One forgiveness delivered. One more to go. Wrapped in my dad's robe, I take a notepad, a pen and write.

My plan is to leave Chicago.

The ink brings my intention to the surface, and I stare at the words. On paper, they are so much more real and scarier at the same time. Nothing about this statement is easy. I add bullet points underneath: wait for the results of the interviews, finish the thesis, and pass the defense. Graduate. Keep earning and saving up. Find a place to live in France. This represents what is on my plate a lot better.

Where would Ben fit in all this? My three jobs leave me no free time. I'm not looking for a long-term relationship. Yet, the last month has been the best one since Dad died, and Ben is the reason for a lot of it. Can I enjoy the spark he brings into my life? If we set the timeline and the boundaries, enjoy this time together and then go our separate ways—I can do that. I find Ben's name in my phone and text him.

A: can you talk?

Ben replies right away.

B: Of course. Do you want to come back over to my place?

There's no way I'm getting out of the house or out of my robe for that matter.

A: you come here.

Please, don't be busy. Please.

B: I am on my way, text me your address.

My invitation isn't a flirty 'come over.' I don't remove Dad's robe, don't clean up my bedroom, and don't attempt to look put-together.

My concession is to make a fresh pot of tea for both of us. It was Mom who started me on teas, the habit that in recent years grew into an obsession. Although she's quintessentially French, Mom loves British high tea traditions. One thing Mom and I had always agreed on was that tea made most any heart-to-heart easier. The shrill of the doorbell announces Ben's arrival. Tea cannot make the upcoming talk with Ben effortless, but nothing can.

"Your building is...old?" Ben looks around my relatively standard, nine hundred square foot two-bedroom one bath corner unit. Scholar's Corner is the opposite of Ben's building and looks shabby at best compared to the luxury of his parents' residence. In my defense, the rent is cheap.

"Yes, most definitely. It was built in nineteen twenty-nine, but it's well maintained and clean. It's also on the National Register of Historic Places." My hands are cold and sweaty at the same time. This conversation is ridiculous, but I can't come up with anything better than spewing out random trivia about the building to put off the inevitable. "And it's only a half-hour to walk to UChicago's campus. And look at the view."

I lead Ben into the living-dining room and gesture to the panorama of both downtown Chicago and Lake Michigan. He doesn't seem to object to my delaying tactics.

"Do you walk by the lake? It looks like there are some good trails there." We are talking as if I am a realtor showing him the apartment for rent. Both of us refuse to get to the point of why we are there. "Next time"—he's thinking about the next time? —"when the weather improves, I can drive over to your place, and we can walk along the lake." Ben balls his hands into fists, his shoulders tense. His attempt at sounding interested in our gratuitous chit-chat doesn't fool me. I know him well enough to sense his discomfort.

I point to the pot and two mugs on the counter. "I made tea." And a speech. Tea first—speech later. I wipe my palms on the plaid of Dad's robe. The contact with the familiar fabric brings me a modicum of calm. Why is this so painful? "We should get to it Quite a lunch, huh." I tighten the red plaid robe around me and fill my cup.

Ben follows suit and pours some steaming hot brew into his. "The lunch didn't turn out how I thought it would." Ben's attention is on a single tea leaf floating on the surface. "Tall overstepped." Ben squeezes the mug so hard he might break it. "And my father is not a rude person." He takes a gulp of the still-hot liquid. It must burn, but he swallows it through the grimace.

Should I bail him out and tell him I already forgave him? That he isn't in control of his parents' behavior? I should. And I will. Soon. I let my hands warm on the ceramic walls and take another sip of my tea.

"It does not excuse him, but he was following Tall's lead." Ben puts the mug back on the counter, and just stands there in front of me. The pained expression on his face and his stiff body radiates uneasiness.

Neither of us speaks. I'm becoming quite versed in the plethora of things Ben's silence communicates. This one is a 'Do you accept my apology?' silence.

Ben looms, eyes on me, waiting for me to say something. The tea in my hands smells of blackberry. One last sip? No. It's time to put us both out of our misery. I return my mug to the counter.

"I understand. You didn't lie." Starting with the positives. "But I didn't see this one coming. You knowing Xavier—that blew my mind." The words I prepared in my head disappear. I get off the barstool and stand inches away facing Ben, yet there is an invisible solid wall of ice between us. I close my eyes, I speak to Ben through the silence, longing for the giddy happiness of that morning at Ben's apartment, remembering how close and comfortable we were in each other's presence.

Ben's first kiss, sweet and brief, lands on my forehead. Then, I feel his warm lips one on my closed eyelids. Heads touching, our shared breaths melt the frozen barrier that separated us. Our bodies combine: fingers to fingers, palms to palms. His lips make their way to mine. The slow, sad kisses are our apologies and our forgiveness.

My head finds shelter in the crook of Ben's shoulder, hands intertwined by our sides. After the turmoil of this afternoon my body is calm for the first time. The hurt didn't disappear, but it's muffled and far away. I'm going to be okay. We are going to be okay

"I'm sorry too"—my apology is labored and rusty— "I wasn't ready to tell you about Dad. It hasn't even been a year—"

"Shhh, you can tell me when you feel up to it."

Feel up to it. When. I've waited long enough. For Ben to get me, to understand where I'm coming from, he needs to know about Dad. His story is a vital for Ben to learn. One for me to tell.

"His name was Paolo, but he went by Paul." The words pour out.