There’s Just Something About That Boy

When I tell people that I dated the same guy from eighth grade through my freshman year in college, the first question I always get is, “Why?”

The answer that I will consistently give, for the rest of my life, is, “I don’t know.” And it’s the truth. I don’t know what made me stay with Scott so long, and I have no idea what made him stay with me. I only know that there was just something about that boy.

On a basic level, even at thirteen, I was ridiculously attracted to Scott. From the very beginning he made my toes tingle and my fingers go numb. All the blood in my body would rush toward my core in his presence; my heart would pound and, for a girl who could chatter away with the best of them, I would lose my words. That initial amazement never went away. It may have paled as time went on, but every time I looked at him the butterflies took flight. Each time he glanced my way my body would warm from the center out, like melting chocolate.

Together, Scott and I had easy conversations and uncomplicated fun. Despite the fact that we had very few common interests, we held each other’s fascination. We could talk for hours, and we loved to play together like we were nothing more than two little kids. I can remember rollerblading and sidewalk chalk, Marco Polo, Sonic the Hedgehog and one-on-one basketball games in his driveway.

During the precarious age when everything you do is open to criticism from your elders and peers, Scott and I never judged one another. When he was outcast for being different I supported his long hair, his affinity for art and comic books, and his devout following of grunge rock and Kurt Cobain. When I took a whole lot of crap for joining the cheerleading squad, Scott was front and center at every game, cheering ME on. For everyone else, Scott and I both had to BE someone else: the best friend, the perfect daughter, the responsible teenager, the learned student. With each other, we just WERE. The world fell away when we were together, and the pressure of being a teenager - and yes, being a teenager has its own special set of pressures – lifted.

All of this worked when it was just me and Scott. It was when the rest of the world interfered that we started to fall apart. We had knock-down drag-out fights about how much I loathed Jen Robinson – another woman being made a priority in his life – and his thinning patience that I wouldn’t accept her as his friend. We argued about my friends, and how he seemed to think I became a different – shallower – person around them. We both became suspicious of what the other was doing when we WEREN’T together. We would make a case for independence and time apart, and then complain that we weren’t making enough time for one another.

On several occasions we made the declaration to go our separate ways, dated other people, and attempted to move on. It never worked. On my end, no other guy ever fit right. Conversation was stilted. Kissing was awkward. The element of unadulterated FUN was simply missing. No one else GOT ME. No other guy could make me feel the way Scott did – like slowly melting chocolate. And it was the same for Scott, or so he would always tell me when we reconvened, which we always did. (Except for that one time we didn’t.) He would smile, and I would forget. I would kiss him, and he would forgive. If we lay in each other’s arms long enough, and blocked out the white noise of reality, we could get through anything. We ALMOST got through everything.

Even now, I smile when I think about him. I shudder to think what would happen if I ever saw him again. Even though I am blissfully happily married to the man of my dreams, I would be willing to bet that, however involuntarily, I would light up from the inside, begin to tremble and start to melt just a little.

Because there’s just something about that boy.