I knew it couldn’t be good when, in the middle of a rousing round of Scrabble with my cousins, I heard the familiar song ring out from my cell phone. (”Hey There Delilah,” if it helps paint a better picture.)

“Hello?”

“Hey, where are you?”

“At my parents, eating dinner.”

“Well, call me when you get back to [City A] and can talk.”

“I’m not going back tonight.”

“Well, call me when you can talk then.”

“Why, what’s up?”

“Just call me when you can talk.”

[Resigned sigh] “Fine.”

I proceeded to finish two slices of pizza, excused myself from Scrabble apologetically, found The Ex’s number in my list and hit Call on my cell. While it rang, I braced myself for the irrational accusations I knew were coming. And did they ever come. For two hours, MIG fielded emotionally charged declarations of my being Insensitive, being cold, uncaring, moving on too quickly and the like.

And then, a curve ball. After all the distaste over my Getting Out There, getting to know new people, I’m blinded-sided with “you never gave us another try” and a string of sad, genuine and wistful notions about second chances.

After three months believing someone didn’t care enough to fight for your relationship, you move on. It’s survival mode and all you can do for keeping sane. It’s tough, but you do it. So at a sudden declaration of All Things That Should’ve Been Said Years Ago, my stomach knotted and I felt that twinge of obligation again. Like I wanted to comfort this person, make everything OK, when in reality that is no longer my place.

I believe in second chances. I believe in forgiveness for crimes against the heart. I believe things even can be different a second time around. But as he’s (finally) baring (part) of his soul, and as torn as I feel last night, I ultimately listen to the voice inside that says you made the right decision. The First Time. As hard as it was, and as I choked up, I said five definitive words: You need to move on.

Afterward, I sit in the empty spare room at The Parents’, a quiet cell at my side, his pleas bouncing around in my head. I wonder why it always takes losing someone to make one realize just what they had. Why we let it get to a point where everything is taken for granted, where none of the right things are said and any meaningful effort goes un-exuded until it’s too late. Until our hearts simply can’t go down that road again. Until we’ve finally resolved to look forward, never back, and let go.

Why is it then that we throw, or are thrown, these curve balls?