Scott's whole life has been planned for him since birth. He was conceived so his mother could be domestic-looking during campaign speeches, standing two steps behind his father in cutesy maternity clothes, inwardly cursing her sore ankles. He was a pawn then. He'd be a pawn now if he hadn't gotten out from under his father's thumb when he had.
Scott knows exactly what was expected him. The only thing he remembers from his childhood is expectations – to be the best at whatever his parents decided he should be. They sent him to the best schools. They gave him the best things, dressed him in the proper clothes. They wanted him to go Ivy League and study law, follow up a future in politics. Get a trophy wife and a country club membership (not necessarily in that order), pop out some cute kids and dress them up for his campaigns.
He's done his best to throw a wrench in the plans since day one, though he didn't deliberately try to get thrown out of school. At least not in the beginning. He was just a rambunctious kid. When he hit his teens and his parent's plan became more apparent, he started to rebel in earnest. Not just to rebel, no. It wasn't a rebellion so much as a protest. He wasn't going to do what they told him to just because they told him.
It helped that he didn't really want what they wanted. He doesn't like golf or tennis or polo. He hates caviar; he loves moo goo gai pan and fried rice. He'd rather smoke weed than cigars. He likes leather and jeans, not suits. So when Scott was seventeen he left home with the purpose of returning the prodigal son.
It's a funny story. The prodigal son goes out and has all the fun while the dutiful son stays at home. Yet when the prodigal comes back his family welcomes him with open arms, singing "Glory, glory hallelujah" the whole time. If that's the case, why play the dutiful son? Be the prodigal.
So that's what Scott did. Had his fun, had his kicks, and learned some shit along the way. He's grateful for a lot of it. He won't be his father and he won't be the man his father wants him to be. He can stand up to him now. No more running. But he won't forget the street. He won't forget the people he met, the things that happened.
Mostly he won't forget Mike.
Like he could. Mike is fixed in his mind, imprinted somewhere that goes beyond sight and memory. That night around the campfire -- nothing can take it from him. Not the cigars and brandy, not the smell of Carmella's perfume. No matter how many times he holds her, it will never feel quite like holding Mike. Love doesn't conquer all. It doesn't fix all your problems or change who you are. He loves Carmella, but not nearly as much as he loves Mike.
One day, when he's done showing up his old man and playing the dutiful son, maybe he'll return and be Mike's prodigal.