Today marks the year anniversary of the last time I saw The Kid. We weren’t completely done –that came in August –but today was our last visit. It’s a weird date to remember. When I texted him yesterday the significance of the date, he wrote back, “Oh, I am well aware.” He always did have an annoyingly good memory for details. Always made arguing with him such a pain in the ass – he would remember everything and I couldn’t twist the debate to my will. That shithead.

He called last night.

The conversation, for the most part, was ok. Slightly tumultuous when he expressed anger towards Baby Cakes and Sweets and their supposed meddling in our relationship and also when I became physically nauseous upon learning that she met his parents –I can handle talking to them as separate beings but them as an entity is still shaky ground –but for the most part, it was ok. Maybe even better than ok. Because a lot of the bad stuff was my fault. I was the one who asked.

I asked a lot of things.

“Do you think we would have been happy?”

“I think we met too early in life. You are [blah blah flattering words blah blah amazing blah], and I still think that about you. But we were kids, we took each other for granted, we had no idea what we wanted or what to do. I needed to be a train wreck the last two years to get to this place – and I am only starting to be ok with myself. But if our initial meeting was years from now, there’s no way I’d let you go.”

“A few months ago, you told me you had looked at rings last year. I would have said no, you know.”

“Oh, I know. But like I said, we met too early in life.”

A lot of the conversation was stayed safely on the surface. I never mentioned his voicemails from three months ago that told me he loved me; he never mentioned my “wounded animal syndrome” phase from the fall (ok, it lasted longer than that) where I was in so much melodramatic pain I wanted everyone to either a) ignore me while I faked death or b) hear my attention-getting wounded-animal cries, as annoying and pointless as they may be.

A truce was somehow reached. At least for the two-hour call duration. He was him; I was me. Without the drama, I reached a point where I understood what was going through his head, what happened, what had needed to happen. He had handled everything extremely poorly and had hurt me excessively more than necessary, but I understand that the end result was needed. After a year, it was nice to see him again.