THE EXES IN MY IPOD: A Playlist of the Men Who Rocked Me to Wine Country

by Lisa M. Mattson

  “What the hell are you doing?” My head shot toward him. I rose to my knees. My heart thrashed as my eyes darted from his boat to my body, caked with sand. “You could have crushed me!”

  His head shook. “I’m so sorry about this.” He spoke with a serious, yet artificial tone like an emergency room doctor on a soap opera. “My jib broke. I thought I could turn away sooner.” His stomach muscles fluttered as his voice boomed. He wore only sea-green board shorts and a Miami Hurricanes baseball cap. “You were reading. You looked so calm. I didn’t want to disturb you.” He raised a callused hand, wiping his sweaty brow. I thought of his view from the boat—my legs spread wide open and my bikini bottoms stuck between my cheeks. Because I was reading? Bullshit.

  I grabbed my crumpled towel from the ground. “Well, I’ve officially been disturbed.” My eyes were as icy as my voice. I wiped the sand off my arms and legs, then wrapped the towel around my exposed body.

  “I’m Matthew.” He extended his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, regardless of the circumstances.” A sliver of a smile parted his thin lips. He had strawberry-blonde hair and a cleft chin.

  I looked up at his dark, auburn eyes, feeling my breathing begin to slow to a normal pace. We both broke out in laughter, his arm still hanging in the air between us. I wagged my head and wiped my dirty hands on the beach towel before accepting his handshake. He gripped my gritty palm tightly. I felt a tingle of excitement in my chest, then my eyes glanced to the ocean, picturing myself in that moment. The warm smile on my face turned plastic. My ponytail was cockeyed. Straggly hairs whipped around my sand-covered shoulders. I had a big zit on my forehead. My body smelled of tanning oil, salt, sweat and dirt. I was a hot mess.

  “And I am sincerely sorry. Really.” Matthew’s eyes peeked out from under his cap. His voice was stern again.

  “Harley,” I replied coolly, pulling away from his handshake. “That’s my name.” Was his boat maneuver intentional grounding? Hopefully. The events that led to our meeting suddenly seemed hopelessly romantic. Loneliness had been eating away at my soul. After my encounters with Coke Boy and Professor Ecstasy, I yearned for a normal guy to walk into my life—not nearly run me down with his boat. This man knew how to make an entrance.

  Matthew reached down and grabbed my book from the sand. “Deepak Chopra.” He shook granules from the pages, smiling. “That’s pretty deep.” Beads of sweat trickled down his ripped stomach. I inhaled deeply, trying to stay cool.

  “That’s what I was hoping for.” I grabbed the book from his hands. “It’s very uplifting. Very spiritual.”

  My fingers squeezed the hardback, as I pushed my toes deeper into the sand. My spiritual guide, Jorge, who doubled as my hairstylist, had given me that book. Jorge had challenged me to rid my life of toxic relationships in less than thirty days, yet it took him two years to convince me to stop perming my hair. “I like the positivity of his beliefs.” I ran my fingers over the gritty book cover. My bad choices included the proud addition of a one-night stand on my twenty-first birthday with a fellow Cheesecake waiter who owned a Harley (fate!), wore a bike-chain bracelet and strutted around the dining room singing Splack Pack’s “Scrub Da Ground.” A real class act. After being dumped for a druggie with a Sir-Mix-a-Lot-video butt—and almost losing my job—I’d put a rear-naked choke on my last ounce of self-respect. Tap out. Howdy, rock bottom. I desperately needed to find inner peace, and Chopra’s affirmations were working serious magic on my mojo. I deserved better than one-night stands, and guys with 12-step programs.

  “I know.” Matthew slid his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “I’ve read it three times.” I cocked my head. The afternoon sun cast a fiery glow around his muscular, lean body. His deep eyes almost matched the color of his hair. I melted.

  “How often do you come here?” Matthew asked. Australian Pine branches rocked in the wind above us.

  I pressed my toes deeper into the warm sand. “Every day.” The blazing sun baked my shoulders as I inhaled deeply, the familiar scent of fresh, salty-sweet air filling my chest. “I love how peaceful it is here. Well, how peaceful it usually is.” I smirked at him. I spent most afternoons in spring of 1995 on Virginia Key’s beach reading Chopra, soaking up sun and solitude, while tiny waves patted the shoreline a few feet away. A halo of optimism always floated over me in the blue skies of Biscayne Bay. The island felt like my own secluded, holistic retreat. Who needed Prozac? I had access to 250 days of sunshine per year, a motivational book and the will to heal my broken self. When it came to dating, my moral compass felt like it had been run over by a rickshaw, and spending time alone at the edge of the ocean was my recipe for finding strength, for rediscovering myself.

  Our conversation flowed as smoothly as Rum Runners on a summer night in Islamorada. I tried not to think about my zitty face or crooked ponytail. “Do you have plans this evening?” Matthew asked, as the late afternoon sun began to sink into the horizon.

  Three hours later, we were sitting at an open-air dive bar near the Coconut Grove Playhouse.

  “It’s been an interesting eight months,” I said between sips. My legs were crossed at the knee. A new pair of button-fly Levi’s fit snuggly over my hips. “Funny how life is never as easy as you think it will be.” My teal spandex tank top clung to my flat stomach, as I arched my back and talked confidently about my rough road on the Miami dating circuit. “It’s all for the best. I’m in a good place.” I looked up from my hands laced around the beer mug. Matthew sat across from me in his golf shirt, listening intently like a campus counselor. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead.

  “You want to go inside?” I asked, feeling my tank sticking to my damp back.

  “No way.” He reached for the pitcher of Heineken between us and refilled my glass. “I love this weather.”

  I nodded, grinning. “Me too.” My mind drifted to Chris and how much he hated the heat. It wasn’t a typical day in Miami unless your chest was sweaty and your hair flat—a small price to pay to never endure a blizzard. I sipped my beer and waited for him to say something.

  I rapped my knuckles on the table. “You don’t talk much.”

  His eyes smoldered and locked onto mine. “I like to listen to you talk.”

  My cheeks flushed. “But I want to listen to you to talk.” I cocked my head.

  Before sunset, I’d actually gathered a boatload of information about Matthew: He was gainfully employed with a real career (Navy SEAL), liked to go fishing in the Keys and listened to Jimmy Buffet songs (bonus!), didn’t appreciate the high-rolling, party city Miami had become (ditto) and had a penchant for drawing award-winning sketches of water birds (jackpot!). Matthew was pushing all my buttons, but there was a catch.

  He lived in San Diego.

  The first normal guy I’d met with a dollop of potential, and he was almost as geographically undesirable as a Frenchman. At first, the disappointing news felt like a piece of coral reef resting on my chest. Then I remembered my pen pal from New York back in fifth grade. We’d kept our friendship thriving for two years and had never met in person.

  “Last call!” the bartender yelled from behind the worn-wood bar. I looked into Matthew’s dark eyes, then glanced down at my Bulova watch. We’d been talking for five hours. It felt like fifty minutes.

  “It can’t possibly be closing time.” Matthew threw back his head. “We’re not leaving yet.” His bravado made my ego do a headspin. A big smile spread across my face. I stared into my half-full mug, waiting for his next move, as his eyes burned a hole in my cheek. I ran my index finger around the rim of the glass.

  “Come with me.” Matthew’s voice rippled through my ears. My eyes moved from my beer to his serious face. I took a sip to fill the uncomfortable space. Part of me wanted to say “no.” No more sex on the first night. His hand moved across the table and grabbed mine. “I’m not ready to say goodbye,” he whispered. My eyes darted from his face to the handle on my mug. His flight to California was departing at 7 a.m. Was this th
e beginning, or the beginning of the end? My little voice told me to say my goodbyes and walk home. He reached for my hand; his touch sucked the air from my lungs. I looked up to his pooling, gorgeous eyes.

  “I…I can’t.” I looked down in a blush. “It’s not a good idea.”

  He leaned into me. “Just for a few more hours.” The humid air around us jumped five degrees. “I just want to talk.” His words chimed in my head. My chest began throbbing. I grabbed my beer and chugged longer and harder than a Lambda Lambda Lambda pledge, stalling, battling my inner demon who never wanted to say “no” to anybody.

  We walked down Main Highway in the dark, past the towering Banyan trees and coral-rock gates of the private schools. I jabbered on about work to calm my nerves. Matthew reached for my hand and electric currents flew up my arms. He led me to a tile-roof bungalow nestled in a tiny jungle a few blocks from the Grove. “Luke won’t mind. Don’t worry,” Matthew whispered, talking about his best friend who lived there.

  We sat on a couch in the den with the lights off, caressing each other’s hands. Matthew talked about the emotional strain of military service, the thrill of international ops and his amore for art. I told him about my passion for writing, my love of South Florida’s weather and my plans for college. As we sat in the dark baring our souls, he pressed his firm lips to mine, sending shock waves through my body. His kiss had a lightness that made me feel five inches off the ground. He promised to write and call. Never once did he try to get into my jeans. He just asked me questions, then kissed me softly between answers. Matthew held me in his muscular arms until sunrise. I couldn’t help but think: This guy is worth the distance.

  Within a week of meeting Matthew, I began trading my lunch shifts in the busy stations near the bakery for early-closing stations on the veranda. Getting “cut” after the lunch rush gave me just enough time to meet the postman at my mailbox and retrieve Matthew’s latest gift. Dating B.E. (before email) built up more anticipation than a True Blood season finale does today. Every five days, a white envelope arrived with a military return address. Matthew was often at sea on missions, so the only way we could communicate regularly was pen to paper, envelope to mailbox. Standing in the stairwell, I’d rip the envelope open like an over-eager kindergartener at her first big birthday party. Letters were always three pages, always double-sided, never more, never less. The papers felt as glamorous as a bouquet of calla lilies between my fingers. My eyes danced across every hand-written sentence, words aligned perfectly with the thin, blue lines. A typewriter would have been hard-pressed to reproduce Matthew’s precise penmanship. I always sat on the corner of my bed reading his poetic prose with wide eyes and flushed cheeks, as Florida sunshine spilled into my bedroom. Reading his love letters filled my heart with more passion and excitement than any relationship before, and we’d barely gotten to first base. I knew I could learn a thing or two from a disciplinarian like Matthew, i.e. easing slowly into a relationship. His compliments rose from every page and caressed my ego: The beaches of San Diego constantly reminded him of the day we met. He said he was so glad he’d “glided” (whatever!) his friend’s catamaran to the sandy shore near the blonde in the bikini. The Pacific Ocean could never be as blue as my eyes. He knew there was something different about me. Only I could distract him from thinking about his next mission. He couldn’t stop daydreaming about when he’d see my face again. I felt the blood rush to my cheeks, as I read every sentence twice over. He wrote only about us, about me. He didn’t understand how he could spend a day talking to a girl he’d just met and never run out of things to say. He wrote about his dream of teaching high school art classes when his tour of duty was complete. He couldn’t wait to teach me how to surf. Take that, Marco! With one letter, he even included a cardboard tube with two pencil drawings: one of a pelican and one of a Black-winged Kite. Miami had been his home for his first twenty years, before he’d become a Navy SEAL. He belonged in South Florida; meeting me had made him realize this. His words floated around my apartment, making everything bright and sunny until the next batch of mail arrived. I created a shrine of Matthew’s letters on my bookshelf alongside The Sailors’ Handbook, a gift Matthew had given me on the doorstep of his friend’s house. My life was a Harlequin novel, or practically every Chris Isaak video ever produced. Matthew was my ocean. The possibilities were endless.

  No man had ever bared his emotional side to me—not an ex-boyfriend and definitely not my dad or my grandpa, who were both hobbits in the expressing feelings department. My dad was my guidepost for how men treated women. We were an afterthought. We were the utility of a household. Conversations centered on food and money. Mom worked, cooked, cleaned and paid the bills. Dad was off doing what men did—drinking and hunting with his buddies. As a twenty-one-year-old woman growing up without the Internet, I couldn’t Google search “daddy issues” and figure out what hidden motive was driving my relationships. I needed the love of a man to feel whole. Matthew was custom built for an attention-starved girl like me—a girl who saw a slice of Prince Charming in every fruitcake that walked, served, drank or sailed his way into my life.

  For every letter Matthew sent me, I wrote a reply, just as long and loving as his. I sat on my bed, scribbling away on a pad of paper while Everything but the Girl’s “Missing” blasted through my apartment. Tapping my foot and my pen to the beat, I missed him more than a desert misses rain. I told him everything happened for a reason. I told him I believed in fate. My deep longing for Matthew had my inner artist working overtime, and I hadn’t written any poetry since Lance. With every letter, I included a new poem written while sitting on Virginia Key in the exact spot where Matthew had nearly bulldozed me with a sailboat. “Someone” is still my favorite:

  Is that someone out there really true?

  The one who knows exactly how you feel,

  When you hurt inside?

  The one who makes you smile for no reason,

  And wants to be there,

  When you need him most?

  Does fate take two strangers,

  Who have fought the same battles and join them,

  So they can learn from each other?

  Is there someone who shares your hopes, ambitions and dreams,

  Because you’ve traveled the same path,

  And met at a crossroad?

  My long-distance romance with Matthew awoke so many long-lost parts of me—not just the writer. Instead of wasting away mornings sleeping off hangovers, I watched the sunrise while rollerblading up and down Key Biscayne’s boardwalk. Matthew’s words danced in my head while Toad the Wet Sprocket’s “Fly from Heaven” blasted from my Sony Walkman. Then I’d change into my bikini and read Chopra on the beach. My body had never been so toned or tan, my head never so clear. I spent afternoons by my kitchen window, painting bright, geometric patterns onto empty Robert Mondavi Woodbridge wine bottles pulled from Cheesecake’s recycling bin. I’d stopped painting after high school and hadn’t worked out since K-State. I liked the way Matthew brought out the best in me without even being in the same time zone.

  Living without family or a boyfriend within driving distance was a first for me. Finally, I felt like I could be alone, at least physically. After the Mardi Gras debacle, my work environment had become as cold and isolating as life at an Antarctic research station. Alicia continued to tongue-lash me for being naïve, waving her red acrylic nails in my face. The novelty of having a sister-like Latina looking out for the Kansas transplant began to wear off. I’d gained enough street smarts to make my own choices. Throwing back bottles of Amstel Light at Loggerhead lost its glitz. After years of under-age drinking, I had no interest in hanging out in bars, downing pitchers of beer legally—especially when my man was on the West Coast preparing to defend our country. The bad energy that surrounded my fiscally irresponsible, drug-using co-workers was toxic to the new me. Nearly losing my job and then finding Matthew—talk about über wake-up call. My priorities needed an extreme makeover. Saving money for college
tuition was priority one. Making a bicoastal relationship work was a close second. Renewing my boss’s respect ranked third. That left plenty of room for writing poetry, reading, painting and rollerblading—things that made me smile. I stopped talking to Alicia and the party crew at work and declined all their barhopping invitations. I didn’t touch beer or hard liquor for weeks, just the occasional glass of Sauvignon Blanc when I’d forgotten to grab some empty bottles at work for an art project. The new routine felt so empowering and mature for a girl like me who’d learned how to do a keg stand before I could legally drive.

  The distance between Matthew and me strengthened our connection more than any of my past physical relationships. Sure, there was the frustration that came with opening a mail slot and finding only a pizza delivery flyer. But I knew how I’d feel when one of his love letters did arrive. It was the thrilling era of pre-cell phone and pre-Internet dating, falling in love with a military man who was often at sea, assigned to a secret mission he couldn’t discuss. The raw sense of anticipation was always wrapped in a ball of complete helplessness. Do wives of Desert Storm soldiers feel the same way? I figured so. I needed to be strong for him. He’d earned my love and my trust, and had the writer’s cramp to prove it.

  Matthew repeatedly apologized for not being able to share every detail of his life with me. He called from port whenever possible, twice over the four-week period we’d been apart. We’d talk (unclassified information only) until my neck hurt from holding the phone receiver, but it seemed like mere minutes. We then plotted our own secret mission.

  I boarded my first cross-country flight at Miami International Airport, bursting with more excitement than a dozen Puerto Rican girls at a Menudo concert. I’d only traveled west of Kansas once in my life—to watch K-State play in the 1993 Copper Bowl in Tucson, Arizona. I’d never had the money, or motivation, to buy an airline ticket and jet off to Los Angeles. But I’d scored a free round-trip voucher on American after getting bumped on a flight home for Christmas, and a long weekend in San Diego with Matthew was the perfect excuse to cash it in. He’d secured permission from his superiors to go “off base” one weekend in April and suggested we meet in Los Angeles because there was “more to see.” The entire flight, my mind was a barrage of excitement and anxiety. What if he tells me he loves me? What if his kiss feels different? What if he acts like a tool, and I’m stuck with him for two days? I thumbed aimlessly through the Sky Mall magazine and inhaled my tiny bag of peanuts. Fate was officially in the captain’s seat.