I'm a nasty pervert. That's what I am. Ben's unhappy, looking to a friend for help, yet images of his research invade my brain. Ben watching 'Sleepless in Seattle', maybe reading 'Gone with the Wind', or a pile of bodice-rippers.

The picture in my head flips to me in my room, hand reaching out to grab a romance novel Ben's floppy hair falling over the clear-sky blue eyes staring at me from its cover, the other opening a drawer with...My pulse races. When was the last time I reacted to a man this way? A couple of months without sex and I'm hot and bothered at a mere mention of porn? I'm so not nun material.

"Amélie? Will you help?" His repeated question resembles a plea, and I didn't mean to make him beg. What's wrong with me? I lost my humanity. My compassion. It's a serious conversation, and he's being so honest. Too honest? There's absolutely such a thing as too honest. Not something I suffer from, but maybe I can put my failed relationships to good use and share what not to do.

"I don't know... I'm not sure." Do I want to help him? I need more time to make a decision. Latin doesn't seem so daunting compared to this anymore. "What do you mean by help, and am I the right person to provide said help?" I rub my face. "How about you explain a bit what you mean, before I'm one hundred percent on board with this."

His head swivels toward me. "You're in then?"

In what I'm not sure, but I find myself nodding. My subconscious decides I want to do this before my logical self does.

"You have the right to be aware of who you are dealing with." His hands are back to the rhythmic open-close-open-close, his eyes scan.

A door bangs closed below, but the steps move away and not to us. The library's staircase waits for us to spill more of our secrets. The lack of natural light and the seclusion provide a forced intimacy our walk and the store's parking lot lacked.

"The depth of my theoretical, and the dearth of my practical knowledge"—he's facing away, and I can barely hear what he's saying—"is out in the open, what else should we go over?"

Everything? Starting with how come some shallow girl hasn't snatched him up for his looks alone? Bad question. Not asking him that.

"Can we go down?"

"Right." He rocks on the balls of his feet. "I was going to show you something."

I hold the railing and pull myself up. "No running down the steps anymore though."

Ben waits until I reach the landing and we walk down one step at a time. They are marble with a black and white pattern. I run my hand along the smooth wood of the railing. I've always taken the escalators in the middle of the building and never seen a plan that showed this stairwell.

Am I going to help him fill out a dating profile? Sit in a booth behind him while he's on a date? It's something I would've done for Angie, if she'd asked, but that girl doesn't need any advice. Ben thinks he does. Why does he think I have the slightest idea about the dating world? Let's start with that.

"Why me?" We are circling in our downward spiral. "What made you look at me and say: that girl can teach me the ropes of dating?"

"You've had five boyfriends. So you've been through the process five times. Had dates with five people."

"I mean, I've had dates with more than five guys—"

"How many?" He jumps in before I finish.

Right, I guess I had it coming. How honest am I supposed to be? Very honest? Somewhat honest? Not honest at all? My normal level would be somewhere between 'somewhat' and 'not at all'. He seems to be 'very'. 'Very' it is. He did say he preferred the truth. "I don't know exactly, I'd say about maybe thirty, if I had to come up with a number."

His abrupt stop makes me wabble and grab the railing for support. I get down to the next landing, turn around and look up at him. He stands in the middle of the flight of stairs, not saying anything for a beat, then breathes out a long sigh, drags one hand through the disheveled mane, and asks me in a voice barely above a whisper. "You had sex with about thirty men, and you do not know exactly how many?" He sounds appalled, doubtful, and a little sad.

A nervous giggle escapes me. Sex with thirty men. I start laughing with the full-on belly-laugh that brings tears to your eyes. I wish. Or do I? The tears are for a change, not those of sadness and despair. Probably not thirty, that'll take up too much of my time. I bend over, wrap my arms around me, my ribs and cheeks hurting. I've no idea why I'm laughing, but I can't stop as the tension of the day and of Ben's revelations escapes me with every chuckle. I can't stop even though my laugh echoes up and down the stairwell, amplified and distorted.

I glance up at Ben pleading with my eyes to bear with me and let the laugh-spasm pass. I need to stop. Ben's probably more shocked by my crazy cackle than by my answer. And he was most definitely shocked by my answer. Breathe.

"Did I say something funny?" asks Ben.

I inhale through the nose and blow the air through my mouth. A couple more times and I can talk again. I stand up straight and wipe off the tears.

"Not what you said. What you thought. Becuase no, I didn't have sex with all of those people, but I went on dates with that many, yes." Maybe what he needs is data. "Most of them were first dates only. I'm twenty-five. I started dating at fifteen, so I have ten years of dating under my belt. That averages about three dates a year. And a lot of them were one-time coffee dates or blind dates or setups by my friends that never resulted in anything."

Ben's back to not looking at me. This time his eyes follow the railing up. I have a perfect view of the light stubble under his chin. "You've been using your time productively."

What the heck does he mean?

"If you think women who date are "getting busy", or whatever, we may've found a good reason for me to renege on my initial promise of help." I have exactly zero tolerance for bigotry. "Giving you the benefit of the doubt here. Why're you acting so shocked?"

Ben shoves his restless hands into his hair. "I just wasn't ready for thirty. I may be a bit jealous too. So how many people did you have sex with?"

No way. Nope. Not entering that minefield.

"Uhh, I'm going to put my foot down right there. I'm sure there's no need for me to disclose that number." He was jealous? I don't have time to ponder that before he fires another question at me.

"More than five?"

"I'm not playing that game with you. I don't think it's relevant information. I'm not a virgin if that's what you are trying to find out."

Ben turns away and walks up the steps to the landing above, then back down to the landing I'm on.

"When did you..." His voice breaks and he stops talking but keeps moving up and down then up again. "How old were you when you had sex for the first time?"

Not giving me a break here. He did tell me he's a virgin, so the question must matter to him. He isn't asking it for funsies. Truth. I wait for him to come back to my level.

"Sixteen."

Ben says nothing. He remains on my landing and goes back to rocking on his feet.

Metronome, that's what his rocking reminds me of. A waltz? No, I think that's one-two three. Dad would've known.

I look down at my sneakers. "I've never talked to anyone about this."

Ben's feet stop. "I realize I am too blunt with my questions." He says through his teeth, voice no longer calm or monotone. "I should apologize. This is part of the reason I've never asked anyone on a date. I tell people the truth, and I ask direct questions many find offensive. And the worst part is, frequently, I don't even realize I've done it or at least not until later when I see their reaction. I'm sorry, Amélie, I didn't mean to piss you off. I apologize."

His apology is sincere and I want to hug him, to tell him it's all right, I wasn't mad. I step closer.

"Ben, if we do this, if I'm going to be your dating advisor, I don't want you to apologize to me for every faux pas you are going to make. I'm sure there'll be many. We can't learn with a fear of failing." I long for his eyes to make contact with mine, but he continues to look away.

"Hey," I tug on his sleeve of his t-shirt. How do I explain this? "Let's make a deal. When you do or say something that's not advisable, that makes me mad or is inappropriate—I'll call you out on it. And you agree to take my advice best you can. In return I promise to always give you a chance to explain, no matter how angry I am. Deal?" I put my hand on his elbow.

"Yes," says Ben and stares at my fingers.

The muscles in his forearm relax. He reaches out with his other hand and covers the top of mine. Heat from this contact spreads to my chest and all over my body. "I appreciate it. And yes, that sounds good to me."

His skin under my fingers, his hot palm on top of my hand distracts me from his words. I slip my hand away and shove it into my armpit.

"I have conditions of my own," Ben continues. "First, let me apologize in bulk for all the stuff you are signing up for. Second, instead of telling me something vague, explain and allow me to ask questions. I learn best that way."

I smile at him. "I accept your bulk apology and agree to your conditions."

"Good. When it comes to social clues, things that are evident to you might not be so evident to me. I need you to be thorough."

"Ok. I'll do my best."