“It was. At first. But one night, after the camp counselors went to bed, a bunch of us snuck out into the woods. We were just stupid kids, telling ghost stories and playing spin the bottle. His name was Michael Wilson. It was my first kiss, his too, I think, because we didn’t know what to do. We basically just tried to eat each other’s face. But I didn’t know he . . .”

“He what?” Blake prompts when I don’t continue.

“He was allergic to peanut butter and I’d had a PBJ for dinner. One second, we’re kissing, sloppily getting saliva everywhere because we were horrible kissers. And the next, his lips are swelling up and turning red, and he looks like a Jessica Rabbit caricature. It was awful.”

“Was he okay?” Blake’s voice sounds choked, as if he understands how traumatic that was for younger me.

“Yeah, they gave him an epi shot and took him to the ER. He was fine, came back to camp even. And he got invited the next time everyone snuck out to the woods, but I didn’t.”

“This kid, Michael, needed an epi shot from a peanut butter-infected, sloppy, secret kiss? That was your first kiss?” Blake recaps. “Damn, that sucks.”

Before I can answer, try to explain that I didn’t know about Michael’s allergy because I didn’t even know him or I would’ve never kissed him, Blake busts up in laughter.

I’m stunned into shocked silence. He’s laughing? I almost killed a kid!

“Did anyone else kiss him that summer, or were they all too scared to? Holy shit, I bet the counselors got reamed out for that. Kids sneaking out, unauthorized make-out sessions, and what was probably described as a near-death experience when Michael’s mom heard about her ‘precious boy’s peanut butter exposure’.” His voice pitches high, mimicking this mythical mother, and he’s still laughing, actually laughing harder and rougher with every word as he paints a picture that’s similar to my story but also very different.

“No, it was . . . I almost killed him!” I exclaim, trying to make him understand the seriousness. But suddenly, I can’t help it. I start laughing too. “Oh, my God! I almost killed him with a peanut butter kiss!”

Twisted sense of humor aside, I’m horrified that I’m donkey-braying over some kid’s medical emergency. But mostly, I’m laughing at my own trauma. It was truly horrifying back then, and worse, it was the start of everything that happened after.

But right now? It feels ridiculously silly to put so much into something that happened years ago.

Michael’s okay, I know he is. He’s grown now, came to camp for a few more summers after that one, but he always stayed far, far away from me. The Killer Kisser, my first nickname.