Dear Ben

Dear Ben,

Boston in the spring is one of your favorite things. You tell me this as we walk through a park, under blossoming trees, near young kids.

You called me yesterday, apologizing, asking to see me. I accepted, I could never say no to you.

We pass two teenagers kissing, heatedly, their arms grasping each other as if they loosened their grip the other one would float away with the pollen in the air. Which is sort of how I feel right now.

"That was supposed to be us," you say and my breath hitches. We keep walking like you didn't say anything. All I think about is how yes, that was supposed to be us, still could be us if you wanted it too. And of how it's close to 65 degrees and you're wearing a wool jacket. I brush my hand over your arm as we sit on a bench.

It's quiet, only the sound of birds chirping, the distant sound of children shrieking, wind blowing. For a few minutes we don't say anything; just sit there. Then, "We never even kissed."

And I know this. You act like I don't fucking know this.

I stayed quiet. I didn't know what to say.

I look at your legs, you've lost a lot of weight. And the thing that makes me so sad, sadder than I've ever been before, is that you can't run anymore. I don't know the last time you ran. It scares me.

"Can," I say, my voice is scratchy so I clear my throat, "can you take me home?"

--

This wasn't what I meant by home. I meant drop me off so I could crawl under my covers and cry. I didn't mean walk me to my door and then invite yourself in and then lock the door to my bedroom and start kissing my neck.

I can't think with your lips on my collarbone. I try to push you away, not because I want you to stop but because I want to ask you

"Why?"

"Why what?" you retort and then go back to trying to unbuckle my belt.

"Why now? Why not a few weeks ago? Why do you care now?"

"I don't know what you mean," my belt is unbuckled, my shirt is around my neck.

"Why are you doing this now?" my voice sounds panicked and I feel dizzy.

You stop. Your hands stop fumbling with my bra strap, you stop kissing my neck. You look into my eyes. Something clicks. You wrap your arms around me as tightly as possible.

"Olivia," you start, moving us to the bed where you pulls down the covers and pulls us down onto the bed. "I'm sick. You know that."

I start crying. I can't stop, my eyes blur. You frown, "I-I've known for about 6 months. I really, truthfully know that this is a bad time to bring this up, but remember when I'd be upstairs in the family room playing piano?" I nod, "And you'd be downstairs with Ellen watching TV, and Ellen would yell up for me to stop pounding on the keys so hard? Did you ever listen to the songs that I was singing?"

I shake my head, no. I didn't.

"Fuck, this sounds pathetic. Olivia. You're way too good for me," you look up at the ceiling, "I had to fall for my older sister's best friend, didn't I?"

And then it's quiet again. Just like at the park, except for my sobbing. I don't know if you want me to say something, or if you're just pausing, so I take my turn to speak.

"I love you, Ben."

"I'm dying," is what you say, and I know that.

We lie there, on my bed for along time, you holding me.

As I'm drifting off I feel you kiss my temple and whisper, "All those songs that I wrote were for you."

Love,
Olivia

P.S. I think deep down I knew the songs were for me.