Climbing to the Top of the Mountain

On reconnecting and rebuilding.

I spent hours agonizing over what I wanted to wear. What does one wear to drinks with their ex-boyfriend? I wanted to look good, but not too good. I wanted to look hot, but not like I was trying to look hot. 

I wanted to look like this time apart had been good for me.

The last time we truly spent time together was in the dead of winter, knee deep in a mud pit of relationship problems we couldn’t see the bottom of. Now it was June – my hair was long, my freckles were out, and therapy had lifted me out of the pit and lovingly cleaned the mud off my knees. I was rejuvenated, with a long list of things I wanted to apologize for.

I decided on a pair of jeans I wore nearly every day, a white linen strapless top, and a pair of Birkenstocks. Cute but casual.

We met at a cocktail bar around the corner from my apartment called Mayflower. It was small inside, maybe six tiny cafe tables, and the lighting was cozy and intimate. He was waiting for me at a corner table, tucked away from everyone else. My heartbeat seemed to slow and speed up at the same time. Big, pounding thumps in my chest. I could feel every pulse.

He looked good. Fuck.

He wore a short sleeved button down, and had a silver chain around his neck. More than anything, he looked happy and healthy. We hugged hello, genuinely excited to see each other.

This was not on my 2022 bingo sheet.

The conversation started out surface level – how’s your family? How are your friends? Are you planning on moving out at the end of the lease? Tell me how work is going!

The small tables forced closeness, but I found myself choosing to touch him anyway – knee to knee, a brush of a hand, thighs sandwiched together under the tiny tabletop. I was drawn to him, drinking in his way with words and his easy laugh. Instead of thinking of all the reasons why we didn’t work, I was reminded of all the reasons why I fell in love with him in the first place.

Soon the conversation shifted, and I refused to chicken out.

I took a deep breath and spilled all of the words I had been keeping on dusty shelves. I said everything that needed to be said. I didn’t have an ulterior motive, and I wasn’t hoping or expecting to get back together. I just needed to validate every feeling he’d had throughout our relationship. I needed peace. I needed forgiveness.

I was met with gentleness and understanding, a soft hand over mine and a symphony of thank you for saying that’s ringing through my ears. 

We had done the impossible – we’d finally climbed the mountain.

Afterward, I asked him if he wanted to come back to my apartment for another drink. I could feel his hesitation. I didn’t know what I was doing or why, but I decided to listen to the nagging voice in my head that said fuck it, just do it.

We ended up sitting on my little grey loveseat for a few more hours, sipping wine and swapping stories about things that had happened in our months apart. We’d dip in and out of conversation, both of us elated just to be in each other’s presence. Eventually, after mentally wrestling with myself over whether it was a good idea or not, I decided I wanted to kiss him.

I flashed back to our first kiss – hours of conversation on a different grey couch, sipping wine and swapping stories. The parallels were uncanny, but this time we had a graveyard of mistakes sitting in the air between us. “I’m not going to make the first move,” he’d told me back then. He didn’t that night, and he certainly wasn’t going to tonight.

I leaned forward. Again, hesitation from him. “Are you sure?” he asked, pulling back slightly.

I was sure. I was without a plan and without logical reasoning, but I was sure.

Our second kiss completely trumped our first – the butterflies turned into bird wings, the fire in my stomach burning every inch of my skin. My body welcomed him like an old friend, quickly finding all the grooves I had fit before. It wasn’t the excitement of kissing someone new, it was the excitement of kissing someone you never dreamed you’d get another chance with.

We didn’t know how it was going to work, or where we were going to go from here, but we both knew that our story was far from over.

Over the next year, we slowly rebuilt. We had countless conversations, dissecting all aspects of our relationship prior. We both continued with therapy. We fell back in love, this time in the summer. I like to think there’s some meaning there.

In April we pushed the key into the door of our new apartment. It had a big kitchen island for cooking dinners, and a beautiful yard for our dog. We sat in the backyard together, two glasses of red wine between us, and knew that this is exactly the way it was supposed to happen.

Then, we started to unpack.