Ok. I take it back. Ben's apartment building wasn't as intimidating as I thought. His parents have him beat.

"Did you used to live here?" I don't want to openly stare at the space but the modern opulence of the Ritz Carlton Residences makes me want to wipe up the lobby floor after myself as we wait by the elevators.

"Yes. We were one of the first to move into the building. Once Mom started homeschooling me, the school district didn't matter as much and she always wanted to live downtown."

"Did you downsize?"

"By one bedroom. My sister was in New York and Mom insisted she needed to have all the city has to offer at her fingertips or she'll go crazy staying at home. It's three-bedroom, so still plenty of space for the three of us."

The elevator takes us to the twenty-third floor where Ben opens the door of the apartment with his key and ushers me forward through a wide arched hallway into a vast living room.

Two men and a woman sit talking in a sparsely furnished designer-made space. A nasal voice of the golf commentator mixes in with their chatter—an oversized trendy TV stands in sharp contrast with the classic furniture. We must be interrupting something because three heads swivel in our direction, and cease their conversation.

"Ben, dear." An elegant woman, Ben's mom I assume, puts a short light grey strand behind her ear, restoring the symmetry of her sleek grey bob. "I didn't hear you come in." A colorful shawl with a long silk fringe drapes over her shoulders. She switches off the TV, gets up to greet us, pecks Ben on the cheek and faces me with a warm, gentle smile. Laugh lines frame her calm muted blue eyes. How old is she? Late fifties-early sixties? I should've asked Ben before we came. Everything about her is welcoming. I don't relax but I might, just might imagine a version where this lunch is not going to be a complete disaster.

"You must be Amélie. I'm happy to finally meet a new friend of Ben's." She leans forward, going for a hug, while I, at the same time, grab one of her hands and shake it.

"Nice to meet you—"

Shit. I don't know her name. I'm not in elementary school and can't say, "Hi, Ben's mom," so I glance over at Ben. Maybe he'd see the panic in my eyes and introduce her.

"You can call me Marguerite, dear." Her gentle hand grazes the top of mine while I continue to shake hers. She could've been the horse whisperer, and me a spooked mare she's lulling into trusting her.

"Let Ben help you out of your rain jacket, and I'll take you to the men."

Ben slides my coat off my arms and picks up the bag with our lunch.

"I'm going to get the food on the table before it gets cold," Ben says over his shoulder and turns toward what appears to be the kitchen. Not again. First Linda, now his mother. Luring me to new places and then leaving me to stew in the awkwardness of small talk with a stranger? But Marguerite isn't Linda. With a gentle hand on my shoulder, she guides me into the living room.

"This is my husband, Max." She points to the sandy-grey-haired man in a stiff-collared blue shirt and gray slacks who's sitting in one of the armchairs.

Marguerite heads his way, gesturing for me to follow. He must be older than her, maybe seventies? With little kids, I can make a mistake and be off by a year or two. Much easier to recognize who is one and who is five. With older people, I can't tell sixty-five from seventy if my life depended on it.

"Welcome to our home, Amélie," says Max.

The vibe I get from him is the opposite from his wife's. I stop by his chair but he makes no attempt to hug me or shake my hand. The unease that Marguerite has soothed is back. Are we in a standoff? A flash of electric blue from behind his frameless glasses reminds me of Ben.

"Thank you for having me. Your place is beautiful." I can be formal too. I wasn't raised in a pigsty.

Max doesn't reply. Silence lingers. This is who Ben learned his small-talk skills from.

"So beautiful. The molding and the high ceilings." I give it another try. How big was their previous place if this is downsizing?

No response.

Marguerite comes to my rescue and motions to the older gentleman, who's perched on the couch behind the glass coffee table. His long skinny legs and torso make the delicate pieces of furniture appear child-sized.

"And this is Tall."

Aha. The infamous Tall. Things are getting interesting at last.

"Enchanté," he greets me in French. His straight back is rigid, and an impressive grey beard makes up for his bald head. "We've all heard about you."

Interesting. But not the kind of interesting I was hoping for. From Ben's description of Tall I expected heat and passionate debates. What I'm getting are glacial Arctic vibes. What have I done wrong already? Why does he treat me as if I killed his pet bunny? The way he looks me over holds as much welcome as Max's silence. I hand-comb my messy waves, and stretch my lips in what I try to pretend is a friendly smile.

His examination moves from my head to my t-shirt that should've been a dress or something less...me. When his eyes land on my sturdy boots, I zero in on the feeling this gives me. I'm nothing but a mare from some dodgy third-rate stables and these wealthy buyers are appraising my fitness to breed with their stallion's excellent bloodline. I half expect him to come over and check out my teeth. Dad paid for my braces, so my teeth are one of the things I'm not ashamed of. But Tall knows Linda. In comparison with her swanky appearance mine must be a huge disappointment. Can I go home now?

"Food is ready," Ben shouts from the kitchen.

"Let's eat then." Max gets up and heads out of the living-room.

We file into the kitchen in a straight line like kindergarteners: Max leads the way, Marguerite follows him, I trail behind her, and Tall closes the procession. Ben put the food on the large white marble kitchen island. We dish it out ourselves and find our places at the mid-century-modern table. No servants. That's a relief.

I sit on the long side with Ben to my right and Marguerite—the friendly one of the bunch—at the head of the table to my left. Tall sits across from me, and Max across from Ben. No lively conversation ensues. The men throw intermittent glares my way as they dig into their salads and ravioli. Those are delicious. The brown butter sauce will forever remind me of what Ben tasted like when I kissed him. The thought brings heat into my cheeks. We should've skipped this stiff affair and spent the afternoon at his place. That kiss was such a promising beginning. Lost in my kissing-Ben-dreamland I forget to chew and almost choke on the food.

"Are you OK?" Ben puts his hand on my back. The warmth of his palm seeps through my t-shirt and my pulse speeds up.

"Yep."

His fingers draw a slow circle as his gaze lingers on mine.

"OK then." He brings his attention back to his plate.

No one speaks, and the room is quiet enough for everyone to hear my teeth crunch the salad. My unease morphs into dread. Have I ruined their weekly lunch or is it always this dead?