I didn't sleep in Grams room. I couldn't. I walked into her bedroom, looking around at her carefully made bed, adorned with a quilt of course, and it was suddenly a little bit harder to breathe. It had her smell, not the typical old lady smell that she and I would joke about her becoming afflicted with one day, the mixture of Ben Gay and formaldehyde that seems to accompany the octogenarian set. No, Ida Emerson always smelled of roses and freesia. Her signature scent, she would proudly announce.

            "Darling," she would look at me, her most adorable of sly smiles on her face as she spoke, "Every woman must have a signature scent. Something that is so perfect and made for her, that leaving the house without it would be like leaving behind an arm.”

            And she never did leave without it. I swear the second she rolled out of bed she was dabbing that stuff behind her ears. I know that if I were to go into her bathroom, I would find the bottle, the little pale pink glass bottle with the gold atomizer sprayer, and I am not ready for that. The notion that I am here to sort through her belongings, to empty this house of the things that made up Grams seems like a punishment for my heart. Where would I put that bottle? In a box somewhere? Where would it go? A storage unit? A yard sale? The trash? Wrong options, so very wrong. My eyes tear up at the thought, so there will be none of that yet.

            I slept where I always sleep at Grams house, the purple room right next to hers. My home away from, well, I would say away from home, but once again, it occurs to me that I have no other home. The purple room is now my home.

            It is killing my head that those thoughts are simultaneously comforting and gut wrenching. This whole experience is complete with two drastic sides that are not at all capable of living in harmony. On the one hand, I can't think of a place in the world I feel safer than this house, but the circumstances surrounding my arrival, and the fact that this house is located in Biddleton, Missouri are unavoidable catastrophes. If I had to choose between living in the apartment next door to Eric and Carmen and forced to listen to their perpetual headboard banging, or living back in Biddleton, it would honestly be a tough choice. A very real chance I would opt for the headboard...

            I am not even sure if I really slept last night. I certainly feel like I didn't, but if I hadn't slept, how is it possible that I was plagued by nightmares all night? I staggered out of my purple room and scoured the kitchen for sustenance, or at the very least caffeine, neither of which was found. The fridge still contains covered dishes from the day of the funeral, although the contents of several are now sporting spots of fur in varying colors. Not appealing in the morning. Maybe I shall treat myself to food poisoning later on, but at the moment it didn't seem like the best plan.

            Of course there was no coffee, Grams was a tea drinker through and through, and I searched in vain hoping that she had somehow mistakenly brought in a tea bag or two that had a little kick to it, but no, every box was mocking me with the word "Decaffeinated" tattooed on them.

            I made due with a mug of Lemon Zinger, hoping that maybe the lemon smell might pep me up, but here I sit, in my chair by the window, half conscious with a mug of tea that might was well be a mug of warm milk with the effect it is having on me. Too exhausted to move, not able to go back to sleep, I am fearing that my day will entail me sitting here for twelve hours straight. I really need to begin unpacking my boxes, I am in desperate need of the box containing my shower products to be opened. On the other side, I am supposed to be packing up Grams things, but I just can't make my brain wrap around that task. Venturing away from box duties, I really need to head into town to get some food for the house. I figure if I run out once, very quickly, and stock up with as much as my car can hold, then I won't have to go back for a few weeks, and I can hide out here where no one can find me.

            I wonder if I could pick the house up, and move it somewhere else? People do that, right? They somehow get these giant old houses up, and put them on these trucks and move them at glacier speed across towns. Well, since Grams house isn't that huge, maybe we could move it faster, and farther! Maybe to Ohio? Wait, what on Earth would I do in Ohio? Vegas? I am apparently rolling in money now, I could become a High Roller who lives in a transplanted seventies style ranch home. I wonder if I could bring the birds with me? Grams would be sad if I left them behind. And plus, it is really hot in Vegas, I would miss the snow.

            Ooh! Seattle! I could handle Seat- AAH!!!

            The sound of the doorbell scares the living crap out of me, and I jump just hard enough that I spill my now freezing Lemon Zinger all over my chest.

            "Cold!" I shriek, "Freaking cold!" I am not at all impressed by my jumping around like I have a raccoon in my pants, trying in vain to wipe tea off myself.

            What on Earth is someone doing here at this time of morning! Who visits at seven AM?

            I glance at the clock and realize that it is actually a quarter after ten. Dang, I have been sitting in that chair for three hours? No wonder the tea was so damn cold. But still, who the heck would be coming to see me anyway? Stupid non-invisible happy place.

            I stomp to the door and fling it open. My face can't hide the shock of seeing Ben Stevens staring back at me, and neither can my body, which is knocked off balance just enough that the force from my tantrum door flinging pulls me with it and I fall over slamming into the wall beside the coat rack.

            "Oh my god!" he says, I swear I can hear a stifled laugh in there, "Are you alright!"

            He pulls open the screen door, and as he steps in he sets a large box with two bags on top of it onto the floor, before taking a knee on the floor beside me, his arms out towards me to help me up.

            "I am fine.” I snap, and start pulling myself up, hand still clutching the door knob for support. It would be a more convincing statement if as soon as I managed to get upright, the door hadn't swung just enough that I lost my balance again and stumbled back towards the coat rack.

            "Whoa!" he grabbed for me as I wobbled, and steadied me against him.

            Frozen at the realization that Ben Stevens has his arm around my waist, and his other arm draped across my chest holding onto my shoulder, I seem to only be able to stare at him.

            "Really, are you okay?" he whispers to me, his voice concerned, "Did you hit your head or anything?"

            I realize I must look like a complete idiot, mouth agape, eyes wide, one hand clutching a door knob, the other his wrist, but I can't seem to move, the sheer impossibility of being in the arms of Ben Stevens having knocked me senseless.

            "Max?"

            I suddenly remember how to use my lungs and suck in a sharp breath.

            "I spilt my tea." I push out.

            "What?" he smiles at me, I can sense the stifled laugh again.

            "I mean," I stammer, "What are you doing here?" I let go of the door and push my way out from his clutch, "You scared the hell out of me!"

            "How?" he laughs, "By ringing the doorbell?"

            "Well," I am stuttering, "That's not even the point!” I try to coolly smooth out my shirt, and it is evident that the notion of "cool" is evading me.

            "So what is the point?"

            "The point," I start, "Is that you don't just, I mean to ring a... But, no. It's just...” Why does he have to be so good looking when I am being spastic? "Why are you here?" I finish feebly.

            I want to appreciate that he is trying to hold back his smile to preserve what thread of dignity I might have left, but all it does is make me angry that there is even a smile to hold.

            "I brought you something."

            He walks smoothly over to the box on the floor, and picks it up. If there was any fairness in this world, he would have tripped over his shoelaces or something, but no, he is insultingly coordinated.

            "Here." he smiles as he takes the two paper bags in one hand and he hands me the box with the other.

            I study the box he is holding out to me, and frown when I realize what is inside. The picture on the box is of a DVD player.

            "Why are you giving me that?" I glare.

            "Because I promised I would." his tone is confused.

            "I told you I didn't want you to do that."

            "Yes, but if you recall, I won that little debate.” Darn his perfectly white teeth behind those grinning lips.

            Stop looking at his lips!

            "I don't want it.” I declare.

            "Here, take these." he smirks and thrusts the paper bags towards me. I reach out and take them purely as a reflex.

            He takes the box in his hands and walks over to the little entertainment center that Grams television sits upon, and starts tearing open the cardboard flaps of the box.

            "What are you doing?" I half bark at him.

            "Open the bags." he advises and starts pulling things out of the box, cords, and a very sleek looking silver contraption.

            Glaring again, I set the two bags on the table and begrudgingly open the first one. Inside there are two large cups of coffee. My head darts in his direction, and I watch him carefully pull out the wooden TV stand with ease.

            I turn my attention back towards the bags and carefully open the second one. Muffins. Four, really big, delicious looking muffins.

            "What is this?” I make sure to put a nice stab of annoyance in my tone.

            "Have you never seen blueberry muffins before?” he asks.

            I stare at him incredulously, "No, I have seen muffins before, thank you. I mean why did you bring these to me?"

            "Because," he stands and walks over to me, "I know that Grams never keeps any coffee in the house, and that there wasn't any food. Well, any food that is less than a week old." He smoothly reaches past me and sticks his hand in the first bag, pulling out one of the coffees. "One of these is for me of course.” With a flash of his signature smile, he glides back to the DVD player, cords now strewn about the floor.

            "I didn't ask you to do any of this."

            "You're very welcome!" he laughs, continuing his work.

            Hmm. I am being a bit of a bitch here, aren't I? Sure, his crew members were the epitome of high school asshole-ery, and every time I look into his eyes, I get that sick feeling of adolescent torment rushing through my body, but none of that changes the reality that he has been very kind to me over the last eighteen hours or so. Probably couldn't hurt to flip off the bitter switch for a few minutes. Plus, I am very much starving and those muffins are taunting me. Not to mention the fact that if I could, I would dive into the coffee cup and take a swim.

            "Thank you." I mutter. There, that's better.

            Sort of.

            I slide into one of the kitchen chairs, pull out a muffin and start picking at it. I am not sure if it is because I am starving, or if they really are that good, but this thing is a blueberry flavored orgasm in my mouth. I try to stifle my muffin moans, and distract myself by taking a drink of the coffee.

             Oh. My. God.

            Hands down the best coffee I have ever tasted. I swear I can feel the caffeine flowing through my veins, to all the right places.

            Of course, it isn't enough that he is perfect at every single thing he does, but he also somehow has access to the most perfect food as well? There really is no justice in this world.

            "Aren't those amazing?" he calls from behind the television stand, reading my mind apparently.

            "Um, yeah.” I murmur, "They're pretty good.” I quickly throw another chunk of muffin in my mouth.

            "I got it all at Alice's.” he continued, "They just opened a few months ago on the main strip. Everything they have is really good.” I watch him take a sip of coffee out of the corner of my eye, "Have you been into town yet to see everything?"

            "No." I shudder at the thought of having to go into town. The thought of who I might run into makes me cringe.

            "When was the last time you were up there?" he inquires.

            "Um," I really have to think about that one. "Maybe three years ago?”

            "Really?" he is surprised, "But you visited Grams a couple times a year. How did you never get into town?"

            "I would come to see Grams," I don't like how soft my voice is getting. Biddleton always makes me feel so small. I shrink into my chair a little bit. "Not to visit in town. We just sort of hung out here."

            "Why wouldn't you want to visit in town?" he pulls away from his task to stare at me with curious eyes.

            "Because not everyone has their very own Biddleton Fan Club, Ben!" I snap, surprised to hear such an angry thing was leaving my mouth.

            I lower my head, immediately embarrassed, but I can feel his eyes on me. He sits on the floor in the living room, his body relaxed, but his gaze is very thoughtful as he studies me. It makes me feel even more flustered and I feel my entire face flush. Even my ears are burning. I don't like the way this feels, sitting here so exposed in front of this man that I saw every day during my childhood, but who spoke barely four words to me throughout all of high school.

            I hate that I can't be my adult self here. In the real world, high school was a million miles away, a nasty memory thankfully removed to the far corners of my brain. Instead I outgrew the shyness imposed after walking the halls in fear for so long, I became a confident adult, very rarely intimidated by others. As soon as they handed me that diploma, I was a different person. I was free to go off into a world where people didn't know every single detail of my pathetic little life, as is commonplace in small towns such as Biddleton. I was finally able to be the person I always knew I was, but could never embrace under the watchful scrutiny of vindictive and un-accepting peers.

            After a decade of freedom, ten whole years of moving on, here I am, cowering in my chair in front of the student body president, the football player, the salutatorian. One of the many people that saw every dreadful occurrence of puberty. Who saw his girlfriend steal my clothes during gym class, which forced me to trudge through the hallways in school issued shorts and a Biddleton High t-shirt in the middle of December. A person who watched with the rest of the town as my family imploded, gleefully torturing other members in the process. Watched my father leave when I was thirteen. Watched my sister throw mashed potatoes at me in the lunch room for using her hair brush that morning, and saw her laugh with her gaggle of friends as I sat there alone determined not to let a single tear fall.

            No, here I sit, regressed back into the fifteen year old version of myself, feeling timid, wishing I could disappear into the walls as I used to, invisibility a very crucial learned skill of mine. If Ben Stevens was someone I had met out there in that real world, I would have been enthralled, smitten, fully confident enough to flirt and romance. In the place of that woman sits I, terrified that if I make eye contact with him, I will see him thinking of all those things, remembering the train wreck that was me. It was hard enough having him watch from afar, seeing those beautiful sapphire eyes witnessing my misfortunes, wondering what it would be like to pass through the golden gates of his lunch table, but to have him this close, only the two of us allowing his focus to be entirely on me, I feel like I am being set up, waiting for the rest of his group to storm in, laughing and pointing.

            He is still staring at me, his eyes appearing to be sympathetic, and curious. Is he filtering through those memories too? Is he seeing Amber laugh as she recounted how she hid my clothes in the boiler room? Is he recounting the mashed potatoes as I tried to calmly claw them out of individual strands of hair? It is driving me mad. I am overcome by a wave of claustrophobia, the room suddenly much too small for the two of us, and my intrusive memories. I want him to leave, I want him to not live a hundred yards away, I want him to never have seen any part of my life.

            "You know what I am going to do?" he asked casually after the world’s longest silence, before nonchalantly going back to his task of DVD hookup.

            I sneak a look out of the corner of my eye, wondering if he really is expecting a response, and wondering how I could manage to push him out of the house in the next forty-five seconds without drawing attention to myself. Thinking this is not an option.

            "I am going to take you to Claire's tonight.” he continued.

            My mind is reeling, sorting through the name of every person that attended Biddleton High, trying to think of who Claire is. Why would he want to take me to her? Is it a prank? Are they going to do something mean to me? Ben was never a mean person, but the people he hung out with sure were.

            Who the hell is Claire!? I don't know any Claire's!   

            "I went there once for lunch, and Ida was eating by herself." he spoke gently as he continued to fiddle with the cables. "She invited me to join her, and it sort of became a thing after that. I would go with her once a week, usually Saturdays, and we would have lunch together.” His forehead crinkled slightly in between his perfect eyebrows, his face taken by a twinge of sadness. "You know, she would never let me pay, and I always tried. She said it was her way of paying me for all the things I helped her with.” The corners of his lips turned ever so slightly into a reminiscent smile, "It drove me crazy that she would never let me get the check, but god she was so stubborn, you know? Once she set her mind to something, it was like it was written into law."

            I let out an involuntary laugh at his memory. Boy, was he not kidding. Ida Emerson was the picture, the essence of head strong and determined. You couldn't get her to do anything she didn't want to do, there was no sense even trying to argue another side, it was a futile battle in every sense of the word. She was never irrational though. It wasn't like you were trying to talk sense into her, she never needed that. She had enough knowledge and common sense to put anyone who dared take her on to shame. It was inspiring to watch, always leaving you with the desire to have that level of confidence in life. One of the many enviable attributes she possessed, but it was by far my favorite.

            My high school flashback panic attack momentarily forgotten, I am grateful to Ben for presenting me with a glimmer of Grams that I never would have been able to see had he not been here. I feel silly for plotting his forty-five second exit. That isn't how my Grams would have handled a situation like that.

            Actually she never would have had a situation like that, Grams never felt inferior in front of anyone. It is like she was unaware of the possibility to be intimidated.

            Wait. Did he just say he was taking me to dinner?

            "All finished!" he announces proudly, agilely hopping off the floor. "Your all set for movies now.” He smiles proudly admiring his work.

            "Um, thank you." I stammered, "But, did you just say you were...”

            "You should probably check out the manual to figure out the remote.” He glides towards me, little silver remote in hand, "Or I could show you if you like."

            "No, I can figure it out," I shake my head trying to maintain my thoughts, "But you just said..."

            He stops in front of me, smiling, a full smile, a kind smile. No trace of the evil I can't help but attach to him.

            It always bothered Grams that I was so resentful to this town. She respected my antisocial nature and always embraced my hermit tendencies that came about as soon as I entered city limits. I know it was hard on her in a way, she was a bit of a social butterfly. While I hated it here, she loved it, and it loved her. And why wouldn't Biddleton love her? She was adored with good reason.

            On a sideways glance, I catch a quick look at a photo of Grams hanging on the wall by the door, taken maybe five years ago, her clad in a bright pink dress, a blue hat atop her graying hair, flowers attached around the brim, her face pulled into one of those sly smiles she was frequently caught wearing. She would be amused as hell to see what was happening here in her living room, to watch this friend of hers knocking me so abruptly out of my comfort zone. She had tried to coerce me numerous times to venture into the populated part of this town, and I always rebuffed her, which she respected every time.

            I can almost hear her chuckle, can almost feel her pulling the strings of this little interaction. If she couldn't get me to embrace Biddleton when she was alive, by golly she was going to orchestrate it from beyond.

            Sneaky old woman....

            "Well, I will let you get back to your unpacking and getting settled." Ben's voice interrupts my thoughts posthumous manipulation. "Or would you like me to stay and help empty some boxes for you?”

            "No, that's alright." I say in a slightly detached voice, my head clouded by a Grams haze.

            "I will go ahead and feed the birds before I go." he begins to gather up any little bits of trash that have come from his DVD instillation.

            "I can do that, really." I insist, knowing I will lose.

            "Aw, come on," he grins, "You have enough to do anyway, and I like doing it!"

            I nod my head once, feeling as though I am arguing with Grams, knowing it is a useless waste of energy to attempt victory.

            The living room has been put nicely back into order, the one exception being the silver box sitting on the shelf underneath the television that looks amusingly out of place, its modern look contrasted against the dated granny motif.

            Ben grabs his coat from the spot on the couch to which he flung it before jumping into his DVD endeavor, and walks towards the front door.

            "So I will pick you up at eight then.” he smiles back towards me.

            "Wait a minute," I scramble for words, the idea of not only going into town, but going into town with Ben Stevens, has stolen my capability for rational thought. How can I get out of this? Just say NO? Or when he turns up later, have all the lights off and pretend I am not here? Somehow move in the next nine hours?

            Once again my line of sight is drawn to the picture of Grams, pink dress, blue hat, sly smile and all.

            "Sure. Why not.” I sigh, defeated.

            "Wonderful." he grins softly, "I am really looking forward to it.”

            His eyes meet mine, our gazes locked onto one another, and the blueness gets to me once again. I feel it coming and I will my face to cooperate, but I am betrayed as I am taken over by a burning flush which causes me to lose focus and turn my stare to the floor.

            "If you need any help, or anything at all," he offers, "I am right behind you, alright?"

            "Alright." is my pitiful, squeak of a response.

            "Eight o'clock, Max." he reminds, to which I am only able to nod before he ushers himself out the door, pulling it closed behind him.

            What the hell just happened?!

            My eyes whip back to the picture on the wall, her sly smile now somehow appearing smug.

            "Well, now, aren't you feeling awfully proud of yourself?" my question drowning in sarcasm.

            Sneaky old woman, indeed.