Friends Without Benefits (Knitting in the City) (11 page)

He didn’t speak. He just looked at me. Rather, he allowed me to look at him, and I knew.

He
thinks he loves you.

A jarring bolt of shock, almost painful in its intensity, accompanied the realization and sounded between my ears with a high-pitched ping. This was followed by a more precise and distressing realization.

He thinks he’s
in
love with you.

The sound, the ping, increased in volume. I abruptly pulled my hand from his
, and, to my relief, the shrill squeal was replaced with rushing silence.

“Elizabeth—”
Nico stepped forward as though he were going to reach for my hand again.

“It’s late. You should go.” Eyes wide, I shook my head, crossed my arms over my chest.

I noted that his gaze strayed to my mouth. He didn’t make any move to leave.

I tried to laugh lightly
. “I don’t know how late you people in New York City stay up, but, it’s got to be one in the morning by now and I . . .” I faked a yawn badly and borrowed a word from Sandra’s repertoire. “Well, shisterhosen, I’m tired.”

He man-sighed, which is a cross between a
n exasperated growl and a belligerent huff. “You’re leaving tomorrow.”

I swallowed
the building thickness in my throat and shifted another step backward. “Yep.”

“Elizabeth—
”

I swung my arms and clapped my hands
, because I was having difficulty standing still. “All the more reason I should be getting to bed now and you should go home.”

“I have to tell you
.” He cleared his throat, and I seized the momentary pause to escape.

“Damn it, I need to pee. You can see yourself out?”

His staying hand reached for and held my arm just above the elbow; his touch was light, but it was enough to still my movements. He tugged me toward him. “Wait—don’t—don’t do that.”

“Pee?” I pointedly avoided his eyes
, but didn’t try to shrug out of his hold.

“No—
stop—” He man-sighed again, and when he spoke his voice was raised, clipped, a staccato avalanche. “You have to know that I’m in love with you, you have to know that I’ve loved you since we were kids, since before I can remember.”

I closed my eyes against the
lava-like onslaught and willed myself someplace else. His words, his expression, his voice—they burned me and knocked the wind from my lungs. 

He started again
, continued as though he were doing his utmost to maintain a calm exterior. He looked furious, but his voice and words were gentle. “I know that. . .” A pause, a strained swallow. “I know that it was Garrett, that you chose Garrett. I know that.” I felt his free hand closed over my other elbow. “I didn’t want to like him, but I did, he was my best friend and I never begrudged him that, never you. But, the summer after. . .”

I opened my eyes and stared at his chin. A long moment passed. My face was stiff and numb, like granite.

“And when I saw you in Chicago, even though I thought I was over it, over you—I knew I still . . .” He swallowed. “I’m still in love with you.” I felt the angry hesitation, frustrated indecision in him just before he released my arms. He took a step backward. “I just wanted you to know.” 

I drew in a steadying breath,
still not able to meet his eyes. “What do you want me to say?”

A long moment passed. Then h
e laughed lightly, his reply both sarcastic and defeated. “I guess nothing.”

I finally found the courage
to lift my gaze to his, but he wasn’t watching me anymore. He was staring at the floor. His jaw ticked like a bomb.

“Well, now. That’s done.”
His tone changed, became more
The Face-like
and less
Nico-like
; he glanced around the room, as though searching for something. He patted his pockets, scratched the back of his neck, and gained another step away from me. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go find Shelly Martin and get to work on plowing that field.”

H
e turned away from me, the sexual innuendo a blatant defense mechanism. He walked to the window.

I
wanted to do something, but was truly paralyzed. He had one foot over the ledge and onto the roof before I stumbled, both figuratively and literally, toward him, “What—what are you doing? You don’t need to use the window. Why are you leaving out of the window? You’ll break your neck, would you please use the door—?”

He held his hands up and slipped out of
sight, moving with fluid grace, jogging the length of the roof. I’d just reached the opening when he swung on to the largest branch of the oak tree. I held my breath as he picked his way down then landed like a cat on his feet.

I wanted to call to him
, but didn’t know what to say.

So, I didn’t.

Instead I watched him walk away.              

Sandra was taking her time getting out of the car. She had the passenger-side mirror down, running her pinky finger along her bottom lip to smooth lipstick. I sat next to her with the driver-side door open; one foot was in the car, one foot was on the pavement. I used the opportunity to stare at the red brick building in front of us that held Manganiello’s Italian Family restaurant.

Nico was inside that building
, and I had no plan.

I didn’t consider myself a control freak
, but I always liked to be armed with a plan, especially when facing a boy—no, a man—who’d just declared his love for me the night before. And not only was it love, it was a lifetime of
unrequited
love.

“Hey
—Elizabeth? Are you ready?”

My lashes fluttered
; I was yanked from my contemplations. I nodded. “Yep. Guess we should get inside.”

I made no move to exit the car.

My father and I dined at
Manganiello’s
at least three times a week when I was growing up; it was the only time either of us ate a hot meal (as long microwaved leftovers aren’t counted), and the restaurant was one of my most favorite places on earth.

Sandra was watching me
. I could feel her hesitate, study me. “Is there anything wrong?”

Weary was how I felt as I looked at the building now. Weary and worried.
The big deucey Ws.

My heart raced at the thought of seeing him
, of seeing Nico; it was pounding so hard I could feel the pulse and throb of blood rushing through my veins in the palms of my hands and at the back of my neck.

I shook my head. “Nope.”

That was a lie. Everything was wrong. Niccolò Manganiello was in love with me—or thought he was. I couldn’t fathom the concept of his proffered feelings, failed to comprehend how Nico could believe that he’d loved me all along. Reality tilted on its axis and everything in the world was now a different color. All of our previous interactions, all of his teasing, everything that made me avoid him while we were growing up required reassessment.

I had so many questions. The first of which was: how could he
spend his childhood being so mean and spiteful to a girl he supposedly loved? How could he spend years goading me, needling me, bullying me if he cared about me?

“Is this about your outburst at the reunion last night? Are you embarrassed?” Shrink Sandra said.

I shook my head. “Nope.”

I wasn’t embarrassed about standing on a chair and yelling
THE CHILD IS YOURS
. I hadn’t even been embarrassed when I did it last night.

I was embarrassed about how I’d behaved when he told me he loved me. His confession of love reignited
the guilt surrounding my abandoning him after we slept together and how I’d treated him after, how I’d basically cut him out of my life.

His confession last night
further served to intensify the guilt. I didn’t know it at the time, but when I slept with Nico, when I gave him my V-card, he supposedly thought he was in love with me. If I’d known then, if I’d had any idea. . .

I shifted in my seat then sighed, narrowed my eyes at the red brick.

I didn’t want to see him. Well, I was pretty sure I didn’t want to see him. And I was certain we’d already spent more than enough time together over the last fourteen hours. Well, more or less enough time. I was planning to absolutely ignore him once we walked inside the restaurant. Well, absolutely ignore in the general sense. 

Gah
! Make up your mind.

I administered a mental kick to my backside and suppressed a growl, not wanting to raise additional suspicion.

“What did you and Nico talk about when you disappeared?” Shrink Sandra said.

“Stuff and things.”
I shrugged. I didn’t want to talk to Shrink Sandra. I needed a friend, not a shrink. I needed to talk to Janie. But Janie was in Boston climbing all over her fiancé Quinn, and I was in Iowa avoiding confrontation.

Maybe I do need a shrink.

“He told me he has a stalker.”

Sandra flinched, opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. “He has a stalker?”

I nodded.

“Is he ok
ay? Does he have security?”

I nodded again
, but said, “His security sucks.”

“Obviously. Last night he was nearly
mangled. I hope he plans to do something about that.”

“I’m going to try to talk to him about it today. Maybe
. . .” I tapped my fingers on my thigh. “Maybe I can talk to Quinn, get Nico to switch security firms.”

Sandra sighed. “
Sounds like a plan. Okay then, let’s go.”

I bit the inside of my bottom
cheek for courage and led the way to the front entrance, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans.

As soon as I opened the door
to the restaurant the smell of divinity enveloped me.

It was t
he restaurant that smelled like divinity; meaning, it smelled like what I imagined heaven would smell like: garlic, basil, and fresh baked bread. The smell was one I associated with my childhood. My nose was on sensory overload and I was forced to blink against the darkness when we stepped inside.

I heard
Sandra’s immediate gasp then whispered—almost a moan—exclamation, “What is that heavenly smell? . . . and why is it so dark in here? I can’t see a thing.”

Before I could respond a booming voice swallowed all other sound in the room. “
Because that’s what everyone wants to do on their day off, go to the place where they work and cook for fifty people. Yes—this makes complete sense.”

I recognized the voice as Nico’s oldest brother, Robert. I blinked again.
The room was finally coming into focus, and I was in a time warp. Navy vinyl benches, gold carpet, silk flower arrangements that were just a little too big for the size of the dark wood tables, the jukebox that played only the Rat Pack; Frank Sinatra was currently crooning about his funny valentine.

I squinted, looked for and found a fresh ball of mistletoe tied just above the archway between the two dining rooms. 

I hadn’t been to the restaurant in years, but everything was the same. I half expected an eight-year-old Nico to rush out and take us to our table; or, a sixteen-year-old Nico to ignore me in favor of chatting politely with my dad, only to pull my chair out too far when we got to the table ensuring I fell to the floor, landing on my ass.

Robert’s voice
, still booming, cracked through my reflections. He exited the swinging galley door that led from the kitchen to the dining room.

“Because, if I were a secretary and my
youngest brother came to town, I’d invite the entire family to the office, make them coffee, then clean up after they leave. Yay. Sign me up.”

“Robert
.” Rose’s warning was sharp and, I noticed, immediately effective.

Neither
son nor mother had noticed us yet. I could hear sounds of children and adults, pots banging and water running, emanating from the kitchen.

Rose appeared to be absorbed in reprimanding her tall son
. “You don’t see your brother for three weeks and this is how you behave? Shame on you, Robert Vincenzo Manganiello. And I want us all to sit in the dining room, not back in the kitchen.”

“What? Why sit in the dining room? There is more than enough room at the kitchen table.”

“Because I want to do something nice for your brother, that’s why. And I can’t arrange it if we’re all back in the kitchen.” She reached up and pinched his chin. “Don’t question your mother.”

His big shoulders rose and fell with a sigh
. “Fine, fine. I’ll go finish the manicotti.”

Sandra bumped her shoulder against mine and leaned into my ear
. “Manicotti for breakfast?”

I nodded and shrugged. I couldn’t form an opinion about having manicotti for breakfast in my present state of
panicked planlessness. I couldn’t even manage a full swallow, and I was pretty sure my eyes weren’t blinking in unison—the right one was on a split second time delay giving me temporary dystonia of the face. 

Either
Sandra’s question or my awkward movements alerted Rose to our presence. She glanced over, her smile was immediate; her eyes were large and excited, as though seeing something delicious.

“Lizzybell
a. My beauty—it is so good to see you.” Rose charged toward us and engulfed me in a tight hug.

I tried to speak
, but found the task impossible. Words were caught in my throat. I was choking on apprehension, guilt, and anticipation.

Rose didn’t seem to notice. She released me and promptly pulled Sandra into a hug
while she continued to address me, “I made Nico promise, I told him you better come and visit me while you are here.”

“I’m Sandra
,” she said, somewhat stupefied, when Rose finally released her.

“Of course you are, dear.” Rose smiled at Sandra and patted her hand then turned her attention back to me. “
Now Lizzy, please go to the kitchen and help get the settings for the big table out here. Robert, Franco, Milo, and Manny are in the back. I’m sure they want to say hi.”

Rose
dismissed me by linking her arm with Sandra and pulling her in the direction of the jukebox. I watched them stroll away, leaving me by the front entrance. I forced my hands to relax and shook them, hoping to shake off some of my nerves. I glanced at the galley door to the kitchen, still feeling weary and worried, but resolved to get through this moment by playing the part of a mature adult.

I managed one step forward when Franco and Milo
—two of Nico’s brothers—burst through the swinging door. In their hands were large trays of food and, as was typical, they were arguing with each other.

“No, no
—over here. Robert said over here.” Milo, the tallest and second oldest, indicated to a long buffet table with a tilt of his head.

“That’s stupid
,” said Franco, third in the family. “Why don’t we just put it all on the big table? Why are we doing this buffet style?”

Milo shook a head full of dark curls
. “Robert said that ma said that Nico is—you know what, don’t ask questions, dummy. Just put the food down.”

Through his ranting, Milo’s tray slipped
, and I quickly moved forward to assist. His large green eyes widened when I stepped in front of him, steadying the tray.

“
Well, hello.” Milo tried to balance the tray with one hand and reached his other out to me. “I’m Milo.”

I frowned at him
. “Yes, Milo, I know. It’s me, Elizabeth Finney.”

He blinked at me, clearly startled, then grinned
. “Oh, hey. I didn’t recognize you. Nice to see. . . you again.” I noted that his eyes moved over me, perhaps trying to find the waifish teenager in the woman who stood before him.

Milo was twelve years older than Nico and
therefore thirteen years older than me. I knew him only as a heart breaking teenager when I was in elementary school; then, later, as a serious and studious graduate student then physics professor—who only transiently visited—as I grew up. 

He
indicated toward a long table at in the smaller dining room. “We’re taking these over there. Can you go in the kitchen and start bringing out the silverware?”

I stepped to the side
, and he winked at me as he passed. Just like the restaurant, he looked exactly the same. Even though he had to be nearing forty, he still looked like a twenty something graduate student.

I turned to Franco
and gave him a small smile. “Hey Franco.”

Franco’s smile mirrored my own, small and shy. He was by far the quietest member of the
Manganiello family. He was ten years older than Nico and used to play with us when we were kids, allowed us to help him fix his trucks or tinker around with strange machine parts. Franco Manganiello was the reason why I knew how to change the oil in a car. When I left for college he’d just opened his own auto-mechanic’s shop.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that, growing up, I hero
-worshiped Franco Manganiello.

He nodded at me once then carried t
he tray over to the long table. With no new excuses presenting themselves for delaying my trip to the kitchen, I took a deep breath and plowed through the swinging door.

I was greeted by a scene of chaos.

Children were everywhere—running around, playing with pots and spatulas, “helping” adults put the finishing touches on dishes of food, wrapping silverware in napkins or poking each other with the butter knives. A cluster of kids were busily pairing crayons with coloring books at one of the far tables, and that was where I found Nico.

He was bent over a coloring book; a little boy was on his right
, and a little girl on his left. He looked just really, honestly, achingly adorable. A small frown of concentration pulled his dark brows low over his eyes, and a memory of a seven-year-old Nico—in the same spot, doing the exact same thing—spurred stirrings and symptoms of nostalgia. My heart and stomach engaged in a fencing match, both poking at each other.