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.

Intervention

The first phase of my relationship with Scott lasted six months. This, by high school standards, felt like we had been married forty years. So we took a break.

That break lasted all of two weeks before we decided we couldn’t live without one another.

Four months later we were at each other’s throats again. Time for break number two, which lasted four months. Read: Eons. It was my first real devastation. The first time my parents rolled their eyes as I acted the part of the oh-so-typical teenage girl. I locked myself in my room and listened to the same sob-inducing songs over and over again. I moped. I declared that my life was over – I would never love again, and I would die an old maid with seventeen cats and an equal number of goldfish. I spent my days convinced that it couldn’t REALLY be over. Scott would realize how miserable he was, and everything would settle back into its rightful place.

Well, let me tell you, when life decides to suck, it comes with the power of a Hoover. Two months into our second separation Scott found himself a new girlfriend.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking Jen Robinson, right? Wrong. Some random chippy whose eyes I would have gladly scratched out with a nail file if I could have gotten near enough.

The nerve!

There was nothing for me to do but plot revenge, and say “yes” to the first unwitting moron that was silly enough to want to date me. The irony of that situation? The first unwitting moron was also named Scott. How much weird luck can one girl have? Poor sap. He never did figure out that he was a pure rebound man, being used to the utmost extent of his jealousy-invoking abilities.

The gossip, phone calls and questions began like the onset of a war, and thankfully, my plan seemed to work. Scott I was asking questions about Scott II. Battle score: Even.

My parents sat back and watched the ridiculous charade with mild amusement and heightening concern, as I’m sure Scott’s parents did as well.

And then Scott I and I got back together, and stayed together for the next nineteen months. (I’d rather not speak of how quickly and shameless I dumped Scott II. I’m sure he got over it, and has been able to function quite well in relationships as an adult.) By the end of our eleventh grade year, mine and Scott’s parents were collectively in a tizzy. Apparently our relationship had ceased to be cute and endearing, and all four adults deemed it time to come to an end before Scott and I really became too serious about one another. Read: Before we started having sex, I became another teenage pregnancy statistic, and Scott and I became just another number among the U.S. divorce rate.

The fervor with which our parents entered this intervention was comical. They gave lectures on exploring possibilities, not being tied down, independent futures and dating outside of our comfort zone. Scott and I began to compare notes, and it seemed that while his parents focused on me being a controlling bitch, my parents focused on Scott being the entity that would hinder me from greatness. Real mature, huh? Besides, didn’t they remember being sixteen? Didn’t they realize that the harder they tried to tear us apart, the tighter we would hold?

Well, the tighter I would hold. Scott’s mother ACTUALLY managed to get through to him, and he cast me aside shortly before the end of junior year. By this time, I should have been tired of it. It was the third time the boy had broken my heart. I should have moved on, let him go, heeded my parents’ advice. What did I do? I pined and pouted, sulked and brooded, cried my eyes out and made everyone who knew me insane. My diligence in being the depressed dumpee rewarded me once again when Scott returned after only a few short weeks of freedom. He had everything he wanted with me, he said, and he wasn’t going anywhere ever again.

I believed him. One of the many reasons I am just another silly girl. But love is a powerful emotion – I would argue THE MOST powerful – and no one can tell me that what I was feeling for Scott Davis was not love. I loved him with every molecule that composed my body, and when I was seventeen, THE WORLD REVOLVED AROUND HIM.

And so we started our senior year of high school; in love, so sure of our future together that we set a wedding date and named our children.

Our parents finally became resigned to their fate. They sat back, shook their heads, and prepared to pick up the pieces – again – when it all inevitably went to hell.