God save me from twenty-year-old college students, Ben thought. “Well, it’s a treat, anyway,” Ben corrected her. “It’s only a gourmet treat if you wash it down with chocolate milk.”

Joni cringed. “Don’t make me barf, Ben, okay? I’m trying to fix a meal here.”

Ben watched quietly as his tenant and part-time handyman (handywoman?) set the table. She was looking good these days. Of course, she always had, but even more so tonight. Ben suspected she’d been visiting the gym, although how she fit that in with going to TU full-time, working part-time, and helping her divorced mother manage her much-too-large family, Ben couldn’t imagine.

When she was finished, Joni fluffed her curly hair behind her head, took a seat at the table, and instructed Ben to take the one opposite. Ben picked up his fork and started toward the lasagna.

“Who’s going to say grace?” Joni asked.

Ben froze. He made a coughing noise. “Uh… perhaps you… should…”

“Fine.” Joni bowed her head and clasped her hands. “Good bread, good meat… good God, let’s eat.” She giggled. “Amen.”

Ben cocked an eyebrow. “I’m not familiar with that particular catechism. Did you learn it in Catholic school?”

“Oh, yes. But not from the sisters.”

Ben scooped up a large helping of the lasagna. He wasn’t remotely hungry-Cap’n Crunch is deceptively filling-but he knew Joni had gone to a lot of trouble for him.

“This is excellent,” Ben told her. “Is this an old family recipe?”

“Yes, but I’m the only one who makes it anymore. Mother just buys the frozen lasagna tins at Sam’s. It’s sad, really.”

“Agreed.” He took a second helping. “So, how’s school? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Mind you asking? If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t even be there. And I’m doing great. But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.” She paused. “I’ve got a favor to ask.”

Uh-oh. Was this where he paid for the pudding? “And what would that be?”

“You remember me telling you about Milo?”

Ben nodded. “New boyfriend. Very intellectual. Likes to rattle on about Kierkegaard and the works of William Faulkner.”

“Yeah. Well, see… he’s got this sister…”

“Ye-es? Some people do.”

“Yeah. Well, her name is Brita and she’s very nice and smart, too, and Milo has been wanting to double-date with her ’cause there’s this play they’re doing at Theatre Tulsa they want to see, except she doesn’t have anyone to go out with right now…”

Ben put down his fork. “Ye-esss?”

Joni drew in her breath. “So, we were wondering if you would maybe come with us. Just to make it a foursome.”

He gave her a stern look. “Joni Singleton. Are you trying to fix me up?”

She waved her hands in the air, a bit too energetically. “No, Ben. Nothing like that. It’s just that there’s this play we want to see, and I know you like plays and all that cultural stuff…”

“Uh-huh.”

“And she’s older than Milo, so she’s actually closer to your age.”

“How much older?”

“Like… almost two years.”

“So, I’d only be, say, a decade older than her?”

“Well, a little more than that, actually, but what does it matter? It’s just a play.” She giggled nervously. “So what do you say?”

“You want me to go out with a woman who’s barely old enough to drink?”

“She can drink chocolate milk, so what do you care?”

“I don’t think so, Joni.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m too old for her. I might as well be dating you.”

He had meant it as a joke, but for some reason, the instant he said it, the table conversation went dead. Joni coughed into her hand. Ben wiped his mouth with his napkin. They avoided one another’s eyes.

“Now that really would be ridiculous,” Joni said finally, her voice a bit warbly. “But like I said, Brita is older than I am.”

“Joni,” he said, “The Beale trial starts Monday morning. I’m very busy right now.”

“Busy with work, yeah. But you can’t spend your whole life working. You never spend any time hanging with girls.”

“That’s not true. I hang with girls all the time.”

“Like who?”

“Well, Christina, of course. And… and… well, Christina takes up a lot of time.”

“There’s Christina, and there’s me. And unless I’m missing something, you’re not dating either one of us.”

“Forgive me, Joni, but this is none of your business.”

“I know it’s none of my business, Ben. But I care about you. I’m sorry, I know that sentimental stuff makes you uncomfortable, but I do. You’ve done so much for me. I just wanted to do a little something for you, you know?”

“Like cleaning my apartment?”

“More than that.”

“I’m perfectly able to meet women on my own.”

“Oh, sure, I know you are. In theory. But I also know that you tend to be a little shy and backward-”

“Backward?”

“I mean, not mentally. Not that you’re stupid, exactly. But, like, socially. You tend to be a little…”

“Backward?”

“You know what I mean.” She slapped her hands down on the table. “So what do you say, Ben? I really wish you would come. I think we’d have fun.”

Ben chewed his lower lip. He could think of about a thousand reasons to decline, but somehow, when he peered into Joni’s big brown eyes, he couldn’t make himself do it. “If I can get away from work, I’ll join you.”

“Yippee! Oh, Brita’s going to be so excited. I’ve told her all about you, how smart you are, and talented, and erotic-”

“Excuse me?”

“Okay, so I improvised a little. But she’s going to be so happy!”

After Joni cleared the table and wrapped up the leftover lasagna, of which there was enough to last Ben a month, which was probably Joni’s plan, they set a tentative date. Joni glided out of his apartment.

As he fed Giselle some of the leftover lasagna, his mind inevitably drifted back to what Joni had said. Backward? Was she right? Was that why he was still alone? Was that why he wasn’t seeing anyone seriously? Why he really hadn’t seen anyone seriously for any length of time-since Toronto and Ellen?

Ellen. She used to haunt his dreams. And now she haunted his nightmares. He could never forget. No matter how hard he tried.

Was that the problem? Or was it just his natural reticence? His wariness of other people. Because after all, other people were nasty. Could be, anyway. He smiled when he recalled where he had first heard that. Because, against all odds, he had first heard it long ago, when he was not yet even a teenager.

And he had heard it from a priest.

Father Beale, the much younger, beardless version Ben had known twenty-three years before in Oklahoma City, tried to counsel him. They were sitting in folding chairs set up in the back of the sanctuary for the choir. It was just the two of them; no one else was around.

Father Beale peered down at the twelve-year-old boy. “So, you’re saying you don’t want to participate in acolyte training?”

“No,” Ben replied quietly. “I don’t.”

“And may I ask why?”

“Because I don’t want to be an acolyte.”

Father Beale tilted his head. “Flawlessly logical.”

“Why does everyone think I have to be an acolyte, just because I’m twelve?”

“It’s traditional. A time-honored rite of passage in our church.”

Ben squirmed. “Well, I don’t believe in all that church stuff, anyway.”

Beale’s forehead creased. “Are you telling me you’re an atheist?”

“No,” Ben replied. “I’m a nihilist. There’s a difference.”

“I see. A twelve-year-old nihilist. Interesting.”

“I hope you won’t repeat that to my parents.”

“Of course not. Priest-communicant privilege.”

“Good. I’m not sure they’d understand.”

“Probably not.” Beale’s eyes turned toward the rafters. “Especially not your father.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing really. Except that I’ve noticed that you and your father are… well, what’s the phrase? Not exactly a perfect match.”