My girlfriend Holly wanted Ben Folds’ “The Luckiest” to be our song and I had to tell her no. Then, because “The Luckiest” is a perfect love song and there is no discernible reason why any man or woman would put the quietus on it (and because I’m a dumbass), I had to explain why.Truth is, someone else shared that song with me, five years ago, and now when I hear it – to paraphrase another Folds song – it’s not the same. I explained this to Holly in the car, during the song, during one of those symbiotic moments when the rest of the world clouds over, leaving two lovers together, holding hands, looking each other in the eyes and shutting out everything else. I suppose I could’ve picked a better time.

But I felt I owed Holly an explanation for shooting down what could’ve been her favorite song — one that made her think of me, made her think of what we have together, made her smile when I wasn’t around. “The Luckiest” made her happy. Somehow I thought explaining would make things better. That was stupid. I ruined the song for her, too.

Throughout 2001, my ex-girlfriend Carrie blew through my life like a psychotic tornado, causing more emotional stress than anyone I’ve known before or since. During one of the rare calm times, we had this song. She sang it to me on my voicemail. A song reaches a new level when someone sings it on your voicemail. You save it. You replay it at two a.m. when you’re alone. You forget you saved it, and then, six months after the breakup, you play it one last time, shudder, and delete the message. Doesn’t matter, though. You can still hear it in your head.

Carrie could go from warm, happy, and loving to raging, violent, and insecure in an instant. She constantly accused me of infidelity, badgering me with questions of who-is-she and you-think-that-cashier-is-pretty-don’t-you and why-are-you-still-friends-with-an-ex, etc. Then she left me for another guy, whom she promptly married. Paging Dr. Freud….

Only with distance do I understand. Carrie’s father left her family when she was young, and she’s hated him, at least on some level, ever since. Lots of women want men who embody certain traits of their fathers. Not Carrie. She loathed the reminders. Her dad is a writer. I’m a writer. He likes baseball. I like baseball. He likes the Beatles. I like the Beatles. We had a lot in common. We were similar, and we got along, and that burned her because she thought I was just like him. But I’m not an asshole.

Carrie projected her own restlessness onto me as well. She didn’t want to be with me. She wanted a fight every day, and usually got one because she knew her empty accusations would set me off. She wanted out. Eventually, she got what she wanted.

And in a white sea of eyes, I see one pair that I recognize….

So when I hear that line, I don’t think of Holly in the purest way, free of blurry images from the past. Hearing that line, I see Holly’s eyes, but then I see Carrie’s batshit crazy eyes too, and that just fucks everything up. Seriously, why couldn’t Carrie have ruined a song I never hear anyway — one that reminds me of teenage cheesiness and mall bangs? “Carrie” by Europe comes to mind. Ruin that song, you know?

Nope.

I wanted to give Holly “The Luckiest,” and make that “our song,” but I couldn’t, because I associate that song — that perfect, beautiful song — with an empty, abusive relationship. That hurts me, because this song should be Holly’s. Maybe with time, I won’t remember Carrie at all, and I’ll hear that song and only think of Holly, and maybe I’ll be able to share that song with her, with those perfect first lines: I don’t get many things right the first time, in fact, I am told that a lot. Now I know all the wrong turns, the stumbles and falls brought me here.

So now, Holly and I have an unspoken understanding and a shared desire to skip “The Luckiest” whenever we hear those first few notes, but maybe someday we’ll hear it again and get through it, maybe during one of those symbiotic moments. I hope so.