I Guess You Could Call This a Love Letter

My sister would laugh if she read this. 

I can see it now–her eyes crinkling up, her mouth wide, her white teeth showing. She would snort at the humor in it all.

“Milly, that’s so dumb,” she might say, forgetting the number of unsent letters she’s written to boy after boy.

I can’t say I blame her; she’s simply not in my head. She doesn’t know what you meant to me, once. It’s impossible for her to know.

You might laugh, too, if you knew. Awkwardly, maybe, desperately trying to find a way out of the conversation, desperately trying to regain the casual friendship we once had–if it even was a friendship. 

Were we ever friends?

The first time I ever laid eyes on you, I was scrubbing ice cream off a wall. (Someone had forgotten the lid when making a milkshake. Might’ve been you, honestly.) As I jumped up and down on tip-toe to reach the drips of chocolate ice cream, the back door slammed behind you as you walked in.

You introduced yourself, holding out your hand and looking straight into my eyes. I was taken aback, having never met such a friendly teenage boy. I don’t know what I expected–shy awkwardness, I suppose. Like my own reserved nature. 

But no. We shook hands, exchanged names. We had to, after all. We were coworkers.

“My name’s Jack.” Your eyes shone.

“I’m Milly.”

First jobs bring first loves, I suppose.

(Here, of course, my sister would snort again.)

But that was the first thing I noticed. You were so friendly. 

And for the longest time, I convinced myself I did not like you. I wouldn’t allow it. Yes, I thought you were attractive. (Didn’t every girl there think so, too?) Yes, I thought you were kind. (You would do favors for everyone.) Yes, I thought you were empathetic. (Do you remember asking everyone how they were doing, every shift? You’d go round, sidling up to each unsuspecting employee, asking how their day went. There was something in that earnest voice of yours that made them tell you exactly how they felt. You cared.)

After a few months, it became too much. I was lying to myself. 

Did anything change, outwardly? No. At least, I hope not. I didn't want anyone to know. Word spreads fast in an occupation run mostly by seventeen-year-old kids. But, internally, I accepted that I really did like you.

A lot.

And that’s when I met my downfall, really–I began hoping.

Every shift that summer, I scooped ice cream and hoped maybe today would be the day you confessed your love for me.

(Delusion at its purest.)

There was that other coworker, Lilly, the girl you’d grown up with. You’d been best friends since childhood. She had a crush on you, obviously, and I must confess I held her in contempt–at the same time, though, we were in the same boat. I was just jealous.

Not that you reciprocated the feelings she had for you. No, instead you spent time with another girl–another employee. She had deep blue eyes and a gentle manner. You two would sit out back, petting the barn cat, talking. 

That summer was a little bit like a soap opera–unrequited love, secret friendships, rejection. You asked that girl out. She said no. Somehow, we all came to know about it.

Somehow, after that, you remained friends.

Do you remember the Christmas parties we had? I saw how you two looked at each other, even after the summer melodrama.

Those parties were fun. Now, I guess, I won’t see you at the next one.

But who knows? You tend to show up at the most random moments. Like the day after you quit. 

You had said it was too much. You got another job, one that gave you more time to focus on school. We are college students now, after all.

Do you remember talking about college and careers with me? 

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I’d said, leaning against the counter. “I really don’t.”

“You think anyone does?” you said, and I smiled sheepishly. “No one our age knows what we’re doing. You’ll figure it out.”

But you'd known. You'd told me several times. Nursing.

Now, in college, you’ve officially left us. 

You brought your new girlfriend in with you, that day you came in again. I ignored you both, mostly because I was too surprised to look you in the eye. I'd seen pictures of her, but even now I don't know her name. I wish I did. She seems sweet.

But you know what else? You know why I ducked away as the manager joked, (referring to me), “She’s confused”?

Because I want–

I want–

I want the best for you.

And if she’s the best for you? And you’re the best for her?

Then that’s what I want, too.

It’s been two years now, two of the longest years of my life. Two summers of wishing you could look at me and like me back.

Love me back.

Would you feel honored or offended to know that you were the first boy I’ve ever loved?

I could vent to you.

I could joke with you.

I could tell you everything, everything, except what I most wanted you to know.

Maybe it’s just the nature of brown eyes, but when you looked at me, I could truly believe you loved seeing my eyes, too. 

I’ve wondered, often, why I had to feel this way in the first place. Why couldn’t I push away the feeling? Why couldn’t I stop being attracted to you? Laughing at your dumb jokes and the funny faces you made? Why couldn’t I bottle up that achy feeling I got when you talked about how your family wanted you to marry a girl that had this trait or that one, and I was neither? Why couldn’t I toss that ache into the sea to churn the depths there rather than in my own heart?

Maybe it was so I could see how much I, too, am loved. 

Maybe it was to see how pure love really can be.

The last time we really talked, it was a slow day. Customers trickled in and out of the shop, smiling and waving goodbye when they left. The October rain pelted the asphalt outside, and the barn cat curled up against the window, his eyes heavy with sleep.

Someone mentioned my birthday was coming up. I forget who it was. Nellie asked how old I’d be.

Before I could reply, you’d said, “Nineteen.” 

We looked at you for a second. Not in shock. Just surprise. 

“What?” you’d said. “Me and Milly? We’re like this.” You twisted your fingers together to illustrate. 

Besties, as you would say, with that ironic kick and giddy grin. You had dumb jokes, but the way you delivered them was impeccable.

My sister never met you. Not formally, anyway. Everything she knew about you was solely from what I told her–not that I told her everything. 

She didn’t know how I would pray for you, how I would pray that this feeling would leave me, how I would pray that if you weren’t meant for me I’d lose all human emotion and miraculously lose the attraction I had for you.

I prayed–yes–I once prayed that you would love me.

So no, I didn’t tell my sister everything. I couldn’t.

She’d laugh.