Every bone in my body wants to tell Ben that his BitScents idea is dreadful, but I’ve never seen the point in crushing anyone’s dreams. I’ve had plenty of bad ideas myself. The only ones that ever cost me serious money, heartache, or time, were ideas other people tried to crush, making me dig in that much deeper, trying to prove them wrong. Ben will figure out soon enough his talents are better applied elsewhere.

It’s hard to believe a confident, well-educated, street-smart guy like Ben is unemployed and spending his time barking up such an empty tree. I’d hire him. Maybe I should. Then again, that could be awkward having him around the office.

The ideas he’s putting into my head just sitting here with me in the park talking are daunting. I like him. There’s nothing I don’t like about him. That’s a first.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

I’ve been watching the sun set over the trees, lost in my own thoughts. I look around. It’s almost dark and the park is nearly empty. The sidewalk lamps have come on. Soon it’ll be too late to linger here safely. I’ve never been here this late before. I always leave well before sun down, but somehow, I feel safe with Ben.

“I’m thinking I should probably get home,” I say. “It’s getting late.”

Ben nods. “It’s getting dark, but not late,” he replies, gathering our trash. He walks them ten yards away to a garbage receptacle, then returns, offering his hand. “May I walk you home?”

I can’t help but smile. “That’s sweet,” I say, “but I live about a thousand miles from here. I’ll get a cab.”

“I thought the Amish were fond of fresh air and exercise,” he teases. “It’s still early, let’s at least walk part of the way. When you’re tired we’ll hail a cab.”

This part of the city is beautiful at night. We head out of the park, turning up Central Park West, staying on the park side. In just a few minutes we cross 72nd Street near the Dakota, which might be my favorite building in the city. There’s something about those old stone buildings that always captivates me. In Indiana, nearly every county courthouse looked like some version of the Dakota. Amish homes and work buildings are always plain, without any ornamentation. As a child I marveled at the beautiful stone buildings I saw in town, but I was told they were boastful, built to impress; prideful demonstrations of great wealth and worldly power. For a long time, I believed that, and still do to a degree, but I also recognize them as works of great craft. They’ve lasted, while glass and steel rise and fall without much remark.

I can’t help but peer up into the high peaked roof windows of the Dakota and wonder about the people who live there and what kind of homes they keep.

“Are you a John Lennon fan?” Ben asks, following my gaze up to the Gothic details of the building’s roofline.

“Not especially,” I admit. “I know some of his music. I know a little about him.”

“You’re studying the building,” he observes. “Most people who linger on the Dakota for any length of time are usually wondering about the place where he lived and died.”

I tell Ben what little I know about John Lennon, and that it’s more bad than good. He had a rough childhood; his mother surrendered custody of him, and his father wasn’t in his life at all. He married young and had a child whom he then abandoned to marry another woman with whom he raised another child.

“You’d think growing up the way he did, he would have known what it’s like to be left without a father, but he did the same thing to his first son,” I say. “Everyone I talk to thinks he was a saint, but he seems like a fairly selfish man to me.”

Ben is surprised by my summation. He says, “You’re the first person I’ve ever heard describe him that way, which is interesting, because I’ve always thought about the same thing.”

“Really?” I ask as we walk. “What made you think differently from everyone else?”

Ben’s expression becomes pensive, even guarded. Finally, slowing our pace, he says, “My mother either died or surrendered me when I was two and a half. I have no idea who my father is, or if he even knew I existed. I’ve been on my own, one way or another, for as long as I can remember.”

What? I stop walking, facing Ben. “You don’t have any family?” I ask, finding the idea almost incomprehensible.

He shakes his head, resuming our walk. “I don’t talk about it a lot. I don’t even know why I said anything.”

He looks a bit shaken, like a piece of his armor has peeled off.

“How did you grow up?” I ask. “Where did you live?”

“Foster homes,” Ben says. “A lot of different ones.”

We walk block after block and I lose track of time and distance as Ben reluctantly reveals his story. He’s never had a real family. He never had a mother hold his head when he was sick. He grew up fending for himself, without siblings, or grandparents, or anyone to show him how to be or who to be. He grew up alone.

As distant as I am from my own family, I still carry every lesson they ever taught me with me every day of my life. I have Grandmama whispering in my ear, telling me to be the best I can be, and my father always behind me, pushing me to work hard, to do the right thing. I have my mother in front of me, always reassuring me that I’m loved. My sisters and brothers, though they’re all grown now, some with families of their own, laugh with me in my quiet moments, reminding me not to take life too seriously.

Ben has none of that.

“You remind me a little bit of one of my foster mothers,” he says. “Her name was Stella, and I think she really cared about all her kids. She was kind and down to earth. She took no shit off us, but she loved us and listened, and she cared. There were four of us in her house when I was there. I was the youngest, at twelve.”

“How long did you live with her?” I ask.

“Two years, four months, sixteen days.” He smiles sadly, thinking about it. “She was sick. Eventually she got so sick the kids she was supposed to be taking care of were taking care of her. One day Social Services showed up and took us all away. She died a few months later.”

That’s awful.

We’ve walked for what seems like miles, and as I look around, I know my own neighborhood. I’ve managed to navigate us here by muscle memory alone. My doorstep is just a few yards ahead.

“Stella was the one who gave me books to read and who made me promise to go to college,” Ben says. “Without her, I probably would’ve wound up in jail, or worse.”

That seems hard to believe given how generally decent Ben seems upon closer inspection. He’s a good-hearted, honest guy with a lot in his background that could have made him angry. Instead, he’s chosen to be easy-going, forthright, and a gentleman with excellent taste in antique roses.

We’re so different in so many respects, and yet our differences seem to amplify our commonalities. I’m also an orphan of sorts. Aside from my mother, who has risked condemnation from the bishop to stay in touch with me, my family has no contact. I’m shunned. Father’s parents in Lancaster county won’t live much longer. One day I’ll learn that my parents have made their last trip to Pennsylvania or New York, and they’re never coming to see me again. If I showed my face in Daviess County, Indiana, my entire family—right down to third cousins—would be vilified by the Bishop in retribution for my sins.

I pause in front of my stoop. We’ve walked at least twenty-five blocks to get here. I pause, laying a hand on the wrought iron rail.

“This is my house,” I say, looking up at the narrow façade. “I can’t believe we walked the whole way.”

Ben smiles, looking up too. “This is a nice place. Not many of these old brownstones left.” He bites his lip, hedging. “I’m really sorry to see this night come to an end. I loved talking to you. You’re easy to talk to.”

I don’t want this evening to come to an end either. With everything I’ve learned about Ben, I realize I’ve gotten so many things wrong. I assumed so much based on his appearance last night, thinking he was some entitled boy from money who never had to fight for anything. He’s none of those things. He’s much more complicated than I imagined. He’s struggling to find his way. Maybe I can find a way to open my heart to him like so many people here opened their hearts to me when I first arrived, lost and struggling too.

“I have a bottle of really expensive wine that’s been growing old in my cupboard ever since my friend Millie got married two years ago,” I say. “I don’t drink a lot, but if you want to come in, I’d be happy to share a glass with you.”

Ben’s easy smile could light the darkest, most desolate country byway. His smile is something he doesn’t give up easily, so when it comes, it’s precious and all the more appreciated. It lights his steely gray eyes to glacier blue, softening his chiseled features to something altogether boyish. When he smiles, I almost melt.

“I could do that,” he says, beaming. “I promise not to overstay my welcome.”

After I open the wine, pouring a glass for Ben, I excuse myself to change out of work clothes into jeans and a t-shirt. When I come back downstairs he’s occupied studying a quilt I have framed in my living room, hanging behind glass above my couch.

“This is amazing,” he says turning to me as I approach. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

It’s the quilt my aunts made for me before I was born. My mother mailed it to me seven years ago, to remind me of my family ties. So much time and love went into making that quilt, and I know my mother and her sisters still love me, no matter what the bishop says. The quilt is a work of art, a thing of beauty. I had it professionally framed and mounted, and I consider it one of my most precious possessions. The church frowns on these kinds of displays of pride; they say quilts are made for warmth and nothing more. The women who make them know better. They’re stitched together with love.

I explain to Ben what it is and how it came to be. He studies it carefully, then turns, glass in hand, gazing down on me.

“They love you,” he says. “You ran away from them, and they still love you. That’s pretty cool. I don’t even have a picture of my mother. I have no idea what she thought of me. Your family made this thing in anticipation of you, and then they sent it to you to remind you how much they still care so you’ll never forget them.”

I never thought of it quite that way, but hearing it from him, I see it. My father defied the bishop too, coming to see me to meet my betrothed (even if my betrothed was a fib, he didn’t know that.) My father, even after all this time and all the disappointments, cares about me. He wanted to meet the man who I told them had claimed my heart. My father really does love me too.

I pour myself a glass of wine and settle on the couch. Ben settles beside me, facing me. We talk about lots of things, from favorite books and movies to politics. Then he turns the subject to romance and relationships.

“I know what you told me on the phone, that you don’t plan to get married or have kids,” Ben says. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t ever want to date, does it?”

I sip my wine, thinking hard before I answer.

“I’ve dated some,” I say. “In college more than now. But most guys do want to get married. People pair up. It’s natural. The thing is, with most guys I’ve gone out with, when they start to get more serious than I’m comfortable with, they either take it personally and get angry, or they try to convince me what’s right for me, which is, of course them.”

Ben smiles. “And so now you’re just sour on the whole idea?”

“Not necessarily,” I admit. “I guess I’m just waiting around for the right guy. One who doesn’t feel the need to own me.”

He nods, smiling slightly. “Well Sarah, I don’t think I could afford to own you, but I’d sure like to spend some time getting to know you better, in every way.”

The way he says it makes my knees weak and my heart beat fast.

Ben bites his lip again, which is distracting and attractive all at once. It makes me want to bite his lip too, and the thought of that makes me blush.

“I’d very much like to kiss you,” he says, fixing my eyes in his gaze, reaching out his hand to mine. “May I?”