Adam had been ten years older than me.
When I was little, I worshipped him.
He taught me how to ride a bike, let me sit in his room while he listened to music, and carried me home once after I scraped both knees.
Then, when I was nine, Adam died in a car accident.
Afterward, my family changed.
We rarely spoke about him because every conversation seemed to end with my mother crying.
Two years later, we moved away.
“You knew Adam?”
“He was my best friend.”
I searched Ben’s face again.
This time, something surfaced.
A teenage boy sitting on our porch.
Someone tossing a tennis ball against the garage.
A voice telling me to move while he and Adam worked on a bicycle.
“Ben?”
He smiled sadly.
“There you are.”
I covered my mouth.
“Oh my God.”
Ellie stared at us.
“You know him?”
“I did.”
Ben nodded.
