"Hello?" I held the phone to my ear, heart beating in my throat, memories from two years ago flooding my mind.

"Ari?" Ben's voice, familiar and yet strange.

"Yeah?" I waited as the silence stretched one..two...three seconds too long.

"Um... It's Ben. Ben Shafer."

"Yeah," I said, "I know."

Time slid back into place. It had been two years since I'd last heard his voice, last seen his name pop up on my phone. For a moment, it had seemed like I'd been transported back in time, back to the days when my heart had lit up at that sight, that sound. Then, like a moving vehicle coming to a sudden stop, I was jarred back into place: a crash survivor awakening in a wreck of glass and blood.

"Why are you calling me?"

"I, uh... I'm in town for a few days, and I thought maybe you'd wanna catch up." He sounded tentative, almost painfully unsure.

I considered it. Seeing Ben again was bound to be awkward, but for once I wasn't keen on spending the evening alone, thinking about burglars. "Sure. What did you have in mind?"

He was silent a moment, probably surprised I'd agreed. "Dinner at La Tavola?"

His favorite Italian place. I nodded, then remembered he couldn't see me. "Sure. What time?"

"How 'bout six-thirty?"

"Okay. See you then."

I ended the call, nerves already crawling around my insides like ants on the move. Maybe this was a bad idea after all. My mind began seeking escape routes like a rat trapped on a sinking ship. I could wait a bit, then text him and say I'd forgotten I already had plans. Or not show up at all. He probably wouldn't blame me, with the way things had ended between us.

After almost a year together, Ben's patience had finally run out. He'd been frustrated; I'd been frightened. He hadn't quite assaulted me, but it'd been close. Then all of that had ignited into anger like a match dropped in a hay-barn, and our relationship went up in flames. Furious words were spoken on both sides. He said I couldn't be asexual because it wasn't a real thing: I was just hung-up, or repressed, or sick. I said maybe he should find someone who wasn't those things, and he'd agreed. We hadn't spoken again after that.

But up until that point, things had been good between us—or at least I had thought so. I enjoyed his company, enjoyed the time we spent together. I even enjoyed the physical contact, up to a point. I hadn't minded when he kissed me, held my hand, pressed against me when we sat together on the couch, or lay in bed. I just hadn't wanted more, and he had. Somewhat desperately, as it turned out.

By 6:10, I still hadn't given in to my cowardly impulses, and had dressed in dark jeans and my favorite button-down linen shirt. I'd showered, combed my curls into a semblance of style, and splashed on a mild fragrance. I told myself I wasn't making the effort for Ben's sake, but for my own. I had some pride, after all.

La Tavola was on the next street over, about two blocks away, so I walked. It was located on the lower level of an old brick building; a long narrow space with dark wood furnishings, intimate lighting, and small tables. A place to bring a date.

Ben was waiting on the street outside, his familiar close-cut dark hair and lanky frame drawing my eye even from a distance. He looked up from his phone as I approached, and a wide grin broke across his face.

"Ari! It's good to see you, man!" He reached out to draw me into a hug. I responded, albeit a little stiffly. "I was afraid you wouldn't come."

"Ben. It's good to see you too," I said.

He let me go and held me at arm's length, looking me up and down. "Wow. You're still a beauty," he said, tugging on a loose curl near my ear, and his smile turned a little sad.

His unabashed honesty was one of the things that drew me to him, originally. Now it made me feel self-conscious and exposed. I took a step back. "Should we go in?"

Seeming to remember himself, he let his hand drop. "Sure. I'm starving."

We went inside and asked for a table for two. The maître d' glanced between us, came to some swift judgment, and led us to a small, secluded spot near the back.

Another server came by, took our orders for drinks, and left us with a pair of menus. I perused mine, then looked up to find Ben watching me. "What?" I asked.

"Just... remembering old times," he said. "So, how have you been?"

"Good," I answered. "The museum's doing well, and my dissertation's on track. Not much has changed, to be honest."

"You're not...with anyone?"

I cast him a look as the waiter brought our drinks—wine for me, a dark IPA for him. "No, I'm not."

"Sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

I shrugged. "You can ask. What about you?"

He hesitated, but the corner of his mouth curled in a reticent smile. "Yeah. His name's Matt. He's not as pretty as you, but he's... I dunno. Fun."

"Huh."

"Not that you weren't fun," he hastened to assure me. "Just..."

"No, I understand," I said, and I did—at least a little. "So what's he like?"

"Oh, you know. Tall, athletic. He's a PR consultant, which should probably make him an asshole, but he's not. He's...nice."

"Nice is good," I said.

"Here, I've got a picture." He fished out his phone and brought up his photos. There was one of him and a sandy-haired man—Matt, obviously—on a beach; one of them laughing and holding hands; one of Matt by himself, standing on a ledge in hiking gear, arms outstretched. It was like a brochure for a perfect relationship.

An unexpected twinge of jealousy twisted in my chest. "He's handsome."

Ben smiled at his phone. "Yeah."

The waiter returned, and Ben ordered chicken Parmesan with spinach ravioli. I chose the manicotti.

While we waited for our food, we filled each other in on the last two years of our lives, careful not to mention the past except in vague terms. Ben told me he'd taken a job with a large publishing house, which was why he was in Santa Marina now, attending a conference. I told him about Uncle Theo's latest trip, and the parts of my research I thought were least likely to bore him.

The conversation flagged when our food arrived, and I wondered if we'd always had so little in common, or if one or both of us had changed more than we realized. We'd never run out of things to talk about when we were together. To be fair, I didn't think he could have spoken past the chicken and ravioli he was shoveling into his mouth: he hadn't lied when he'd said he was starving.

At last, he pushed away his empty plate and sat back with a sigh. "Sorry about that," he said as he wiped his mouth. "I didn't get a break for lunch." He eyed my half-eaten manicotti. "You gonna finish yours?"

That drew an unexpected laugh. I'd forgotten what a vulture he was. "No—go ahead." I pushed my plate across.

He took a few bites, then looked up. "Ari...there's a reason I asked you out, I mean, besides just catching up on old times."

"Oh yeah?" I asked, suddenly wary.

"Yeah. I want to apologize, you know, properly. For how things ended between us."

I shrugged. "It's in the past."

"Still."

He picked up his beer and took a long drink.

Then, seemingly out of the blue, he said, "Matt's sister is ace—that is, er, asexual."

I blinked and he rushed on before I could say anything.

"She's like a sort of social justice activist, you know. She runs this organization that fights for equality and representation and all that shit. Anyway, she's really great—I think you'd like her."

He'd gone very red, and for a horrible moment, I thought he was trying to set me up with his boyfriend's sister. I might not feel sexual attraction to anyone, but romantically I preferred men. Exclusively. He must have seen something of my thoughts on my face because he rushed on.

"I mean, I think you'd like her as a person. She's really driven and, well, she helped me understand a lot of things that I didn't really get before. I know you explained it to me a million times, but I don't think it ever really sank in. Like how sexual attraction is separate from libido, separate from love, separate from romance. And how a person can experience any combination of those things in any degree."

He took a deep breath and another drag at his beer.

"I thought because you wouldn't sleep with me, it meant you didn't really love me; and that because I couldn't touch you that way, it meant I couldn't really love you properly either."

"Ben... I don't blame you," I said slowly. "It's something I don't always understand clearly myself."

He shrugged. "Maybe. But that night, what I did—" he took another deep breath, "—what I tried to do, was inexcusable. I guess in my mind, I just wanted to prove to you that I wanted you, and I guess I thought maybe I could make you want me too."

Against my will, the memory of that evening surfaced: of being held down, of Ben's surprising and frightening strength, of the taste of fear. I shook my head to clear it. "Is it my forgiveness you want? Because you have it. It was one moment—one mistake. And you stopped, after all. You didn't hurt me."

"No, I did hurt you," he said, his voice quiet and tight. "I said stuff I still regret, even more than what I almost did. But yeah, I guess I do hope you forgive me. I know we can't undo the past, or get back what we lost. I just wanted you to know I'm sorry, and that I did love you. Does that mean anything?"

He watched me with an expression that left me in no doubt of his sincerity. "Yeah," I said, swallowing back an emotion I didn't want to acknowledge. "Yeah, it means something."

His familiar grin stretched his lips, and he laughed with relief. "You know, Ari, you're still the most beautiful, brilliant guy I've ever met. I know it makes me sound like some sort of obsessed creep, but part of me was always happy that at least if I couldn't have you, no one else could either."

I grimaced, then laughed to show him I took it as a joke.

I didn't know how to rescue a conversation after that kind of intensity, but apparently Ben had no such limitation. He returned to discussing his work and telling funny stories about Matt as if he hadn't just bared his soul over a plate of half-eaten manicotti.

The waiter came by and asked if we wanted dessert. We declined, and to my relief, Ben picked up the check. "Travel allowance, for work," he explained.

Outside on the street, the sky had grown dark. The wrought-iron streetlamps cast pools of yellow light on the sidewalk, and the shop windows glowed with seasonal cheer. It was only mid-November, but in a local economy that relied heavily on the deep pockets of wealthy tourists, no opportunity was lost to flaunt Santa Marina's historic charm. Below us, down the long sloping maze of streets, the ocean lay beneath a blanket of flat, purple fog that had rolled in with the sunset.

"I'd forgotten how disgustingly postcard-ready this place was," Ben said, gazing down towards the harbor.

Looking at his profile, I was struck with a sense of nostalgia. Against my better judgement, I said, "You want to come back to my place for a bit?"

He turned to look at me, studying me in the light that spilled from the front windows of Il Tavola. He shook his head, regret in the wry curl of his mouth. "I'd like that, but I have to give a talk at the conference early tomorrow morning, and I'm only half prepared. Besides, you know I hate your house." He convulsed with an exaggerated shudder.

I laughed. He'd always been terrified of Uncle Theo's collection, even though I'd assured him many times that none of the haunted dolls were homicidal.

We said our goodbyes and parted with a lingering hug. I watched as he walked down the street to hail a ride, then turned and walked the two blocks back to my house.

I was relieved to find the door had remained locked while I was out. A series of loud raps greeted me as I stepped inside, but rather than alarming, I found them reassuring in their familiarity.

"Hello, Pete," I said in answer.

The rapping ceased, and the house fell quiet. I locked and bolted the door, even going so far as to fasten the old chain for extra measure, then checked every window was shut and locked, and the curtains drawn. As an afterthought, I grabbed the silver-headed walking stick and brought it with me upstairs.

I changed into sweats and a t-shirt and settled down with my laptop to browse Netflix. On any other night, I would have done a few more hours of work, but dinner with Ben had put me in a strange mood, and I didn't feel up to the necessary concentration.

In a way, seeing him again, hearing what he had to tell me, had relieved something in me I hadn't even known was there. Some deep fear or conviction that because things had fallen apart with Ben, I'd always be alone; that no one would ever want or understand me for what I was. But it seemed like Ben had come to understand—too late, but nonetheless—and that gave me a kind of hope.

It was a feeling I hadn't felt in two years.