“You can’t catch me!” the smaller boy shouted.
“Oh no?” Pete picked up speed and scooped the boy into the air, the football dropping down onto the grass. The little boy shrieked with delight.
“That’s a tackle,” Pete said, setting the boy down and tossing him his ball.
Libby wondered who they were, and a wave of anxiety rushed through her veins. Were they his children? Did he have a loving wife at home, and his own family? Pete looked so comfortable with them, so happy. She’d seen that playful side to him as kids, but to see him as a grown man, the kind way he handled them, hit her hard and made her feel like she was missing so much more than what she’d already lost.
“When’re you gonna set up that swing for us?” the lanky one asked.
Pete stopped, as if pondering the question, but noticed Libby and, for the first time in twelve years, she saw that smile. He hadn’t been smiling at her; he’d smiled for the benefit of the boys, but she didn’t care. The sight of it caused a flutter that started in the pit of her stomach and rose all the way up through her chest. The two boys looked her way; they seemed to just now notice that she was there.
“Who’s that?” the small one asked.
“That’s Miss Libby. Miss Libby, this…” he tousled the boy’s hair, “is Thomas, and this…” he gestured toward the tall, lanky one, “is Matthew.” Then he looked back at the boys. “This is Miss Libby’s house now. Pop doesn’t live here anymore.”
“Are you going to come over still?” the taller one asked.
Pete glanced over at Libby. “Maybe,” he said, his face turning serious before looking back to the boys.
Libby knew what Pete meant by “maybe.” They used to joke about it when they were young. Whenever he wanted anything from his mother that she wouldn’t let him have, to quiet him, she answered, “Maybe.” He used to say, “My mother has three answers: yes, no, and no, but she calls the second ‘no’ maybe.” Because of this, Pete and Libby always used to say “maybe” instead of “no.”
Another memory came back like a flash of lighting. It had been years since she’d thought about it. Pete would pin her down, kissing her relentlessly, tickling her, and she’d scream, “Let me go!”
He’d tighten his grip on her, that smile across his face, and, just before kissing her again, he’d say, “Maybe.” She’d squeal and wriggle underneath him until he finally loosened his grip and let go of her wrists so she could wrap her arms around his neck, still giggling. She wondered why that particular memory had surfaced. There were tons of times they’d used “maybe,” but it was that time that she’d remembered.
Even though Libby knew that it was probably better that way, she still felt a little sad when she heard his answer to the boys. She shouldn’t have him around though, because it would just make leaving too hard if they became friends again before she left for New York.
“I have to help Miss Libby now. Can I catch you two later?”
The boys ran off, the lanky one waving at Pete and the little one tossing the football into the air. They ran down the gravel road adjacent to the cottage.
“Who were those boys?”
“They live down the beach. The next house up. I promised them a tire swing about a week before Nana died—like the one we used at Catherine’s house.”
She remembered him pushing her so far out over the water that the tickle in her stomach had almost made her lose her grip. It seemed like so long ago.
“But with Nana gone and Pop…” He looked down at the ground and scuffed his shoe along the loose dirt. Libby could tell by his demeanor that he was dealing with something. Seeing his face like that made her want to protect him, help him through whatever it was.
“Leave the boxes. Come in. Tell me about Pop. I miss him so much.” Why had she just asked him to do that? It went against everything she should do… By getting closer with him, she was making things more difficult than they had to be, and she was afraid it might hurt again when she left.
“I can’t. I really have to go,” he said, and she could tell that her concern for Pop had softened him a little. He knew as well as she did what Pop meant to her. “Let me get these boxes out of the car for you, and then I’m off. I have to check on Pop. He’s been alone all morning and sometimes he thinks he can take a walk when he’s been by himself for too long. He forgets…”
“He can’t take a walk?”
“Not when he doesn’t remember how to get home. He has dementia.”