Upon waking on Saturday, my nerves get the better of me. In the light of the morning, the plan for the day reveals glaring flaws. I open the fridge. Thinking about meeting Ben's parents dissolves the pangs of hunger that drove me to the kitchen. I shut the refrigerator, adjust the straps of the swimsuit underneath my clothes, and check the ratty swim bag one final time. It contains a beach towel, a hairbrush, a toiletry bag, my bra, and a set of underwear.

I check my phone. A text from Mom's there. My fingers hover over it. No. Just no. No additional stress today. Nothing would happen if I didn't read it. I'm starting to crave these morning texts. Reading them has grown into addiction. I want to see what Mom and my brothers are up to, what old photo Mom's found or what new one gives me a glimpse into the life I could've had. I want that life with her, with my brothers, with the trips to the beach, with laughter and the kitchen full of smells. Mom is smart and she's persistent. I can give her that. How much longer can I ignore her? Pretend to ignore her, more like it, because pouring over her texts but not letting her know about it isn't working as a strategy.

Am I ready to talk to her? Am I open to sharing my life with her? To mending fences? Am I? What would that even look like? My heart hurts and my stomach lurches when I think of her. The duality tears me apart. I want a Mom. I'm not an unfeeling monster. I don't want to masquerade as an orphan with a living parent around. But there are so many 'but's and 'what if's, so many possibilities it can go wrong. The emotional stamina needed to deal with Mom might not be something I have. Letting her in can be pure suicide. Being a lawyer suits her perfectly. It's impossible to win against her when she sets her mind. No. Just no. I grab my bag and my raincoat and hurry out of the door.

***

Parking at the Aqua garage is confusing at first. I should've asked Ben about it, but with too many other questions swirling around, this was another detail I didn't think of. ButI figure it out.

Me: i'm in the lobby.

Ben: I will be there in five minutes or less, grabbing my stuff.

The modern building is sleek and the feeling of being on display intensifies as I field the curious glances from the constant stream of residents. Their scanning of my plain long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans magnifies my growing sense of inadequacy. I shouldn't have listened to Ben. Why didn't I borrow one of Angie's more stylish outfits? If this is what standing in his lobby makes me feel, what'll be happening during lunch? The five minutes are up and my vigil is straining my already frayed nerves. I put on my lips-only professional smile assuring a new batch of judging looks that I belong.

A couple with a stroller steps out of the elevator, and I focus back on my anxious thoughts flipping between reconciling with Mom and the new pitfalls the lunch with Ben's folks can have in store. The man with an army cut pushes the baby carriage my way and stops too close to me.

"Amélie."

I glance up. Wholly-Moley. It's Ben. No freaking way. What happened to his hair. What's he going to tug on now? Why? How? I already miss the shaggy mess.

He points to the redhead in her thirties. "Please meet Jaimie, my boss, and this is Alex, her son." The woman in rain boots and a long raincoat has her hands on the stroller, where the baby is awake. His too-big-for-his face brown eyes stare at me as his mouth blows raspberries with ever-increasing volume.

My eyebrows refuse to come back down but I succeed at closing my mouth. "Hi, Jaimie." Ben did tell me about his boss, but it's not like I've ever expected to meet her and not here, in his building. He lives in the same building as his boss? "And Alex." I bend down to the baby's level, who takes it as an invitation to grab the loose strands of my ponytail.

"Oh, I'm so sorry." Jaimie pries my hair out of the little rascal's hands.

"Was Alex tugging on your hair too, Ben? Is that why you chopped it off?" I'm making light of the situation, but my sole and true goal is to find out what the hell happened to his beautiful blond mop.

Jaimie frees my hair from her son's grip and replies for Ben, who's helping her zip up the plastic cover over the stroller, encasing the little dude in a transparent bubble.

"Oh, Ben buzzes it off himself once a quarter. I've tried to make him go to my hairdresser, but he hates it when people touch his hair."

Ben nods in agreement.

"Ready to go now," Jaimie addresses the bubble, turns back to me, and extends her hand.

"It was nice to meet you, Amélie. Ben has told me so much about you. I better run before Alex starts to fuss, but I hope we'll see each other soon."

We shake hands, and I wave good-bye to baby Alex. Did all this happen?

Ben picks my bag off the floor, adds it to the small duffle hanging over his shoulder, and heads to the right of the elevator.

"The pool is this way." He leads us down the hallway and the unmistakable smell of a chlorine intensifies. "I frequently take Alex with me when I go for a run. Jaimie asked me if I could do it this morning, so I mentioned you, and I were going swimming, and she insisted on coming down with me to meet you."

Ben opens the glass doors into a large and empty room and drops our bags on the chairs in one of the alcoves around the two twenty-five-yard lanes. I don't want to undress first. It's best if I'm sure what to do. He steps out of his flip-flops, reaches a hand over his shoulders. I watch his every move. I need to know what the protocol is. Ben grabs his T-shirt, and drags it off in one smooth motion. His torso is exposed to the air and I'm envious of an element. I wouldn't mind being that air touching his skin. There's nothing sensual in Ben's movements. Quick and performed with practiced efficiency, they should not overstimulate me, but they do. Nothing he does is trivial.

The way he takes off his pants, balancing on one then the other foot, forces my breath into a frenzy. Even the way he folds both items neatly and put them onto the table, sends snowflakes down my spine. This cannot be healthy. The only thing I'm missing is suggestive music in the background to complete the picture in front of me. Ben, wearing shorts, is going to be the death of me. I swallow the saliva that pooled in my mouth. I'm a cliche and I know it.

His swim trunks end right above the knees. Unfortunately for my imagination, they aren't the baggy style you see on guys at the beach. No, these are the skin-tight black ones that don't leave anything to the imagination—the type I've seen professional swimmers wear at the Olympics. He must know he looks good enough to eat. I can't blame Linda for trying to kiss him. I could kiss him. But I won't. Friends. No benefits.

"You can put your clothes in your bag too." Ben's oblivious to the fact his naked chest and abs are permanently burned into my brain.

"And we can walk back in our towels. I do it all the time." The muscles move under his lightly freckled skin, as Ben puts his goggles on, ready to get into the water.