Dear Ben

Dear Ben,

Today I saw you sitting on the bridge by the woods with a few other boys who go to that boarding school outside of the city. I remember them from seeing them at your house sometimes. You guys would play video games, while Ellen and I watched because we had nothing else to do. They're cute.

My mom and I were driving by to go to Sephora to buy some eyeliner for your dad's wedding tomorrow. I can tell that you're not excited for it. I mean, Ellen told me a few days ago that you are taking the wedding hard, that you're staying out later, and when you are home you sit at the piano for hours at a time trying to work out your frustration so that you don't "kill that dickface".

I understand, or at least I think I do to an extent. My mom and dad got divorced when I was 7, and my mom got remarried 3 years later. Which I guess isn't the same thing, but I know how it feels to be betrayed, or to feel like you've been betrayed, which Ellen says are two different things.

You know, I've always liked calming you down. That sounds strange, but when we were all little, and you, me, Ellen, and Alex would all ride bikes up and down the road near your house, you'd always fall, you had a hard time balancing. And Ellen would laugh so hard, the idea of her little brother getting hurt funny to her, and Alex was always afraid of blood, so he would just stare, wide eyes, clutching his handlebars. It was always me who had to run over, get your breathing under control, help you up, look at your cuts, decide if you needed a bandage or something, and then tow you and your bike up to the house. It seems weird that I am only 11 months older than you.

And now, 10 years later, and I'm still the one calming you down. Ellen didn't have to tell me about you being mad about the wedding, I found that one out when you climbed through my window last Tuesday, so angry, and you said "tell me one thing that you've never told me" and I laughed and said "what happened this time?". You paced around my room and told me that your dad told you that he knew about your mom being sick way before he told you and Ellen. You eventually stopped pacing when I touched your arm. "Secrets suck" you said and you rested your head on my stomach and laid every single thing your father had done in the last 17 years of your life on my bedroom floor. And we sifted and sifted through them, trying to make sense, not excuses, of why he did what he did, until our brains got so tired of analyzing and calculating, that we fell asleep on the carpet in my room.

I'm the one you come to with your girl problems, because dammit, we all know you have them with all of the girls that you have under your spell. It's that charm that you got from your older brother, I'd say your dad--when we were growing up, he was the coolest dad on the block, all of the moms had a crush on him--but lately it's becoming more and more apparent that he's losing it. Last week we sat in your backyard while Ellen was with her boyfriend in her room doing God knows what, and you told me how you were "completely over Rebecca". And my heart swelled up with the false hope that you always instill in me. That maybe, just maybe it was my turn.

That's one thing I never told you. I hate it, hate it, hate it because it's so cliche. I didn't want to like my best friend's little brother. I always used to tell myself that I didn't think you were cute when I'd pick you up from soccer practice when Ellen had work, and you'd have that fucking smile, that smile could win awards or cure the sick I swear, and your shirt was off, and you'd get in the car and retell these stories from practice, like they were the only things that mattered, scoring that goal, making that pass. I'd just laugh and nod and we'd speed through town with the windows down and the wind ruffling your hair.

And now I'm sitting at my computer with my cell phone in my hand, your number on speed dial, all I have to do is press send. I want to tell you so badly, but I won't. What will probably happen is we'll go to neighborhood soccer fields and lay on the grass, talking all night. Which I can deal with.

"Yeah?" you sound busy, I can hear you panting. In the background, "Ben?"

You're with a girl. I laugh, "Uh, sorry. Just looking for... Ellen. She won't answer her phone."

"I'm not home. So..."

"Oh, OK. Got it. I'll just try her again. See you, Ben."

I hang up.

Love,
Olivia

P.S. I wasn't looking for Ellen