There is no way I am going.

            That is just all there is to it, I am not going. 

            I cannot tell which is a more horrifying prospect.  Is it the idea of going into town, where people could actually see me, or is it the fact that I am supposed to sit, and have dinner with Ben Stevens of all people?  Death by hanging, or firing squad?

 

            I spent the afternoon and early evening sorting through my boxes and trying to find homes for some of my stuff.  Halfway through clearing out the first box, I panicked and wondered what the hell I was doing.  Did I really want to unpack all of my stuff?  Didn't that mean that I was intending to stay for a while?  That is clearly not my intention.  Although I really have no idea what my intentions might be other than I know I don't want to stay here any longer than necessary.  But where would I go?  I have already thrown out the whole Vegas plan.  I don't have anywhere I want to go.  I feel rather lost, honestly. 

            I made a compromise with my boxes of only putting away the needed items.  Clothes, and the like.  That way, it was like I wasn't committing to any lengthy period here, but at least I wasn't resigning to a nomadic lifestyle of rummaging through boxes every morning for my toothbrush.  It seemed noncommittal enough to be able to get me moving again.  I seem to be having a hard time following through with this whole living, breathing thing right now.  I start attempting to be productive, then become just terribly overwhelmed which leaves me in a semi-zombie state, sitting on the floor, staring at nothing as my brain filters through all my possible options until I feel smoke start trickling out of my ears.  It is all just too much to deal with right now.

            And throw into the chaos this bizarre meal time kidnapping that looms before me, and I am just ready to crawl back into bed and hide.  Maybe that is what I will do!  I will hide in bed, and he will go away!  Or I could pretend I was sick!  But what kind of illness could overtake me to the point of near death in the few hours between when he left and when he comes back to pick me up?  I need something good and debilitating...

            Although, it would seem that Ben isn't the type to let it go if I were to feign impending death.  He would probably just want to bring me soup or something, and then I would have to carry on the whole charade.  Too much effort.

            Can't I just tell him off and tell him to leave me the hell alone?

            What I am not too keen to admit is that, while this whole scenario is somewhat doom inspiring, there is a part of me, a very small part, that is a little bit excited about the idea.  This is the same part of me that gazed at him from across biology class, studying his distractingly good looks over earthworm dissection.  Watching him smile and talk to his friends, and wondering what interesting things he must have been saying.  Wishing that just once, for a split second, he would turn around and see me, realizing in that instant that his friends were all knuckle dragging morons, and that I was far better suited to his conversational standards. 

            I keep trying to smack that part of me away, tell that whiny teenage version of myself to shut the hell up because, even if he had come over, I am sure I would have said something beyond asinine, and that he would have figured out that I was just as pathetic as everyone else seemed to have determined.  Then, he would flit back over to mass of perfection that was his group of friends, and they would all laugh at how stupid a person could be as to think that someone like Ben Stevens would want to associate with someone like Mackenzie Parker. 

            That is what will happen tonight I am sure.  He will sit there, being all beautiful and ideal, and I will crash and burn in a giant fire ball of spaz. 

            Although maybe that isn't such a bad idea!  Why postpone the inevitable?  If I get it over with tonight, then maybe that will be it, I won't have to worry about it hanging over me, the always swinging pendulum of social failure.  I could get it out of the way tonight, and then my biggest worry would be the occasional run in maybe in the back yard.  Of course, my track record would indicate that my humiliation could possibly have enough oomph to have Ben Stevens avoiding his yard, hoping to miss my looniness. 

            Despite my better judgment, I am sitting here, watching the clock tick down.  Eleven minutes until eight.  I blame the sheer joy I felt when I unpacked my bathroom box for the fact that I showered and spruced myself up a bit.  I seem to have been stuck in a state of perpetual grunginess since the funeral, and it was oddly refreshing to go through the motions of looking like myself again.  By the second swipe of mascara, I was feeling nice and revived, until I realized that I was putting on mascara to go to dinner with Ben Stevens. 

            Eight minutes.

            Maybe I should have dressed up more?  Or down more...  No, I think I am safe.  My olive corduroy pants and black thin knit sweater are fairly middle ground.  I am not at all sure what this Claire's place is like.  I can't imagine it would be the type of place a person would need to don couture, as well, we are in Biddleton after all, but maybe it isn't a jeans kind of place. 

            I hate this, why am I even stressing about that I am wearing, or about the application of mascara?

            Although, maybe if it isn't a jeans place, if I came in in some really beat up, torn jeans, maybe I would get turned away, dress code and all, and then it would be over! 

            My mind clings to the idea and I am up and prepared to dart for the boxes that would have my jeans in them, preparing for denim sabotage, when the door bell sounds off.

            Crap!  He is four minutes early!  Jerk!  Why can't he be like a normal man who would be ten minutes late minimum, giving me a chance to, um, to...  Oh for crying out loud I am being ridiculous.  Time to suck it up Mackenzie, you're a grown up here.

            I still don't wanna....

            Shaking off my internal toddler tantrum, I take a deep breath and open the door.

            "Hey, Max." he smiles. 

            He looks amazing.  His hair is perfectly tousled, the caramel locks shifting slightly in the wind.  A dark blue long sleeved button down shirt, matching his eyes in an unmistakable way, is tucked into dark gray pants.  Even his shoes are perfect.  Not fancy, but not too casual. 

            Perfect.

            "Max?"

            Darn it!  I am so busy staring at him that I forgot to respond!

            "Um, yeah."  I cough, "Hi."

            "You look very nice."  His smiles more often than not are these slightly crooked half smiles that just pour through his eyes. 

            They are disarming.  They always have been.

            "Where's your coat?" he asks, smiling of course.

            "Where's yours?" I sort of snap at him.  Nice move.  Perfectly rational thing to do, I am sure.

            "In the car." he chuckles, as he assesses my demeanor, "Are you alright?  You look really tense."

            Hmm.  I am standing ramrod straight, arms pushed straight down, my fists clenched so tightly that my nails are digging into my palms.  Tense is a good word for my stance.

            "Yes." I insist, trying to nonchalantly relax myself.

            "Are you sure?" he seems to be trying to stifle a laugh.

            No.  I want to say that, but how can I explain to him that the idea of going into town has me in a continual state of panic?  I would have to confess that the real reason behind that is my fear of seeing anyone I used to know.  That's it, just seeing them.  How chicken am I?  Even saying it to myself I can hear how ridiculous it sounds, I know I am being borderline insane, but the knowledge does nothing to melt the block of ice that appears in my stomach at the mere thought of running into a former classmate.  I am embarrassed by myself for not being able to let any of it go. 

            "Yes." I mutter and yank my coat off the rack. 

            "It's just dinner." he says softly as he ushers me out the door, pulling it shut behind him, "I am a very safe driver, never even had a ticket.  If you choke on the food, I am trained in CPR.  Or if you are concerned about the company, I would be happy to make a quick stop for pepper spray if you like."

            "I may take you up on the pepper spray." I murmur as we reach his car. 

            "I'll make a note of that." he laughs.

            When he opens up the passenger door and stands beside it, I stand in front of him, confused.  It takes me a good long couple of seconds to realize that he is opening it for me.  I didn't know men still did that sort of thing, and I certainly have never had it done for me.  I am disappointed in myself when I blush at the notion of door opening.

            I climb in and he carefully shuts the door before walking around the front of the car to the driver’s side.  I can see his shoulders lightly bounce as he walks, and I can see he is laughing again. 

            We drive, mostly in silence, listening to the soft hum of the heater blowing, but I see him glance over from time to time and grin.  I am glad that my status as laughable hasn't changed over the years.  Max Parker, always good for a few laughs.  At my expense of course, but at least I am through.  It makes my lungs tighten uncomfortably to know that he is laughing at me, but I can't blame him, I am not one for social grace. 

            I just shrink down in the seat as much as humanly possible, and wonder if I am still enough, would he forget that I am here?

            He has a very nice car, although I would expect nothing less.  A sleek black Lexus, complete with a sparkling little computer like display lighting up the dash board, providing the right amount of illumination in the darkness to catch those little grins of his.  Huh.  It's a hybrid.  Why wouldn't it be?  You know who drives beautiful, black, Lexus, hybrids?  Perfect people.  Even in high school he drove a stunning car, a red Saab, brand new, received on his sixteenth birthday as a gift from his parents.  All the kids in that group were privy to spectacular vehicles, usually arriving on or about the sweet sixteen mark, not a one had to actually pay for the damn things.  Me on the other hand, I drove a used Honda Accord that sputtered around, the weight of over three hundred thousand miles hanging heavy on it's put upon engine.  I paid for that sweet ride by working as many hours as I could get making pizza's at Bernie's, the far superior of the two delivering pizza joints in town.  I smelled like pepperoni a lot, but at least I earned that car.

            I wonder if he even had to pay for this car himself?  I am beginning to think that there is a fund setup somewhere that allots fancy free things to the perfect people for such special occasions as graduations, or birthdays, or Tuesdays. 

            Oh god.  There it is.  Main Street.  My stomach lurches at the familiar sight.  Familiar and frightening.  My hand involuntarily reaches for the door handle, but my brain has a touch more sense than to dive from a moving vehicle.  I see a few scattered people walking along the sidewalks, and I thank the darkness for not showing me their faces.  I will admit it, I am scared.  This is not like a fabulous homecoming, riding on a float back into a world where I was happy, where faces would be awed to see me.  It is being dragged before a tribunal of people who secured my fate in their minds decades ago.  Had I even escaped the lingering gossip that was my family, my persona on its own was enough to label me unacceptable.  I had no interest in football, the pep required to wear the pleated skirts on the sidelines and cheer escaped me, I didn't wear the right clothes, listen to the right music, say the right words.  Surrounded by those who were touting high school as the best times of their lives, I was sulking through the shadows cast by beautiful, happy people hoping that all those who promised me that high school was in no way indicative of the real world were telling the truth.  Watching the cruelty of adolescent torment and wondering if the Hollywood tales of the mean kids getting theirs in the end would hold true. 

            They were the only thoughts that drug me through in one piece.  The possibility that not only would I get away from them, but that they would get their karmic just desserts. 

            The one thing I have unequivocally grasped over the last ten years is that Tinsel Town is not a keen predictor of interpersonal realities.  The ideas sure help you sleep better, that is until the reality slams you upside the head and you find yourself cursing John Hughes and the cast of Clueless through clenched and bitter teeth.

            Wow, how things have changed though.  I only recognize two or three of the businesses I see, the rest of the blocks now replaced by stores and establishments whose names are strangers to me.  This is a different place, somehow presented inside the trappings of a world that I am sure I know.  For craps sake, there is a stoplight.  An actual stoplight.  A huge leap into the twenty first century, miles away from the cursed four way stops that marked our small streets through my youth.  Electronic traffic signals, such a normal thing anywhere else in the country, but here, they feel out of place.  Intruders flashing three colors to dictate our every movement. 

            Everything seems somehow larger, the road stretching farther down that it once did, more buildings along a path that once was considered just outside of town.  I thought that when you went home to your childhood home, things were to feel smaller, indicating your own growth in some way.  But what if the town chose to explode behind you, rapidly expanding in every direction?  Well, then you will sit, shrinking farther still, as I am, into the black leather seats of Ben Stevens perfect sedan.

            Claire's.  A completely new section the town, a block that when I once knew it, was a cluster of trees, a small forest sitting idly by waiting to be renovated it seems.  I am quite glad I didn't wear the destroyed jeans, this place does look rather nice.  Much nicer a place than I would have ever expected to see in a town that when I left after graduation had more bars than gas stations. 

            "I figured if we went at eight, it wouldn't be as busy."  Ben's voice breaks the silence, "I thought you might appreciate that." He speaks warmly, a thoughtful smile now glowing visible under a street lamp as we pull into a parking spot in front of the restaurant.

            I merely nod to him, my eyes still scanning the strange sidewalks of this place that is becoming less familiar with every blink.

            "Are you going to be alright?" he turns to me, and I might not have heard him if not for the feeling of his hand resting carefully on my forearm, "Really, you seem uncomfortable."

            I break my gaze from beyond the window and stare now at the hand, Ben Stevens hand, lying on my arm, an improbable event in itself, made all the more surreal by the cars surroundings.

            From his hand to his eyes my gaze travels, uncertain of how to process the look of sincerity shown there.  The most unusual of circumstances, in the most unusual of places, and yet, my mind is soaking up every ounce of comfort it can from the exchange.  How ironic that he would become a soothing presence in this scenario.

            "No," I inhale sharply, unintentionally sitting straight up, pulling my arm out from under his light touch.  "I am fine.  Honestly." I insist, "I am just out of it.  Really hungry, or something."  I tack a forced smile to the end of my words hoping to reinforce them, and he accepts this enough to turn off the car and climb out. 

            I pull several deep breaths into my unwilling lungs and reach for the handle, but the door is already in motion.  I blush again at the action of him opening a car door for me, and pull myself out of the seat, head tucked to avoid him seeing my surprise.

            He flashes me an authentic smile as he shuts the car door behind me, and to my surprise, places his hand on my elbow leading me towards the entrance of Claire's.

            Once inside, I find myself very impressed with the friendly yet somewhat elegant decor.  I am thrilled to see the hostess, and know that I have no idea who she is.  So far so good.

            "Hello, Ben!" the woman smiles, "How are you honey?" Her voice is very clear, with the slightest hint of a southern accent, and it fits very nicely with her blond hair, not her natural color, but not in an overly obvious way.  She is maybe in her mid forties, her cheerful face colored with carefully applied makeup.

            "Hi, Cheryl!" he smiles and uses his free hand to give her a kind pat on the shoulder, "How are you?"

            "Wonderful, as always!" she trills, "Now are you going to introduce me to your beautiful date, or do I have to jump the poor girl?"

            "Date!?"  The word shoots out of me in a high pitched, strangled voice, loud enough that that the two of them jump, and even I stumble a bit.  I am thankful for his grip on my elbow still, or I might not have been able to steady myself enough.  They are both staring at me, and I imagine they are thinking they are in the presence of the biggest imbecile ever.  They may be right.

            With a quick smirk, Ben speaks first, "This is Max." I see the corners of his mouth trying to flip up into a smile, but he remains in smirking range, "She is Ida's granddaughter."

            "Oh, sweetheart!" Cheryl practically sobs as she lunges forward, embracing me in a much too tight hug, "I am so sorry about your Grandma!  She was such a fantastic lady!"

            I stare at Ben, eyes wide, not sure whether to accept the affection or run screaming into the streets, his smile is growing, but there is a hint of sadness in his eyes.  It is easy for me to forget that he was Grams friend.  Instead of running, I settle for giving Cheryl here a couple of reassuring pats on the back.

            "Alright," she sniffs as she pulls away, "Let's get you two a table, okay?"

            With a very swift motion, she scoops up a couple of menus and starts walking into the dining room, to my immense pleasure, the mostly empty dining room, and stands in front of a booth near the back of the restaurant.

            "I'll give you two some privacy!" she says with a wink, and my face flushes in response.  With a quick elbow into Ben's ribs she whispers to him, "She sure is a cutie, hon!" 

            He looks down at the table with a slightly sheepish smile while my face burns in an all encompassing redness.  We sit as she hands us the menus and she quickly shuffles away, visibly pleased with her work. 

            I avoid eye contact with him as much as possible, pretending to be thoroughly engrossed in the menu.  Even when the waiter sidles up to ask for our drink order, I never once look away, just casually calling out "Water!" at the appropriate time.  The waiter was young enough sounding that I didn't feel too worried that I would know him.  As much as I feel like a fifteen year old at the moment, it can be hard to remember that I am in reality a twenty-eight year old woman.  Who is hiding behind her menu.

            Time passes too slowly, and I see that Ben's menu sits closed on the table.  I can feel his eyes studying the crazy person sitting across from him, and even though I don't dare look away from the soup of the day selection, I can almost feel the smile on his face.  Why do I have to be so consistently embarrassing. 

            The waiter comes back, I am not sure, but I think he said his name was Pete, to set down our drinks and take our meal order.  I am reluctant to turn over the menu.  What else will I hide behind? 

            "The, um, salmon." I mutter, and he has to actually tug the thing out of my hands. 

            Complete with the smile I had felt and knew was there, "That sounds nice."  Ben says, "I'll have the same, thank you."

            Pete runs off, leaving the two of us sitting in the darkened booth by ourselves, practically alone in the restaurant, save for a middle aged couple dining on the other side of the room.  I can't see too clearly in the dimmed light, but I scan to see if there is any familiarity to them.

            "How is the unpacking coming?" he speaks casually, the sound of the smile hanging in his tone.

            "It's fine."  I offer softly.

            "Are you settling in alright?" he continues.

            "Sure.  I guess so."

            He keeps his gaze on me, smile intact, and he seems to be enjoying watching me fidget with the napkin under my water glass. 

            "So you are a photographer?" he asks.

            "How did you know that?" I frown, certain I have never mentioned anything of the sort.

            He flashes me the crooked smile once more, and I realize, "Oh, yeah." Grams, obviously.  Get it together, Max.  "Um, yes.  A photographer."

            More staring.

            "Do you enjoy what you do?" he chuckles.  I feel as though there is a joke I am not getting.

            "Yes."

            He lets out a loud laugh and rubs one hand roughly over his face.  The action catches me slightly off guard. 

            "Max!" he sighs, still amused by whatever it is that is apparently amusing, "You've got to help me out here a bit!"

            "With what?" My voice is a lot softer than it should be, and I feel myself slinking back into my seat the way I had in the car ride over here.

            "Words, I need some more words." he flashes his perfect teeth with his smile this time, "See, I ask a question, and then you answer." he leans forward with his explanation, "Then I just might ask another question, or should the urge arise, you are welcome to ask a question of me!  Chances are good that I will respond accordingly."  His face softens as he speaks, "It's what I like to call a 'conversation'". 

            I am embarrassed, and not sure what to say, so I focus on a specific grain of wood on the table in front of me, and debate bolting.

            "Max." his voice is suddenly quiet, an understanding, almost velvety texture to it, and I jump a little when I feel his hand cover mine that had been fiddling with the napkin.  "You said it had been years since you had been back into town, right?"

            I nod.

            "So whatever it was that happened that has you so anxious right now," My heart is beating loudly, erratically, and I strain trying to understand if it is the warmth of his hand, or if it is his painfully clear reading of my mood that has me in a mild state of panic.  "Whatever it was, was a really long time ago, and it has nothing to do with what we are doing tonight.  So why not forget about it, just for an hour or so?  Why not just sit here with me, eat salmon, and catch up a little bit?"  He gives my had a gentle squeeze, "Come on, I only know what I have heard from Grams about you since high school, I feel like I have a lot of gaps to fill."  And to add a nice touch of guilt to pull me out, "I can't be that terrible of company to have stunned you into silence, can I?" He finishes with a chuckle.

            "This isn't catching up." I begin before I give the words permission to leave my lips, "You can't catch up with a person if you never knew them before."

            "I don't understand what you mean." his voice is confused, "We have known each other since what, at least grade school, haven't we?"

            "No." I explain calmly, "We went to the same school, we lived in the same town.  That doesn't mean we knew each other."  I sit up straight and look straight into the blue.  "Of course I knew you.  Everyone did.  You were very easy to see, football, student counsel, prom king, all around ideal teenage specimen.  But that doesn't mean that you knew me.  And that is why this isn't catching up."

            He cocks his head slightly to the side to stare at me, his expression relatively unreadable.  I am disappointed in myself for talking that way, like it was his fault his life was the epitome of what people strive for, but I can't shake the bitterness I feel that he thinks catching a glimpse of me in the cafeteria or  watching those around him antagonize me for years constitutes him as "knowing" me in some way.

            "I knew you in high school." he speaks as though he is choosing his words very carefully.

            "No," I retort, "You didn't.  We never even spoke to each other.  It's not like I ran in the same circles as Ben Stevens."

            The half smile returns briefly, "Why did you just say my name like that?"

            "What?"

            "You said my full name," he points out, "like it was a bad word or something."

            I know that my face has turned an unflattering shade of crimson, I can feel the burning all the way to my ears.  Using the complete moniker Ben Stevens in my head with that tone is something I have just grown used to over the course of my life, but it was not something that I said out loud.  I am embarrassed, in part because I have shown the grudge holding part of me that blames him by association, and also because I am honestly fearful that I may have hurt his feelings.

            "I knew you in high school."  he declares again, "I am sorry you don't realize that."  He leans his elbows on the table, crossing his arms in front of himself and continues, "But it is true.  You were very quiet." And with another half smile, "And very cute."  The blood rushes to my face again.  I wish he didn't have the knack for making me do that as he does, "You didn't talk to a lot of people, and you were very skilled in art."  My eyes narrow slightly as he speaks, "You would win a blue ribbon in every single art fair.  My favorite piece that you did, which was a blue ribbon winner I might add, was a painting of this unnaturally yellow cactus.  I don't know art well enough to say what you were going for, was it abstract, maybe?  But it was so intricate, so beautiful, and I heard you tell the art teacher, Mr. Willis, that you didn't want to enter it, because you didn't think anyone would understand it, which of course I didn't, but he put it in the fair anyway."  I am only vaguely aware that I am holding my breath.  "I really liked that picture.  I almost asked you if I could have it," he laughs, "Then I realized how nuts that would sound, to have this random guy ask to keep your award winning painting."  I can't process the name Ben Stevens and random together...  "I would have been too afraid to talk to you about it anyway."

            "Wait," I stop him, my lungs back in the swing of things, "You would have been afraid to talk to me?  That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard."

            "Why is that ridiculous?"  His skill at finding everything I say amusing to some degree is unsettling.

            "Because you were the people that weren't allowed to be spoken to,” I said, trying to pull the anger from my voice as it poured out, "You were allowed to talk to anyone."

            "Now, that is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard." he laughs abruptly, "And exactly who made that rule?"

            "I don't know, the high school Gods or something."  I mutter, knowing how childish I sound.

            "You were very intimidating, Max." he starts, "You never really talked to anyone, and honestly, If I ever saw you look at me, you were usually glaring." he added with a light chuckle.

            "No, I did not!" I half yell, and prepare to lay down the actuality of the Biddleton High Caste System.  Before I can spill out the next words though, I am taken back to moments when I would allow myself a glimpse of Ben Ste--, I mean, um, Ben, back in the days of high school.  I would have a look, and then, should any of the people around him, or lord forbid, himself, actually look back my way, then I would quickly avert my attention to avoid any kind of eye contact, and I was usually annoyed as can be at having been caught by the jerks.  Hmm.  He may have a point...

            "Okay," I offer, "It may be possible."

            "So is that why you are acting so high strung?" he inquires, "Because you thought I didn't know you in high school?"

            "No." I answer too quickly, "I mean, well.  Maybe that is part of it, I guess." I feel very small again, like I don't belong in the confines of this unusual discussion, "I just don't like being back here.  It isn't exactly my favorite town in the world, I am sure you can understand that."

            He tilts his head thoughtfully again.  "Of course I can."  His eyes are so enveloping, so soothing to look at.  That has certainly never changed.  "But like I said, all of it was a long time ago.  It doesn't need to matter tonight."  He straightens up, and flashes the smile again, "Tonight, we are taking deep breaths, eating salmon, and catching up with one another."

            As he finishes, the waiter pops up and sets our fish down in front of us.

            "Is there anything else I can get for you two?" Pete asks.

            "I think we are fine, thank you, Pete."  Ben responds, not breaking eye contact with me once.

            He doesn't move at all, even after Pete is gone, and I finally understand that he is waiting for me to make the next move, waiting for my acknowledgment that I can in fact get behind the idea of "catching up". 

            "So."  I say, nonchalance my tone of choice as I pick up my fork, "You really liked my cactus painting?"

            "I really did."

              Alright, perhaps it is time to start over.

            "Yes, I am a photographer." I begin again, "Mostly freelance.  I do enjoy it very much.  I get to see a lot of really amazing things, interesting people, you know?"

            "I saw your postcard." he smirks after a bite of salmon.

            "How!" I have got to think these things through before I ask, "Oh!  On Grams wall!"I laugh. 

            A picture I took on a trip to Colorado, of a beautiful purple flower, growing through a crack in on one of the mountains, surrounded by freshly fallen snow, became a post card, cheesily enough, that you can buy at ski resort gift shops.  I had been so proud at the time, it was one of the first pictures I had been able to sell, I sent it to Grams, who proudly framed it, and it sits on the mantle above her fire place still.  She made me send her dozens of copies, and she passed them out to all her friends whether they wanted one or not.  My mother wasn't impressed, which Grams knew, and I think she went into a bit of granny overkill to try and prove to me that I had accomplished something special.  Always my biggest fan.

            "So what about you?" I chomp down on my own fish, and am shocked at how good it is.  Not used to food like this in Biddleton.  Until I went off to college, I never knew that you could eat seafood without it having been breaded and fried.  "What did you grow up to be?"

            "Well," he smiles and swallows a mouthful of potatoes, "Technically, I am a Pharmaceutical Scientist in an oncology and hematology lab."

            "What does that mean?" I giggle, caught off guard by the note of shyness in his voice.

            "To say it out loud, it sounds sort of pretentious," he continues, "But what I do is experimental work, trying to create new drugs for a specific type of leukemia.  Then we run studies to see how they work, and I am privy to an obscene amount of paper work, like grant proposals and study findings."  He finishes with a light laugh.

            "You.  Cure, um.  Cancer?"

            "See?" he rolls his eyes laughing still, "Pretentious sounding, right?"

            Of course he does.  Because that is what perfect people do.

            "Really, it is not as fantastic as it sounds on paper." he goes on, "I really like doing it, and it is an amazing way to spend nine to five, but It isn't as heroic as it sounds when you put it as 'Oh, you cure cancer!'". 

            "Wow, that is really cool." I chew slowly as I imagine him donning a white lab coat and ridding the world of diseases, "Do you work at the hospital nearby?"

            "Oh, no.  I commute to St. Louis actually."

            "That is quite a commute!" I exclaim.

            "Maybe an hour each way." he shrugs lightly.

            "Why don't you just live in the city then?"  I wonder, "Why live so far away from what you do?"

            "I moved back out here while I finished up grad school." he explains, "I intended to be closer to my family, so that is when I built the house out behind Grams." He shakes his head a bit, "But then a year ago, my dad retired he and my mom took off to Florida.  I think they are under the impression that once you are retired, you are legally required to do that.  So I moved back to be near them, and they ditched me." He laughs at the last part, "I suppose I should move closer.  I just haven't gotten the motivation yet, I guess."

            "So are you like, a doctor?" I am not sure why the last part came out sort of hushed, like maybe it would be a secret if he were.

            "I do have a PhD." he squints as he says it, "But I am not an MD, and no one is allowed to call me Dr. Stevens."

            I am impressed by his level of humility regarding his job.  I feel most people would be printing up business cards with the word "DOCTOR" in giant bold print to hand out,  but he seems genuinely embarrassed by the titles, giving me the impression that he isn't doing it because he likes the way it looks, but he is doing it because he just likes doing it.  It is always a treat to find someone who does what they do, just because they enjoy it.   Very endearing.

            Damn, he is awfully likable. 

            "So what are you doing about work while you are out here?"   He seems to be enjoying the food as much as I am, and I find that talking is interrupting the shoveling process more than I would have expected.

            "I guess I am sort of on Sabbatical."  I admit, "I don't know what is happening next, so I am just taking a bit of time off while I figure it all out."

            "Are you going to go back home from time to time while you are here?" 

            "Um."  I set my fork down and think of my response, "I don't actually have anywhere to go back to."

            His grants me a confused look, and I am not sue if it is the fact that I am suddenly as comfortable with the conversation at hand, or if it is just the fact that I haven't spoken to anyone about it, but I find myself launching into a fairly detailed account of what I can safely call one of the worst weeks I have ever had that started with Grams dying suddenly, and ended with my being homeless, having been unfathomably evicted by my fiancé and my best friend, who, as it were, had been getting it on for some time.

            "Okay." his eyes wide as he talks, "That is a shitty thing to do."

            "Yeah, I can really pick 'em!"  I joke, trying to lighten the mood.   "Whatever, they can do what they want, but the timing certainly could have been better."  I see him looking at with me with eyes that say I am full of it.  "Okay, I hope they both get hit by trucks.  Big ones.  With rusty bumpers."

            "There ya go."

            "I don't know, I just haven't really processed any of this yet." I sigh, "It all came at me so fast.  That is why I am staying at Grams right now.  I am just trying to stop and get things sorted out."

            "That sounds like a good plan."  he places his napkin on his plate gently.  I didn't even realize I was finished either, I had gotten too involved in the discussion, "And you know, I think you should really take a good long time to decide what to do next."

            "Why is that?"

            The half smile returns, "Because then you will have to stay here longer."

            "Oh." 

            I am discovering that the half smile has an intrinsic link to the phenomenon of my cheeks flushing. 

            Pete sees our empty plates, and scoots over, offering dessert, which we both politely decline, and we are handed the check, which Ben promptly yanks from the middle of the table as I reach for it.

            "Just so we are clear," he says calmly, "Ida never let me win one, and I am sorry to say that revenge will be taken out on you."

            I have to giggle at the thought of him trying to pry the check out of Grams iron grip of stubbornness.  Poor lad never stood a chance.

            It isn't until we are in the car, for which he opened my door again I might add, that I realized that I had forgotten my Biddleton town panic.  The drive out of town, we were still immersed in random conversations, and it never occurred to me to scan the streets for familiar faces, or impending doom. 

            Impressive. 

            When we reach Grams, I mean, my house, I turn to thank him for the night, but he is already out and preparing to escort me from the car a final time.  It isn't until he starts up the sidewalk that I understand he is walking me to my door.

            This really does feel like a date, I think to myself, and am mildly annoyed by the flip in my stomach.  But this isn't a date, there were no date pretenses established beforehand, so it isn't possible.

            At my door, I turn, feeling once again the underlying date theme rearing its uninvited head, to say goodnight.

            "Thanks for dinner."  I smile, "Next time is my treat."  Did I just offer a next time?  Why do I feel so awkward, like any minute someone's parents are going to turn on the porch light?

            "We'll see about that."  he says, looking rather pleased at the notion, "I had a very nice time tonight, Max." 

            "I really did too." I hope I don't sound as surprised at that fact as I actually am. 

            "And Max?" his face softens and he leans towards me just enough that it is noticeable, and just enough that my breath catches in my throat.  Well, that most definitely feels date-y. 

            "Yes?" I accidentally gulp the word.

            "Thanks for catching up with me."

            I feel that his hand is resting lightly on my upper arm as he speaks, but that isn't nearly as unnerving as his direct eye contact, the blue just visible enough under the glare from the front window to make me very aware once again that this is Ben Stevens.

            "Goodnight, Mackenzie." he says quietly, smiling, of course.