He Mattered Most

Read Josh's earlier essay, How "Live Like You Were Dying" Change My Life, in volume 4 of Rainbow Rodeo.

Most goodbye songs sound either triumphant or tragic. In the case of breakup songs, NSYNC’s “Bye Bye Bye” contains more than an undertone of spite, as does Kelly Clarkson’s “Stronger (What Doesn’t Kill You).” 

But in 1995, an industry newcomer named Ty Herndon released his first single, “What Mattered Most,” and hit #1 on the country charts. The song is one of my favorite 1990s country songs, among many choices, for its detail-oriented storytelling.

For years, I assumed the song was only about a breakup. It wears its devastation on its metaphorical sleeve–through a catalog of details about an ex: “Her eyes are blue, her hair was long . . .,” concluding with, “But I paid no attention to what mattered most” . . . which I assumed meant her happiness.

Of all the people I’ve been in relationships, gone on dates, and/or slept with, Todd was easily the one I came closest to loving–and the one I’ve been angriest at. 

Music brought us together, and it remains long after our split. 

In 2015, on my twenty-seventh birthday, I went to a barbecue of a friend with the same birthday–and met a skinny guy in his forties who was passionately discussing who would compete with composers like Cole Porter and George Gershwin in a modern day version of The Great American Songbook. He mentioned Carole King, and I quickly interjected that her 1971 masterpiece, Tapestry, is one of my favorite albums of all time. His eyes lit up looking at me, and shortly thereafter, he asked our mutual friend for my number.

I had just come out of my first relationship, which lasted two months; I had rushed way too quickly into things after a fifteen-month severe manic episode. Suffice it to say, when I met Todd, I was still antsy. 

We talked on the phone and soon after went out on a date to a Mexican restaurant–though, because I have trouble reading nonverbal signals as autistic, I was afraid to ask if he meant it as a date. I didn’t want to ruin anything.

He soon treated me to an extra ticket to a Jackson Browne concert at Ravinia in the north suburbs of Chicago, and after we got back to the city, we kissed for the first time outside a train station.

Shortly after, he invited me over to his apartment for dinner. I really liked being with him. We ended up sleeping together, and when we were done, I quickly left because of other commitments.

We did this a few more times, and we met together at a dessert place in Rogers Park in Chicago. At the end of the date, he kissed me and we said goodbye.

And then I traveled for my five-year college reunion, during which I texted him once . . . and never heard back.

I didn’t know what was going on, but within a week of my occasional texts, I saw that Todd had blocked me on Facebook.

I had no idea what I had done, if anything, for him to ghost me. I had my guesses, but ultimately, I was clueless–and devastated . . . and enraged. Much like I had trouble reading his intentions in dating, I had no way of knowing if he was angry at me. I just wanted to talk to him.

My frustration with him subsided somewhat over the following few months, but in April 2016, I got a friend request on Facebook. It was Todd. 

I messaged him cautiously: “Can I say hi?” 

“Of course you can!” he replied.

We got back to talking, and within a few weeks, he suggested we meet up for coffee. I was willing, but I said I might have to set some boundaries; he said that was fine. I was planning to say how we could never, ever get back together ever again after his ghosting. Cue Taylor Swift.

But a week after we talked, I saw a few posts on Facebook tagging Todd . . . saying that he had died.

I quickly contacted the mutual friend whose barbecue we met at, and she was profusely apologetic that I had to find out on Facebook. She told me that she had been drinking with him the night he died, and he had said how happy he was that he and I were back in touch.

The next morning, Todd was found dead at home of a massive heart attack, much like his father had died when he was a kid. He was forty-four years old.

I didn’t go to his memorial service–I was afraid of what he might have told other people about me and our relationship . . . that he hadn’t told me. Instead, I went to a singalong the same day at the Old Town School of Folk Music to help people grieving from the massacre at Pulse, the LGBTQ nightclub in Florida. I needed that catharsis, and a friend and I sang along loudly to songs like “We Shall Overcome” and “We Shall Not Be Moved.” Todd hadn’t died in a mass shooting, but I couldn’t not think of him as I was doing my best to honor the dead and the kind of music that meant so much to him and me.

At the end of that year, I ran into our friend who introduced us; I hadn’t seen her since before Todd died. I found out that he had ghosted me because he was angry at me for leaving right after sex instead of staying the night. He thought that sex was all I cared about. Apparently, he and our friend had a fight about me and the significance of my neurodivergence. She said that all he saw in me was a really smart guy, as if he didn’t know what to make of me as an actual human.

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