Friends Without Benefits (Knitting in the City) (14 page)

“
You don’t know. You left.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Nothing. There is nothing you can do about the decisions you made when you were a teenager except learn from them. Just like there is nothing I can do about the mistakes I made—the way I treated you, how I reacted after you left—except own it, apologize, and not make them again.”

I eyed him
warily, not entirely sure I wanted to know the answer to my impending questions. “What do you mean? What did you do after I left?”

He exhaled a short, mirthless laugh. “
You can guess. Typical Nico, impulsive: I picked fights; I failed out of high school; I moved to New York, moved in with Milo, and was completely self-destructive.”

I wanted to comfort him—both the teenage Nico I
’d abandoned and the man who stood in front of me now. Instead I clenched my hands into fists and mutely watched him.

“I can’t be sorry about it.” He said these words mostly to himself. “If you hadn’t left I might still be the
selfish prick I was before. I did a lot of stupid things, but I learned from them, I changed. I’m different now. And I know you’re different now too.”

I nodded, pressed my lips into a line and glanced at the counter. Nico and I might both be different, but it sounded like he’d changed for the better whereas I’d changed for the worse.

“But, Elizabeth, even though you’ve changed, I still know you. You’re brilliant and you’re—” He cleared his throat. “You’re beautiful. You care about others, strangers, and you take care of them. You’re still loyal and honest and generous.”

“I’m not generous.”

“You are generous. None of that has changed.”

“Nico
 . . .”

“You’re also stubborn and bossy and you lose your temper almost as fast as I do.”

“Nico, no—” I shook my head, stared at a spot on the counter between us.

“You kissed me.”

“Because you’re insanely hot.”

He smiled.
“You think I’m insanely hot?”

My head lolled to the side
, and I gave him my very best
bitch, please
scowl. “You know you’re hot. You could’ve had any girl in high school. You used to be an underwear model. So don’t pretend you don’t know that you’re alert level red.”

His smile grew.
“We should talk about this in greater detail. What about me, precisely, is
alert level red
?”

I shook my head
, hit him on the shoulder. “Really, seriously, you don’t know me. You wouldn’t like me if you did. I’m spiteful and petty. I’m immature. I’m lazy.”

“Everyone is.” He shrugged.

“No. Listen to me.” My frustration with his willful blindness was mounting, building itself into a skyscraper of aggravation. I needed him to understand without spilling too many specifics that the Elizabeth he thought he knew didn’t exist anymore. Garrett’s sweet, kind, pure, naïve flower was a memory.

“The girl you knew, the girl who
was with you that summer, she doesn’t exist. Okay?” I glared at him through my eyebrows and pressed my hand to my chest. “The woman before you now is shallow, conceited, and selfish. I’m kind of a terrible person.”

He looked like he was trying to contain laughter. “How so?”

“You’ll just have to trust me on this.”

“I’m not that trusting.”

“Okay, then. You want to know . . .”

His smile was wide and clearly amused. He was adorable. My brain melted a little.
I steadied myself to tell him; but, in that moment, looking into his eyes, faced with his smile, I couldn’t continue. I didn’t want him to know. The thought of him knowing the truth about me, that I was a user, felt like the worst thing in the world.

The
refore, the truth caught in my throat.

But i
t wouldn’t be fair to him. Avoiding the truth would postpone the inevitable. Honesty. I needed to give him honesty. His eyes—those puppy dog, gypsy, soulful eyes—were going to continue to look at me with worshipful allegiance unless I was completely honest.

His eyes twinkled, his gaze caressed my features
, and his admiration was practically tangible. It felt like an uninvited third person in the bathroom. When I didn’t immediately continue he filled the silence. “You can’t tell me that I don’t know you. I see you. I see you better than you see yourself. And everything about you is beautiful.”

His lovely words coming from his lovely mouth said with his lovely voice made my insides melt to mush.

Maybe just a little longer
,
a traitorous voice, that sounded nothing like me, pleaded from behind the curtain of my subconscious. The entreaty had the opposite of its intended effect.

I stood
taller by straightening my back. Picked a make-believe piece of lint from my jeans, and cleared my throat. I would prove to him that he didn’t know me at all.

“I
use people.”

His confident
smile slipped. He frowned. “What?”

“I use men.”

“What do you mean, you
use men
?”

I shrugged
, but my heart was galloping, and I felt abruptly nauseous, “I use men for sex. I pick a guy, have sex with him, and when I’m done I toss him aside.”

I know I sounded heartless, I know I sounded
cold, but I did so purposefully. In order to save his heart he needed to understand that mine no longer functioned, that after losing my mom, after losing Garrett, I wasn't interested in loving or being loved by anyone. I endeavored to hurt him a little now because I refused to prolong his hope.

Nico straightened, re-crossed his arms over his chest. “
Explain.”

“Ok
ay, then. I’ll spell it out: I pretend to like a guy and use him for sex. When I get tired of having sex with him, and I always do, I stop returning his phone calls and blow him off.” When I finished I noted that my stomach hurt.

Nico’s eyes moved over me in plain assessment, his frown b
ecame more severe. “You haven’t. . .” He shook his head. “When was the last time you dated someone you actually liked?”

“Garrett.”
I didn’t hesitate, my response was immediate. He flinched. My hands were cold and clammy.

“Jesus.” He sighed. However, instead of
appearing disgusted by my proclamation, his gaze softened. He shifted closer. “I wish you would’ve—we could have—”

“Haven’t you been listening? I’m
trying to be honest with you. I’m not looking for love, I’m not even capable of it. I’m completely toxic. I’m a user. I have no interest in having a relationship. I have no interest in men other than using them to play
hide the salami
. So,
see me
, Nico. See me for who I am and not who you want me to be.” I grimaced, annoyed by the lingering look of sympathy he was casting in my direction. I rubbed my forehead with damp and shaking hands. “Forget it.”

I moved to the door and unlocked it
. I was unrepentant in my honesty, but in that moment I recognized that a big part of me wished things could be different, wished I were different. He crossed to my position and held the door shut. I tried yanking the handle, but he was too strong. After several fruitless attempts I smacked the door with my palm—a childish display of frustration—and turned my flashing blue eyes to his now stoic face.

“What?” I spat
; feigning anger was really the only thing keeping me from bursting into tears. “Don’t like what you see? What is it going to take for you to let me out of here?”

His
eye searched mine, his face like granite. He was still frowning. Nico opened his mouth as though he were going to say something, but, ultimately, he moved his hand from the door and stepped out of my way.

I
tried to make my face rigid, severe, and acrimonious as I tugged open the door. “I did warn you.”

I
searched his expression for the judgment I hoped would be there and still found only pity. His pity dually pissed me off and sparked my mortification. Gritting my teeth, I walked past him, out the door, and into the dining room, into the crowd of Manganiellos—where everyone looked like him, talked like him, and laughed like him.

I couldn’t wait to leave.

Undefinable emotion
casts the next several moments a fog of gray grumpiness. Sandra, after one look at my expression, made excuses for our hasty departure. I said nothing. I allowed her to steer me through the crowd of Manganiellos with a plastic smile pasted on my features.

Just as we were nearing the front door Nico shuffled into the dining room looking like a kicked puppy. I blinked
against stinging moisture as the beginnings of an inexplicable epic cry fest forced my chin to wobble. I clenched my teeth, bit my tongue to hold back the deluge.

Sandra led me to the car. Rose followed us out.

I could tell Rose was disappointed, but I couldn’t think clearly enough at that point to pacify Nico’s mother. I promised, with a head nod, that I would visit the next time I was in town.

We drove in silence for several minutes, my hands opening a closing on the steering wheel.
They were still shaking. I wasn’t paying much attention to where we were going. When I ran a Stop sign Sandra made me pull over so she could drive. As soon as my passenger-side seatbelt clicked into place the tears started to flow.

It was a messy cry. A snorting, snotty, sobbing cry.
It felt like someone was trying to pull my lungs and stomach from my body. And, damn it all, I wasn’t sure why I was crying, which only made me cry more.

Sandra, bless her,
drove in circles until I was ready to give directions to the interstate.

“Oh, Elizabeth
,” she sighed, reached for my hand as we climbed the ramp to I-80. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s ok
ay.” I hiccupped. “I don’t know why I’m so upset.”

Sandra cast me a sideways glance and offered a small smile. “Let me know if you want to talk
through it.”

I nodded and pulled t
issue from the glove compartment. I didn’t want to talk about it, not with Sandra. Maybe not with anyone. I just wanted to forget the last twenty-four hours.

That would be my plan A.

But, try as I might, I couldn’t stop thinking about Nico and his expression when I told him how I’d used guys. This recollection caused new tears. I kept seeing his eyes, how they changed from worshipful to pitying, and for several moments I really felt like I was going to be sick.

Miles of empty cornfields passed by in a blur
, and I tried to console myself. I silently repeated that I’d done the right thing. I’d been honest with him. It was in his best interest that I dispel any residual delusions about me.

I would only disappoint him.

We continued in this way until my eyes stopped leaking. She didn’t push me for details about what happened in the bathroom, and she voluntarily turned on the Backstreet Boys as driving music.

I knew she felt bad. At some point I would need to knit her something nice to prove I wasn’t upset with her. I really wasn’t
upset with her. I understood her motives and part of me, the part of me I was trying really hard to disregard, was quite euphoric to have kissed Nico.

The rest of me was gorging itself on pity party pie.

I didn’t consider myself broken, because I wasn’t broken. I was merely content to be shallow, and I actually really hated that about myself. But Nico would never want to touch me again now that he knew, now that he understood what I was like. He deserved better.

As my breathing normalized
I found myself touching my lips, remembering, daydreaming. Sandra was kind enough to disregard my wistful sighs. Instead she made jokes about the apocalypse and finally having a chance to see the World’s Largest Truck Stop as we neared the state line.

The
actual apocalypse occurred as we were on the exit ramp.

My cell phone rang. I glanced at the number. I made a face. “Ugh
. It’s Meg.” My voice was still nasally and thick. I had a cry headache.

Sandra made a face that mirrored mine. “I like that you call her Megalomaniac
Meg. The description fits her like a pair of bike shorts.”

I smirked my agreement
and rejected the call.

My cell phone rang again. I glanced at the number. I made a face. “Ugh
. It’s Meg again.” I rejected the call.

Sandra laughed. “She thinks yo
u two are besties.”

I
tried to chuckle, sighed, sniffled. “Nah. She knows what’s up. She’s my nemesis. We’re on the same page.”

My cell phone rang again. I glanced at the number. I frowned. “What? It’s Meg. Again.”

“Do you want me to answer it? I could tell her you’re in the bathroom and seem to have a nasty case of gastroenteritis.” We pulled into the Truck Stop parking lot. Like the rest of the World’s Largest Truck Stop, the parking lot was truly massive.

“Yes, please
, if you don’t mind. I don’t particularly wish to speak with her right now.”

Once we parked
Sandra slid her thumb across the touch screen and brought the phone to her ear. “Elizabeth’s cell phone answering service, this is Sandra. How may I direct your call?”

Almost immediately Sandra held the phone away from her ear; Meg’s indecipherable screeching
filled the car.

“Ah
, take it off speakerphone.” I winced and covered my ears.

“It isn’t on speakerphone. She’s
banshee screaming.”

I took the phone from Sandra and held it a safe distance from my ear, yelled into the receiver
. “Meg. You have to stop screaming—what is the problem? I can’t understand you.”

“Oh my
god! Elizabeth Finney—you are in so much trouble! Why didn’t you tell me you had a child with Nico Moretti!?”

I held the phone
away from my ear and in front of me. I stared at the screen. The sound of Meg’s continued expletives blasted from the small device. I stared at it. I just stared at it. I couldn’t think.

How did Meg know about
Nico?

I glanced at Sandra
who was wide-eyed and horrified.

“You didn’t
. . .? Did you call Meg and tell her about Nico?”

“Hell no
.” Sandra held her hands up. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“How did she find out?” My
palms started to sweat. I glared at the phone. It felt suddenly dangerous. Tentatively, I brought the speaker to my mouth, and I interrupted Meg’s enthusiastic screeching. “Listen. Meg, listen to me. What are you talking about? What did you hear?”

“
It’s all over the place. I saw the article on Yahoo Celebrity Stalker and watched the YouTube video just seconds ago.”

“What are you talking about? What
YouTube video?” I stared at the sign for the World’s Largest Truck Stop. I had the abrupt sensation of being trapped within a Mel Brooks’s movie.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, Elizabeth. It’s the
YouTube video of you dancing with Nico Moretti then later yelling at the top of your lungs about having
a child
with the man—”

I choked. I actually choked on air.

Sandra pulled the phone from my hand and handed me a bottle of water. Between coughs I motioned for her to hang up the phone. When I caught my breath I set the bottle of water between my thighs and gripped the dashboard. I was in a Mel Brooks’s movie. I was certain of it. I couldn’t have been more confounded if someone jumped in front of my car wearing a giant pretzel and sang “
Springtime for Hitler
.”

“
I couldn’t understand her. What did she say? How did she find out?” Sandra sounded as perplexed as I felt.

I shook my head. My voice
now both nasally and raspy due to my recent coughing fit. “She said there was a video of Nico and me dancing then,” I swallowed another gulp of water, “then later the video shows me announcing to a room full of people that I—that he and I had a child together.”

Sandra covered her mouth, gasped, her green eyes as wide as tea cups; “Oh my god. Someone—someone must’ve been recording at the reunion.” She shook her head, stared unseeingly out the windshield. “Oh my god.”

“Maybe it’s not that big of a deal,” I appealed to Sandra. “Maybe no one will care and it’ll be a little blip.”

She shook her head before I ended my thought; “No, Elizabeth. This is a big dea
l. Have you followed Nico at all? Have you followed his career or his personal life?”

“No.” I hadn’t followed
him. In fact, I’d more or less purposefully avoided his personal life and stories about him in the news.

“
Elizabeth.” She turned in her seat, unlatched her seatbelt. “He’s notoriously private. Like, never talks about his personal life or his family. He’s never been photographed off set with a woman who didn’t work on the show. It’s to the point where a lot of people assume he doesn’t
like
women.”

“He likes women.
”

“I know. I saw him kiss you, remember?”

I tugged on my left eyebrow. I didn’t respond.

“This is not going to blow over. People are going to think you have a love child with Nico Moretti. And you’re a doctor, not a typical attention-
seeking type profession if there is such a thing. You appear to be a credible person.”

Love child with Nico
. That was a strange concept to think about. It made me feel all kinds of squirmy, warm things I couldn’t define.

We sat in stunned silence for an indeterminable period of time, the engine was still running.
I abandoned plan A and wallowed in my memories, rewinding through the last twenty-four hours. I played back all my Nico interactions that could have been recorded.

Sandra placed her hand on my forearm, rousing me from my remembering; “Elizabeth
, what are you going to do?”

My throat hurt. I shook my head.
I couldn’t think so I answered honestly. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” And, because I really didn’t know, I said it again. “I don’t know.”

~*~

When I arrived home Saturday evening I decided to redouble my efforts to ignore all thoughts and feelings associated with the kiss under the mistletoe and resulting bathroom fiasco as well as the viral YouTube video.

Upon arriving to my apartment I flipped on the TV. This was a mistake. An entertainment TV show was airing the grainy clip of my chair confession. I continued watching just long enough to hear the commentators bad-mouth Nico’s alleged abandonment of our love
child.

For a brief moment—despite the danger involved—I wished I’d yelled
fire!
instead of
the child is yours
.

I felt sick with remorse at what I’d done, especially since Nico was now paying the price in the court of public opinion. I wanted so badly to apologize for my ridiculous outburst
, but felt fairly confident that he’d never want to see me again.

Disgusted, I flipped off the TV
, and I listened to boy bands loudly. I organized Janie’s comic books. I ordered Marie a set of Addi Click knitting needles that she’d been lusting after for a just-because present. I alphabetized my records. I read FARK.com for an hour then searched Ask Metafilter for questions related to odd yarn materials and recycle crafts: plastic grocery bags = plarn; T-shirts = tarn.

I busied myself.
I was getting more practice at avoiding.

However,
even without turning on the TV, life post Nico-love-child apocalypse quickly became less than pleasant.

The fallout of the YouTube video began to take shape. M
y voicemail filled up first. After the fortieth text message I called my cell company to remove texting ability from my phone and change my number. The change would take twenty-four to forty-eight hours. After another twenty minutes of rejecting phone calls from unknown numbers I finally turned the damn thing off.

Then
I made the mistake of checking my Gmail account. I had seven hundred new messages.

How did these people find my contact information so quickly?

Throughout all of this Nico was never far from my thoughts.
I worried about him and the trouble I’d caused him. His security guards were absolute crap. Then there was the psycho stalker he’d mentioned. And now I had an email account full of obsessed crazy people. I wished I’d been successful talking him into switching security firms. I kicked myself for not giving him Quinn’s number when I had the chance.

With these concer
ns for his safety also came daydreams. More than once I caught myself immersed in a fantasy about him, about our brief time together over the weekend: dancing at the reunion; later in my room, him telling me he loved me; at the restaurant, his hands on me, his mouth on mine; the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world.

The day
dreams were wonderful and awful and confusing. Every time it happened I wanted to cry again. I was officially a crying female.