I had been on dates before. Many actually in my college years, and not once in all of the preparations for any of those dates had I ever been as nervous as I was preparing for my date with Ben. Not with Eric, or anyone else. I was overcome by a giddy, almost manic burst of energy that had my flying about the house all day in a state of perpetual coiffing. I was thankful to a spectacular degree that I had to reserve my afternoon for the presence of the cable guy, coming to bring me five hundred channels and more importantly, internet. I tried to stay out of his way, this poor man named Bart who had thought he was coming to do a routine install, and was instead privy to having a Mackenzie shaped hummingbird flitting around behind him, monitoring his every move.

            I caught his suspicious glances around, his unnerved observations of me, certain that he was trying to find the evidence of a crystal meth lab, or at least an over worked espresso machine. Something that would explain my obsessive hovering. What I couldn't explain to dear Bart was that I was stuck in a state of unyielding back and forth with him. On the one hand, I was irritated by the distraction, something that was keeping me from giving my undivided attention to a night that had the trappings of being an adolescent dream fulfilled. On the other was the blessing that he was keeping me from having any more time than was absolutely necessary to myself to dwell on the upcoming event. Trapped in the house all day by myself, with no Bart to distract me, I fear what I might have done to myself. There is only so much prep work a woman can do for a big night, and after a certain point, a variation of self harm occurs. With enough time to kill, things like the potential of dyeing ones hair, which would only end in disaster, or plucking ones eyebrows into a pencil thin oblivion are very real possibilities.

            As it was, the second that Bart was out the door at three in the afternoon, I whisked around in a fit of bottles and potions, brushes and implements, some I am convinced were created as an act of torture.

            Too much thought went into all of it. Way too much. I tried to pep talk myself into keeping things simple, but my brain was rebuffed by the nervousness in a swift but defining second. The intent of a nice relaxing, albeit quick shower was destroyed after I had already hopped out and begun to towel off, and realized that I hadn't shaved my legs. Sensibility tried to impart the fact of my wearing pants, but the squealing girl decided that even though Ben would never be the wiser to my smoothed gams, it had to be done as a confidence booster. This led to my reentering the shower, redoing the first round, but adding deep conditioning, exfoliating, loofahing, shaving, and at some point, running out of hot water.

            Out of the water wasn't much better. I re-centered myself, blow dried my hair, and began a simple makeup application, which halfway through, I was taken by the bright idea of really doing myself up. This lead to me looking as though I had been dolling myself up for a night on a stage in Vegas, complete with cosmetics that had been applied with a cementing trowel. Once again, back to square one. Washed my face again, although now, after three washings in the recent past, my face began to protest a lack of moisture. Now added to the mix was a deep slathering of facial lotion.

            At this point, I decided to take a deep breath and collect myself as much as possible by sitting in front of the bird window with a mug of tea. Even I was sensible enough to recognize that coffee shouldn't be anywhere near me. My cheeks had no more than touched the chair when I stifled a shriek and dove onto the floor like a drunken ninja. There he was, milling about the front yard, bags of bird seed in hand, Ben, still in work clothes, once again sporting that contented smile of his as he filled the feeders. I don't know why it hadn't become ingrained into my schedule of daily occurrences that he would be there around the same time to take care of the birds, and at that moment it would have been the most helpful of tidbits to remember. I hadn't realized how late it had gotten, but a quick glimpse of the clock told me that he had just gotten home from work, and that I had less than an hour until his official arrival. That was assuming that he didn't pop in after finishing with the birds with the idea of starting things before the scheduled time.

            I am fairly sure I would have killed him for that.

            I was, and will most likely always be, eternally embarrassed by the fact that I crawled through the living room on my way back to the bathroom, on the off chance that he might have seen me sitting there and taken it as a sign of early admittance. I wasn't about to let all the hard work I had put into him opening up that door to a polished and zen Max go to waste. I believe that the "hard work" actually translates into insanity, but why split hairs?

            Aware of the fact that I now had one hour remaining to complete all the things I had tried to space out over the course of the day, I was swept up in a flourish of beautification. Abandoning the concept of the Vegas face, I decided that the tried and true methods were my best shot. A quick trip down my dating memory lane as to my usual standards, and I was set. I did put in as much effort as time allotted, because, well, this was special.

            My frenzy paid off, as I finished with enough time to be able to sit on the couch for a few moments to do a mental check list as to what I might have forgotten to do. The revelation that I had skipped the all too important step of deodorant whipped me back into my toiletry bag, before collapsing on the couch again, with exactly three minutes to spare. I had peaked out the window again, and Ben was nowhere to be found, and I was pleased to have those moments to center myself as much as I could.

            Apparently three minutes was far too long, and by the second I was bouncing my leg impatiently. I evened my breathing, and took to carefully smoothing out the ensemble that Callie and I had chosen with such efficiency the day before. I chuckled thinking of how amused she would be by my frantic behavior while getting ready, and looked forward to having a laugh with her about it. I hoped that I would have good things to report about the actual date part of the evening as well, but I couldn't focus on that, it was hard enough to maintain the way it was. I toyed with the idea of hoping on my newly connected computer or at the very least turning on the television with its now numerous channels to visit, but I couldn't bring myself to move from my spot by the door.

            At seven on the dot, I heard his car pull in, and tried to ignore the flutter in my chest. I felt ridiculous as I held my breath listening to his footsteps crunching the gravel, and the softer thumps as he made his way up the sidewalk, but I was too nervous to actually care enough to stop. I toyed with the idea of opening the door before he even knocked, but thought better of the plan. Instead, I waited patiently for his knock, which came only seconds later before hoisting myself slowly from the couch to greet him.

            "Hey, Ben," I smiled calmly. Far more calm than I actually felt, and for this I was impressed with myself.

            He looked gorgeous, a given in all circumstances with him it seemed. I noticed that he had changed since I had seen him in the yard before. From his work suit, he stood before me in dark grey pants and a navy sweater that matched the color of his eyes perfectly, making them more piercing than I had ever seen them. I was glad I had spoken before taking the time to look him over, or I might not have had the power to make the words come out.

            "Max," he grinned. "You look beautiful."  The words were sincere, but comparatively speaking, from the source it was rather surreal. Like a rose complimenting a dandelion. "Are you ready to go?" he asked.

            With all the hullabaloo surrounding the actual act of going out with Ben, it had never occurred to me to think of what it was we might be doing, or where it was we might be going. I can't imagine the extra pre-date debates I would have had with myself if I had thought to consider different outing possibilities, but at the moment, I was deeply curious. Dinner was all I knew, and we were both donning about the same level of dressiness, so at least I would be appropriate.

            Still knocked senseless by those eyes, I could only manage to smile and nod as I reached for my coat. I wanted to say something, anything really, but I could only manage to keep the smile plastered across my face as he led me out of the house and towards his car, where he proceeded to open the car door for me. Of course.

            I didn't know what to say. Did I ask him about his day? Should I ask where we were going? I didn't want to seem rude, but I also didn't want to run out of things to discuss over dinner, and details of one’s day are always a fairly solid conversational topic.

            He slid smoothly into the driver’s seat and we were soon moving. I was very confused that instead of turning out onto the road towards town, he headed south. I didn't have much time to consider our travel possibilities however, as maybe fifty feet down, he turned towards his house. I took a moment to study his driveway; it hadn't even been there a few years back. It cut right through a patch of forest that I used to play in as a child, making the moment oddly reminiscent.

            "Did you forget something?" I asked, my curiosity getting the best of me thinking perhaps we were running a quick errand before setting off.

            "No," he smirked and said nothing else.

            I stared at him for a second, hoping for something else to clear up the situation, but my attention was draw away once we passed through the trees and his home came into view. Pale gray bricks, accented by a charcoal colored roof, offset by black shutters, it was decidedly modern, but it fit nicely out in the confines of the wooded area in which it set. It was surprisingly larger than the glimpse I had seen through the trees my first night back had indicated, and it was perfectly maintained. Even in the barren wintery months when most yards were looking haggard and near death, his still looked perfectly manicured, just hibernating. It was really very beautiful.

            He pulled up in front of the garage, shut off the car, and stepped out. I wasn't sure what to do, was he coming back? I thought about waiting in the car for him to come back, but he was already reopening my door, helping me out of my seat.

            "What are we doing?"  My voice came out just as confused as I was, and he seemed somewhat entertained by this.

            "We are having dinner, remember?" He spoke as he led me up to his front door.

            "Here?" I felt like an imbecile, my words coming so shortly, but this was not something I had expected.

            "Is that a problem?" he inquired, opening his front door, and escorting me inside.

            His home was exquisite. Pristine hardwood floors in some areas, lush gray carpeting in others, modern black furniture, windows everywhere. Even as the sun fell outside, the house was unexpectedly bright. Off to the right of his living room was a gourmet kitchen, perfectly neat and well stocked with various convenient appliances. It was both surprising for him and yet perfectly fitting. Everything about this man caught me off guard.

            "Coat?" he asked as he peeled off his own.

            I quickly shrugged off the coat I had only had one for two minutes, as he reached over and assisted, all the while carefully looking over the rooms I could see from where I stood.

            He carefully hung them up in the small closet by the entryway, and headed farther into the living room.

            "Are you coming?" he furrowed his brow at the weird woman standing in his foyer.

            "Uh..." I stammered, "Should I take my shoes off?"

            He laughed at my words and answered, "No, you are fine. Please, come in."

            I felt like a little kid with muddy sneakers and sticky fingers being brought into someone's home where they silently prayed that I would soon leave but before doing so, not touch anything at all.

            "Why don't we get dinner going first," he began, "And I can give you the tour while it is cooking, is that alright with you?"

            "Sure," I almost whispered as I followed him into the kitchen, still gaping at my surroundings. Into the kitchen, he went straight for a giant stainless steel refrigerator and began pulling items out.

            "Is Italian alright?"

            "Of course."  I was suddenly formal, feeling like I had been inducted onto some television cooking show.

            "Really, are you all right?" he chuckled at me.

            My eyes darted to him, studying this amused expression and took stock of the fact that I was standing ramrod straight in the middle of his floor, hands folded together in front of me as if I were in a museum. This was not the impression I was hoping to make on my date with Ben Stevens.

            "I'm sorry," I sighed and shook my head gently, "I just wasn't expecting this. But really, I am fine."  To be proper, I added, "You have a lovely home."

            "I debated what we should do on our date," he winked as he said the word 'date'. "I thought about maybe taking you into St. Louis , but since I have to work tomorrow morning, I figured this way would give us more time to actually hang out instead of two hours of driving."  He paused as he set various ingredients on the island in the middle of the kitchen. "If you would prefer, we could go somewhere, I guess I should have asked."

            "No, really!" I over compensated hoping I hadn't hurt his feelings, "This is great, and it makes perfect sense!"

            "Good." God, his smile was addictive. The more I saw it, the more I wanted to do things to make it reappear. "Would you like to help me?"

            "Sure."  I broke my statue formation and made my way over to the counter in front of him.

            "How are you at chopping?"

            "Expert."

            His smile suggested he might have believed otherwise, but I could cook and I wasn't afraid to prove it. I accepted at that moment that if he turned out to be some sort of master chef, which he of course would, that I would just have to get it into my head that he was the picture of perfection I had imagined all those years. A hard label for most to live up to, and here he was, wearing it effortlessly.

            We gathered on opposite sides of the island that had a stove top built into it and began slicing and dicing. The menu was for chicken cacciatore, and I took over care of pepper preparation. I insisted on his caring for the chicken. I like it, and eat it, but I can't stand the feel or look of the raw stuff, a tidbit of knowledge he found humorous. As soon as we began, he broke out a bottle of red wine, pouring each of us a glass. It was surprisingly easy to feel comfortable with him as we worked. We began the obligatory discussions of our days, him of preparing a trial to test a new leukemia drug, mine waiting for the Bart the internet guy, and had a good laugh at the contrasts.

            My nerves had cleared, my intimidation of his house had passed, and we went about the evening with ease. He was just as skilled a cook as I had feared, wielding professional looking knives with finesse, throwing ingredients into a pan with no recipe in sight, but the most impressive aspect was that there wasn't the slightest hint of pretentiousness as he worked. At no point did I catch him showing off for my sake, or watching to make sure I had noticed his expert moves. He kept his eyes on me during our conversation, as if I had been talking about the most fascinating topics that would deserve such undivided focus.

            Things were going amazingly, and as he sautéed, I happily thought to myself of how I would describe the evening to Callie later. Knowing that she would demand a full color detail blow by blow of ever single detail reminded me to stop occasionally and take an inventory of sorts of our night. It was this thought that flashed my mind back to the mall and Callie's bizarre interaction with Allison, and it reminded me of my plan to pump Ben for information.

            "Hey, I have a question."

            "Shoot." he grinned as he threw another handful of peppers into the sizzling skillet.

            "Okay, this might seem kind of gossipy, but I wondered if maybe you knew."

            "About?" Okay, his face was willing, so at least I wasn't going to be looked at like a whispering teenager dishing the dirty details.

            "I was out with Callie yesterday and we ran into Allison Rogers, and for some reason Callie was really weird around her, like angry almost."  He slowed his stirring as he listened. "Any idea what that is about?"

            He stared thoughtfully into the cooking food in front of him and appeared to be carefully choosing his words before he spoke. "Well," he sighed. "They used to be friends a few years ago."

            I waited for him to continue and took a sip of my wine.

            "It didn't end very well for Callie."

            I stared, waiting for more explanation, but he went back to the cacciatore as if he was done.

            "What happened?" I pushed.

            He frowned at the counter so briefly I wasn't sure he had actually done it, and my curiosity surged. So there was something there.

            "You should really ask Callie about it, I think." he responded, unsure, and somehow resolute.

            The topic seemed to have sobered his mood very quickly, and I was torn by wanting to drill for more information, respecting Callie's story, and not wanting to place a damper on our evening. Despite my inquisitive nature chomping at the bit to be set free, I just left it at that. If he chose to say more he could, but I wouldn't let myself force the subject.

            Boy, did I want to though.

            His face had been gripped by a serious expression that I didn't understand, and he absent-mindedly poked a wooden spoon around inside the pan. As if he had forgotten that I was staring at him, he suddenly looked up at me, snapping out of it.

            "Would you like that tour now?" he smiled, but I didn't miss the sharp inhale he took as he did.

            "Listen, I didn't mean to upset you," I felt terribly guilty, but for what I wasn't sure. "I was just wondering."

            "You didn't upset me, Max,” The crooked smile appeared, and my cheeks tingled in response. "It just isn't a very nice story. And it isn't mine to tell."

            I nodded, feeling bad for even bringing it up in the first place.

            "So, tour?"

            "Yeah!"  I forced out some extra enthusiasm, hoping to place our night back on the rails, promising myself to keep any more of my nosy type questions out of my head at all costs for the night.

            He turned the burner down, and covered the food to simmer and led the way through his house. It was all as equally beautiful as the first impression had been, and I found myself focusing more on the fact that I was walking through Ben Stevens' home as opposed to the home itself. If you had asked me later what anything besides the kitchen had looked like, I wouldn't have been able to have given any sort of coherent answer. In fact, I don't recall even seeing his bedroom, only noting that I had, and felt my face explode in flames when I realized I was looking at Ben Stevens' bed. Unfortunately for me, this was not something he missed, but as the gentleman he always behaves as, he drew no attention to it.

            Later on, we returned to finish preparing the meal before sitting down and having a nice dinner together. Our conversations continued openly, the uncomfortableness of the Callie topic put far behind us. As I suspected, he was an amazing chef, the food was some of the best Italian that I had ever had. I ate far more than I had intended, and silently wished that I had worn pants with a little more give. Even so, it was totally worth it.

            After dinner, we shared more wine before curling up on the couch in his living room. We selected a movie that played in the background, but was never watched. It was too easy to talk to him, and the wine was making it easier with every sip. He explained again that he had moved back to Biddleton to be near his family, but now that they had moved away, he found himself somewhat lonely here. The thought of moving to St. Louis to be closer to his work had been considered for the last year or so, but he wasn't sure if he was ready.

            "So what is holding you here, beside the amazing house, of course?" I had asked.

            "You know, I honestly don't know," he pondered as he spoke. "I am just not ready I guess."

            It was the first time I had ever seen him look unsure of something, almost afraid. I knew I was misreading his expressions though, because this was Ben. What would Ben Stevens have to be unsure or afraid of? I frowned at my wine for dulling my analytical skills.

            The rest of the date was smooth, and when the clock tolled eleven, I was disappointed that I knew I needed to be on my way. Just because I was in a sudden limbo from the real world didn't mean that other people didn't have the confines of things like jobs to consider.

            I knew that I would enjoy spending time with Ben, but I wasn't prepared for how much I enjoyed his company. Now that I had let go of my need to constantly look out for imaginary ambushes from the "cool kids", it was easy to be taken in by him.

            "I guess I better head home so that you can get some sleep," I teased. "We can't all be fantastic and on sabbatical like me."

            "Alright," he yawned for dramatic effect as he stood from the couch. "I'll drive you home!"

            "You know I could just walk, right?"  I laughed. "I mean, it is like fifty feet. You didn't even have to pick me up earlier."

            "What kind of man would I be if I let you walk in the cold?" he shook his head and clicked his tongue disapprovingly, and I giggled.

            I offered to help clean up the kitchen before I left, but he was insistent that if he had taken me to a restaurant that I wouldn't have been stuck with the dishes, so he would allow no such thing. At the door he helped me on with my coat, and at the car, he guided me inside once again. He was like a man out of one of those old movies. The kind that would place his jacket over a mud puddle, or pull out a cloth handkerchief should a woman start to tear up. I made a mental note to feign tears in front of him someday so see if he would in fact produce a hanky. I wouldn't have been surprised in the least if he did.

            The two minute drive back to my house was found hilarious by me this time, now that I knew what to expect, and it seemed even more ridiculous that I hadn't walked. Even he appreciated the comedic aspect of it all.

            "You see?" I chuckled as he walked me to my door. "I could have made it faster than the car if I had walked through the trees."

            "And what if you had been eaten by a bear or something?" he grinned. "How would I ever forgive myself?"

            "We don't have bears in Biddleton!" I exclaimed, laughing.

            "Okay, a really angry squirrel then," he deadpanned. "What would I have done then?"

            The idea of a stalking squirrel had me in a fit of laughter as we reached the porch.

            "And besides," he continued. "If I hadn't driven you home, I wouldn't have been able to walk you to your door."

            The look on his face shut me up real quick. The crooked smile. The softness in his eyes. The way he was standing much closer to me that I had realized.

            "So was it really so terrible?"

            "What?" I forced out.

            "A date with me?"

            "No!" I stammered, "I mean, no." I corrected in a more suitable voice, "I had a really nice time. Really."

            "So did I,” His voice had become satin again, it was feeling like a trademarked Ben good night. "I think I might just have to ask you again."

            Without actually having moved, he was closer still. Or had I moved? I couldn't believe it. I was standing in the crucial moment of debate at the end of a date. The goodnight kiss. Certainly not. I had understood the actuality of a date, but this still seemed like the most foreign of concepts.

            I knew there was panic on my face. I could feel it, even over the rush of blood that flushed up to my hairline. I couldn't hide it, no matter how hard I tried and I saw him taking it all in.

            Very slowly, or maybe he was moving normal speed and I had begun to hallucinate things in slow motion, he leaned into me, pausing so close to me that I could feel his warm breath on my forehead. I was completely frozen in front of him, I wouldn't have known where to move even if I could have. I felt his eyes on me, studying me, assessing the woman in front of him as I stared blankly at the collar on his coat. It was the only thing in front of me that didn't involve turning to see.

            With a sudden surge of bravery, my eyes darted up to his face, hoping to see what was coming, and sure enough, he was looking right back into them, assumedly as he had the entirety of the few seconds we had stood locked together in that manner.

            Having found whatever information he had been looking for, he very deliberately lowered his head and pressed his lips against my cheek, lingering long enough that a violent chill shot from those lips, straight into my toes, and back again.

            "Goodnight, Max," he whispered gently into my ear afterwards.

            He pulled back and smiled his best half smile at me, but I was at a loss. My jaw had dropped and I hadn't found the ability to close it again. I wondered if I could blink goodbye in Morse code, would he pick up on it?

            Very quickly, he placed his hand on my left shoulder, and ran it down to my wrist before turning and walking smoothly back to his car. I should have moved, I should have turned and waved, or at the very least, turned and walked inside as he pulled away, but I was completely incapacitated.

            No less than five minutes after his tail lights had disappeared, I managed to regain control over parts of my body.

            "Goodnight, Ben," I squeaked to no one.