Westchester, 2030

Kids, the year after your mom died was the worst year of my life. I was sad, I was angry, and I didn't know how I was going to keep on living without her. The only thing that came even close was the year before, when we knew we were going to lose her. I, well, I wasn't myself for a long time, because she took a part of me with her. She left part of herself, though, in the two of you, and I wanted -and still want- to be the best I can be, for you. That took a while, and I couldn't have done it without your aunts and uncles. A lot of what happened that year wasn't anything kids could understand, but, as your aunts and uncles have been telling me for a while now, you're not exactly kids anymore. Your mom would be so, so proud of the young woman and young man you're becoming, and she'd probably tell me you're old enough to hear some of the things you've probably been wondering about for a while.

Before you ask, no, I do not want to go out on a date with anybody right now. I'm not saying that I never will, because that's a normal and natural thing for a single person to want. As much as I am always going to love your mother, and nobody is ever going to come up to her standard, not if I live to be a hundred, one thing that first year reminded me was that love is an infinite resource. I know your mom gave me enough to last the rest of my life, but that first year was a rough one, especially the first six months. before any of us found our bearings. Then we hit July. Did I say July? If it was July, then that would make it eight months. Or was it June? I know it was summer, because that's when I found the popsicles in the basement freezer. Before either of you get any bright ideas, I am going to tell you, right now, that I moved them earlier this morning. No, I am not telling you where, although there are not a lot of options, but I counted them, and if there are any missing, I will know where they went. When you're twenty-one, you can have your own popsicles, in your own refrigerators, in your own apartments. The way life goes, you're probably going to need them, or at least want them, at some point, but please indulge responsibly, and make sure you always share them with friends as good as your aunts and uncles.

You know what, it was July, because of the fireworks, and I do not mean only the ones on Independence Day. Now, I wasn't my best self, and I wasn't exactly present for everything, so I may have to fill in some blanks, but from what I've been able to piece together, the turning point was one night in July, no, wait, June. It had to be June, because it wasn't Canada Day yet. Canada Day, then Independence Day, then, no, I'm getting ahead of myself.
Actually, it all started on the day of the funeral, but that night in June was a fork in the road, that determined the course we were all going to take, only we didn't know it then.

Westchester, June, 2024

Robin tugs the strap of her sundress back onto her shoulder and pulls the patio door open. There's no breeze to cool off the night. She takes the elastic from her wrist and wrangles her hair into some semblance of a ponytail. Air on her neck is marginally better. Barney has already taken his usual position, leaning against the railing, jacket off, collar open, sleeves rolled back, his attention focused on something off in the trees. Maybe the neighbor's dog. Maybe their pool. He has a popsicle, a white one, at least as far as she can tell under the porch light. Popsicles aren't usually white, except for the coconut kind. She's not sure she's up to a coconut popsicle; too many memories attached to those.
"Hey." She takes her first step onto the patio and lets the door close behind her. "What flavor is that popsicle?"

Barney slides the popsicle from his mouth and extends the item in question toward her. "Gin and tonic."

"There aren't any such thing as gin and tonic popsicles."

"Uh, there are, if you pour gin and tonic into popsicle molds and stick them in the back of the freezer."

She can't fault his logic, but the past months of extra aunt duties brings her mind around to the most important consideration. "What if Penny or Luke found them?"

Barney shakes his head. "I put these bad boys in the basement freezer, behind the big bag of mixed vegetables. Kids are never going to look there."

They aren't. "I'm surprised you looked there."

Barney shrugs. "Necessity is the mother of invention. " He extends the popsicle to Robin. "Want to share? You look like you could use some."

Robin hesitates, then takes the popsicle. He's right. She could. "Thanks." She takes an experimental lick. He always did mix a good drink. "This isn't your last one, is it?"

"Pfft. Please. I got nine more. I made these while you and Penny were at that," he waves his now-empty hand in a vague gesture. "That thing."

"You mean Girl Scouts?" She probably should ask where Luke was while Barney was making adult popsicles. Probably. She files that question away for later.

Barney drops into the cushioned embrace of the glider. "If that's the one with the cookies, then yes. How'd it go?"

"It was Penny's first mother-daughter tea with her aunt, if that's what you're asking. She did okay. The other girls were nice. Didn't make a big deal of it." She takes another lick of the popsicle, lets the tangy bite of lime sit on her tongue. "Penny did ask an interesting question on the way back, though."

Barney grimaces and rubs at the back of his neck, his expression grim. If anybody understands what this afternoon was like for Penny, it's the guy who went to father-son events with a succession of uncles, or not at all. "If this has anything to do with becoming a woman, I don't want to hear it." One push of his foot sets the glider into motion. "Isn't she kind of young for that sort of thing?"

"By a few years, I hope." Robin repositions the elastic, hikes the ponytail higher onto the crown of her head. That's better. She doesn't care how it looks. "But that actually might have been easier to answer. She wanted to know if you and I are dating."

The glider stops. "Why does Penny think we're dating?"

She's going to have to sit for this, or she's going to lose her nerve. "Shove over."

Barney scoots over to the other end of the glider. He smells like sweat and citrus and fresh-cut grass, not that he actually does any of the mowing. Ted does the mowing, more often than the grass strictly needs, probably, but Ted needs to mow, so he does. A lot. Barney distracts Luke, to keep him out of the way, when Ted mows, because Luke is nuts for anything with a motor, including but not limited to lawnmowers, both riding and push. Ted has both, but Barney knows magic tricks, so the distraction works. The lawn guy will be here at seven to see if they can salvage what's left, or if they need to lay down an entirely new lawn. Barney is going to have to be the one to break that news, if there really is no fixing the original lawn. It's a guy thing.

That's tomorrow, though. Ted, Luke, and Penny are all in bed now, and it's only the two of them, Barney and her, the way it usually is this time on a Saturday night. "Because we always come out from the city together, we only ever take one car, and we always talk about who's going to stay at whose apartment so nobody has to go across town that late at night."

"Those are practical arrangements. We're the only ones who live in Manhattan anymore." He elbows her in the ribs. "Popsicle."

Robin hands it over. The tip of Barney's tongue flicks over the tip, near a sliver of lime. She could watch that all night. "That's what I told her, which was when she told me she saw you put your arm around me at the movies last night."

"How could she see that? It was dark."

"Maybe don't wear a white shirt to the movies next time?"

"Maybe, " he paused for another lick, "next time," and another, "I won't wear any shirt."

Robin aims a playful shove at his shoulder. "I don't think they let shirtless guys in their forties into Disney movies."

Barney is quiet for a long moment. "Yeah, that does sound creepy. Also itchy. Those seat covers are not meant for bare skin. Do not ask me how I know. It's enough that I do." He fiddles with the roll of his sleeve. "What did you tell her?"
She pries the popsicle from Barney's grasp and runs her tongue along the length. "That if she dropped the subject right then, I would take her to Sephora and buy her lip gloss."

"Did that work?"

"For about fifteen minutes. It was sparkly lip gloss. Strawberry flavored. I figured that would buy me more time."

Barney nods. "Sparkly strawberry lip gloss should get you at least an hour. What'd you tell her this time?"

A drop of melted popsicle runs down her chin. She dashes it away with the back of her hand. "I told her it's a grownup question and we would talk about it later. Then we got ice cream."

"If you got ice cream, you don't need a popsicle. Give." He motions for her to hand it over.

She angles herself and the popsicle away from him. "Gin and tonic popsicle, I do need. Go get your own. You already said you have nine others."

Barney settles back into the green and white gingham cushions of the glider and kicks off his shoes. He isn't going anywhere. That's a good sign. Probably. "Nah. I don't want to go all the way to the basement."

"Because Ted turns the lights off when you're down there by yourself?"

One corner of Barney's mouth twitches. He toes off his socks. They drop to the patio and disappear in the shadows. "I wasn't afraid, the first time. I was surprised. Ever since then, I've been playing along. He thinks it's funny, and I like to hear him laugh. I think turning off the light that first time was the first time he's done something for fun, since Tracy," he rubs at the back of his neck, and lets out a long breath, "since things got bad."

Robin's tongue hits a sliver of lime. "I think so."

"So, are we?" Barney's question hangs in the warm night air.

She could use some wind, something to whisk the sweat from her skin. A handkerchief, maybe. Barney probably has one. She could ask for it. She doesn't. That's not the most important question she has right now. "Are we what?"

"Dating?"

Robin has to think. Loaded word, that dating. "We haven't gone on any dates. "

"We've been out to dinner like a million times. We go out all the time."

"With Ted or the kids. Sometimes both. It's never just us." Family outings only, to the store, the pool, the library, the movies, museums, busy busy busy busy busy busy.

Barney opens another button on his shirt and fans himself with the fabric. "If you count snacks at rest stops, we have a standing date twice a week. So, twice a week, times," his face compresses in concentration, "I lost track of how many weeks. Every week, right?"

"Yeah, every week." Every week since the funeral, since the first time she saw him, stone-jawed and alone at the church door, the collar of his black wool coat turned up against the November chill. She doesn't want to count how many rest stop sandwiches they've shared, but it's become part of the routine by now. She never asks for his order, and he never asks for hers, because it's automatic now. One of them stakes out a table near the window and the other one gets the food, and then they talk, the way they used to talk, back when things were good. Those aren't dates, really. Those are rest stops. Time to stretch their legs, halfway between Manhattan and Westchester, or Westchester and Manhattan, depending on the direction of their travel. Time to get a quick bite and use the bathroom. They aren't dates. Neither are the breakfasts they make for each other when one of them sleeps over, the visitor always on the couch, never the bed. Neither are the hospital cafeteria lunches. Technically, she doesn't even eat at half of those. Coconut popsicles aren't technically food. "Think you could make a pina colada popsicle?"

"Easy," he says, a split second before the patio door creaks open.

Robin tosses the popsicle into the bushes.