What Happens When Old Boyfriends Die?

The rumblings started on Facebook Messenger one Sunday evening. An old high school classmate sent me a DM. It was disjointed, garbled, a jumble of misspelled words. Writing was clearly not the brother’s strong suit. But one portion of it was very clear.

“Just found out that Scottie passed away and they had his funeral already. Did you know?”

For days afterwards, messages came tumbling in from more of my old classmates. Terri. Phyllis. Kathy. We’re all Facebook friends, some of them I’ve known since grammar school, and they were all asking me the same thing.

“Did you hear about Scottie? What happened?”

How in the world would I know what happened? Scottie Robbins was my high school boyfriend. Do you know how long ago that was? It was so long ago, I’m not even gonna tell you. That’s how long ago it was.

He was tall for fifteen. Over six feet. Handsome, broad and beefy, he played football. We sat side-by-side in Sophomore English class and the first thing I noticed, other than his hunkiness, was his shy smile, bright against his smooth, Hershey chocolate face. And the Free Huey button pinned to his sexy leather car coat? I liked that, too. He told me that sometimes he sold Black Panther newspapers downtown. He was a radical. A revolutionary. Or so he claimed. Was I impressed? You better believe it.

All year we giggled and flirted and drove the teacher crazy but it wasn’t until another boy, a Senior, made a big play for me that Scottie stepped up his game. The Senior turned out to be a snake and I kicked him to the curb. Having someone waiting in the wings made it easy.

During the summer break, Scottie courted me. We went on typical teenage dates. A lot of bowling, going to the movies, and hanging out on my family’s front porch waving at classmates who walked or drove by. When we returned to school in September it was official. Scottie and I were a couple. My summer had been quite productive — thank you. We were upperclassmen now and I felt like one of the coolest chicks on campus.

None of the classmates I was still in contact with knew how Scottie died. I googled him finally and found an obituary from his church order. That’s right. Scottie had become, of all things, a minister. Rev. Dr. Scott Robbins. The summer after college graduation our engagement had been called off but we were still sniffing around each other. He told me his plans. First, he’d go to grad school, then get his Masters, and then onto the seminary. Oh well. That was that. I didn’t even have to think about it anymore. Me? A minister’s wife? Not in this lifetime.

Knowing how he died was, for me, the final step in putting him to rest forever.

A wife and two daughters were listed in his obituary but no cause of death. And who knows why but that right there became my focus. Why in the heck would a fifty-five year old man just die? The question started to gnaw at me, worry me, and I felt a little guilty. Was I dissing my husband? Should Scottie’s death concern me this much?

But I couldn’t let it go. I wanted to know. Were there health issues? Had he been ill? The last time I saw him he was the picture of health. Hell. More than that, he looked good. Damn good.

Out on my daily cigarette run, I was on a hot deadline and making it back to my little loft around the corner in a rush. Two men were walking towards me. Passing by them, I continued my race down the street until one of the men called my name. I spun around. I looked right in his face. And for reasons I simply can’t explain, I didn’t recognize him.

“It’s me. Scottie!”

I saw him again just a few weeks later. He was on his way to the parking garage next door to my building. It was so odd. He’d been parking there for years but only now were we meeting like this. His young daughter was with him. He introduced us. I could see his mother and his sister in the kid’s face. It was a weird moment and briefly, I felt just the tiniest twinge of what might have been. And poof! Moment over.

The third time, the last time, was on the other side of town at an art festival in Washington Park. It was a warm day and I can still see him stepping out of the crowd, all smooth and jazzy in a silky tan-colored sweater and cool bermuda shorts. The same shade.

“Are you following me, Preacher?”

He threw his head back and laughed. In the meantime, my bestie Renee was standing there with her mouth open. Yep. He looked that good.

Eventually, months turned into years and the mystery of his death faded into the background. Life goes on, right? Hubby and I moved to Savannah and then double-backed to Atlanta. There were dreams and goals still to pursue. But in the meantime, one post after the other came in on Facebook about friends and classmates passing away. Each one reminded me of Scottie and still not knowing how he died. Until one day I DM’d my old friend Kathy and asked her. She didn’t know the answer years earlier but since then, she’d found out.

“He had a massive heart attack on the job. Died before the paramedics even got there.”

It was that simple.

Closure. Finally. Somewhere within me I’d been holding my breath and the moment that burning question was answered, I exhaled. I didn’t even know it mattered. But he was my first and I guess, on some level, that meant more than I ever realized. Knowing how he died was, for me, the final step in putting him to rest forever.

Sometimes I think about reaching out to his daughter. Or his sister. I’ve poked around on social media and found both of them. But really. What’s there to say? Do I really care about what they’ve been doing all these years? Would they care about me? It’s fun catching up with old friends. That’s a big part of why I love social media and can’t quit it. But the book is closed on Scottie Robbins. And it’s probably best to leave it that way.