In my childhood, I used to ask my mother for trivial things that I wanted. “Can I have…” “Can we go…” Her answer was always maybe. More often than not, her maybe would turn into a yes. I began to associate the word maybe with yes.
I was in love at seventeen. His name was B. Our relationship was very different. We kept it a secret. I never told my family about him and my friends weren’t kept in the dark about many details that I refused to disclose. I was happy with this arrangement because it made him happy.
“Do you love me?” I said.
“Maybe.” he said and kissed me firmly on the lips.
I smiled as he pulled me closer. Being in his presence made me feel warm. He cared about me. He protected me. He made me feel safe. I knew that he loved me.
I was nineteen when he broke my heart. I could feel the distance between us. He pulled away but I resisted. He wouldn’t look me in the eye. He didn’t touch me anymore. He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. I should have known that this was the end. What did I do wrong? Was there someone else?
“Did you even love me?”
“Maybe.” he said and walked way.
I was twenty-two when I left Kansas. B was pushed to the back of mind. He was nothing more than a distant memory of heartbreak. He contacted me last week to ask me if I was enjoying Nevada. Mundane conversation to mask the fact that there was unfinished business between us. He kept asking if I was coming back or if I will be visiting on holiday.
“Will you be coming back?” he asked.
“Maybe.” I said.