

“About everything.”

“Explain.”

I remembered this, the one word command: explain.

Growing up I was used to his mother saying this to her children and, therefore, Nico saying it to me, to Garrett. It was how his family communicated. Some people found it off-putting. I just knew it was part of who he was.

“Of course you think I’m trying to hold on to something. The truth is you’re jealous of my excellent taste in music. Have you even heard of One Direction? Have you listened to their songs? You can’t say you don’t like something if you’ve never tried it—because that makes a lot of sense.” My attempt at deflection, to use his own words against him from earlier that evening, only served to increase my blood pressure and his skepticism.

“I don’t need to
suck on hard candy to know it will rot my teeth—”

His patronizing
retort sent a jarring wave of anger down my spine. I pushed away from the sill and stalked around him. I couldn’t figure out why I was so angry. An irritating and spectral voice told me it was because he knew me so well. I didn’t want him to know me.

I shoved the spectral voice over the side of a cliff, rationalizing my violence by internally asserting that spectral voices were shrewish and should be ignored or murdered.

I felt a surge of stubborn resolve and spun on my heel. I charged him, caught him off guard, pointed, and poked his sternum.

“You say I’m a purist and, you know what, you’re right.” I fisted my hands on my hips and tried to straighten to a height greater than my relatively diminutive five foot four
. “I’m a purist. And I think boy bands sing about the purest form of love and devotion—the
idea
of it. The purest form of something is the idea of it. They sing about something they couldn’t possibly know anything about. Once you know what falling in love is, what it requires in order to be sustained, it becomes infinitely less—less—less…” my arms flailed about in a circular motion, losing my mental wrestling match with the English language.

Nico lifted his eyebrows and prompted, “Less convenient?”

I scowled and poked him again. “No. Less alluring, less likely, less possible, less obtainable.”

He grabbed my finger a
nd held it suspended between us. “I disagree.”

“You disagree about which part?” I didn’t want to be huffy
, but I was. I was huffy and eyerolly and crabfacey. None of it, however, seemed to be off-puty because he came closer and held—commanded—my gaze with his.

“You had one experience that ended
tragically. Have you even tried? Have you tried again?” His earnestness, openness felt… weird and… disorienting. I tried to glance over his shoulder, but he moved to intercept my glare. He nodded as though confirming a suspicion. “Yeah. I thought so.”

T
o keep from frowning I pinched my lips together. “You just. . . you just don’t know.”

“Is that why you left?”

I stiffened.

He studied me
, his voice growing both softer and more severe. “Is that why you left me, that night?”

My heart thumped painfully in my chest. I couldn’t answer, my throat was too tight.

“Why did you send back all my letters? When you left, why didn’t you take my calls?”

“I—” I breathed the word, didn’t know what to say. I should’ve apologized
, but instead I said, “We were just kids.”

“Did I scare you, that night?
Did I do something wrong?”

My heart thump became a gallop. “No. It wasn’t you b
-but that was so long ago. Why are we talking about this?”

“Because
. . .” Nico gathered a deep breath, his eyes searched mine. He dropped his gaze to our hands, shifted them in order to hold my palm in both of his. “Because I’ve missed you.” Nico flinched and cleared his throat immediately after saying the words.

“Nico,
you didn’t even like me. How could you miss me?”

“That’s not true. I always liked you. I admired you.”
Again, his gentle words and his ardent expression were contradictory.

I frowned, flummoxed.
I tried to respond, but instead blinked, and my mouth expelled a strange, breathy sound.

“Nico
—what—that—we—you and I—we were never—you never—”

I watched him close his eyes, take a deep breath, then meet my confused stare with an extremely steady, heady, ready one of his own.