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

by Lisa M. Mattson

  When I stepped into the bustling terminal at LAX, my eyes locked onto Matthew immediately. (Boy, do I miss the days of airline travel before 9/11 when you could meet your loved ones at the gate.) He stood at ease in the middle of the crowded walkway, his hands cupped below the waist. He wore a Chambray shirt and khaki dress shorts that showed off his lean, muscular frame. A sweet smirk was poised on his face, and his eyes were nearly hidden under an army-green baseball cap. My heartbeat drummed faster than Sheila E. My sandals felt like ten-pound weights as I raced toward him, my linen backpack bouncing on my elbow. My arms flew around his broad shoulders, my legs around his waist. I looked like Spiderman clinging to a wall. His warm cheek pressed against mine. His strong arms squeezed me tight, and I felt all the tension in my body melt away.

  “It is so good to see you,” he said softly, twirling me in the air. The edges of my floral skirt danced around my tanned thighs.

  I looked into his auburn eyes, then nuzzled his chest. “I missed you so much.” I exhaled. My cheeks hurt from smiling. We still had our mojo.

  “I think I’ll have a glass of wine,” I said, as we sat in a booth at The Cheesecake Factory Woodland Hills thumbing through the book-thick menus. I couldn’t wait to share the exotic foods and décor of my workplace with Matthew, who’d never eaten at a CCF. My eyes bounced from the wine list to Matthew’s head buried in the book. “Maybe I should try something new.” My voice was soaked with happiness. Matthew was five years older than me, so I wanted to show him how mature and refined a twenty-one-year-old waitress could be. Sometimes I wondered if it was the spiritual healing that made me lose my taste for beer, vodka and Kahlúa, or the fact that I associated all booze except wine with a past I didn’t want to relive.

  Matthew aimlessly flipped the laminated pages. “I have no idea what to order.”

  “I can order for us,” I said. “You should get the Chardonnay. It’s from Santa Barbara.” I had no idea how far we were from Southern California wine country, but it was the closest I’d ever been to a vineyard.

  “I shouldn’t have a drink if I’m driving,” Matthew replied firmly. I looked up from my menu, remembering the night I’d almost gotten arrested for drunk driving. Four beers never stopped my dad from getting behind the wheel, let alone one. My chest filled with pride, getting cozy with the realization that Matthew was a straight-laced, responsible man—the marrying type.

  A thin waiter sashayed over in his all-white uniform wearing lip gloss and a pink necktie with purple flowers. Probably sweet, meticulous and fun like all the gay waiters at CCF CocoWalk. We’ll get great service, I thought while ordering a glass of the Santa Barbara Chardonnay.

  My eyes moved to Matthew as the waiter bounced away. “Did you see his wine key? It has an ivory handle. Very impressive.”

  Matthew shot me a puzzling look. “A wine key?”

  Oh, he doesn’t know.

  “Sorry.” I closed my menu. “A wine key is what servers call corkscrews.” It was the first time since moving to Miami that I was dating someone who didn’t work in a restaurant. I liked the way teaching Matthew about wine made me feel.

  Matthew didn’t look up from his menu. “I don’t know why they call it a key.” He turned another page. “What are you unlocking?” I smoothed out the wrinkles in my flowery skirt, pondering a question I’d never been asked.

  “A prisoner in a bottle,” I said. “A living, breathing thing.” His eyes met mine. Pangs of desire rushed through my body, crash-landing in my hungry stomach. I grabbed my menu and started thumbing again, even though the contents of every page were super-glued in my memory. “The wine’s been trapped under that cork for a year or more.” My long curls bounced around my shoulders. I felt my face light up with the sparkle of enlightening conversation.

  Matthew’s lips curled. “You’re just like you are in your letters.” He paused. “Sweet, introspective, poetic.” I felt my heartbeat zigzag with every word. I looked up from my menu, blushing.

  “We have to get the Avocado Egg rolls,” I said, changing the subject. “They’re served with a tangy tamarind sauce on the side.” I tried to make “tamarind” roll off my tongue like a seasoned epicure.

  “I’m in your hands.” Matthew closed his menu, grinning. “Well, until we leave this booth, then the tables will be turned.” His voice was playful and flirtatious. This was a side I’d never seen. My eyes flew from the menu to his chiseled face. The hungry look in his eyes sliced through me. My pulse fluttered; my cheeks turned red. We stared at each other in silence, then I went to work, planning our meal.

  After lunch, Matthew drove us to Topanga Canyon. His blue Cutlass Sierra cruised through the city’s busy intersections and residential neighborhoods before the road narrowed to a winding climb up the mountain. He glanced over at me every few minutes with narrow, hazy eyes. It was that horny look guys often give after dinner when they’re hungry for something else. I blushed and turned to the window, watching lush pine trees whiz by. His right hand bounced between the steering wheel and my left knee. My cheeks were still hurting from the wide smile on my face. We were finally together again. I discreetly checked my teeth for food in the car visor mirror. He pulled off the road on a wide shoulder with unobstructed views of the valley flanked by the Sierras.

  Matthew guided me out of the car. We walked silently to the edge of the mountain ridge and stared at the beautiful vista. My mouth dropped.

  “I can’t believe I’ve gone twenty-one years without seeing a mountain.” My eyes fluttered from mountaintop to tree to high-rise buildings in the canyon below. Scenes of my life in Kansas flashed through my mind: soy bean fields, the crumbling grain elevator towering over the town, the frozen foods for dinner, the evenings spent watching primetime TV, my dad sitting on an American Legion barstool wearing camouflage. I wish I could tell you that America is the jelly doughnut of the world and rural Kansas is that juicy, delightful center you can’t wait to bite into, but I can’t. It’s bland. It’s boring. That might attract a Cracker Barrel, but it just wasn’t for me. I felt strong and alive like Joan of Arc after a battlefield victory. I’d beat the odds. The world was my oyster.

  Matthew’s hand stroked my long, curly hair. “And if we drive just five miles farther that way, we reach the Pacific Ocean.” I leaned into him and rested my head against his chest. Wind kicked up dust around our feet.

  “My world has always been flat,” I said, looking down into the valley. “I thought there was no place in this country more beautiful than Florida. Until now.” I’d always dreamed of living near the ocean and had followed Chris east. Had I moved to the wrong coast? As a young girl, I was always willing to steer my life in any new direction for a man.

  Matthew stepped behind me. “There is no place like California.” He wrapped his arms around my waist and tucked his chin to my ear. “You can surf in the morning, and snow ski in the afternoon. The people are real. It will never get fake like Miami.” I stood quietly listening to the wind whistle, squeezing Matthew’s hands so he wouldn’t read my mind. Maybe he’d never want to move back to South Florida. Fate was throwing me another curve ball. But I could swing it. Taking another year off from college to get my state residency in California wouldn’t put me that far behind schedule. I leaned back against his chest and drifted into another daydream.

  We checked into the Good Nite Inn, a block of tan-painted cinder blocks not far from a freeway. His lodging choice didn’t phase me. Where I grew up, Holiday Inns were fancy.

  Our room felt cold and sterile, more hospital than hospitable. A king-sized bed seemed to occupy the entire room once we were alone behind closed doors for the first time. I barely noticed the tiny, wooden desk or the bowl-shaped chair near the window. I felt like a comedian under a flood light with an audience of blank faces staring up at me, waiting for my act to begin. Two infatuated adults on their first weekend getaway standing over one gigantic bed. We both knew what was about to happen, and I had no idea how we could possibly make our first time
romantic. There was no CD player. No candles. No bubble bath. Just him and me. And two duffle bags.

  Reality sunk in like a brick in a bathtub, as Matthew slipped the lanky brass chain through the door lock. My heartbeat lunged into my throat. He marched over to the window, commanding posture always on display, and tugged the white ropes on the window drapes, sending the room into darkness. Thoughts flooded my mind.

  This guy could make me disappear. He is almost a stranger.

  I couldn’t fight back the evil thoughts. What kind of statistic was I going to become? How long before housekeeping would find my body? I pulled the wooden chair from the desk and sat down. I willed positive affirmations into my brain: Matthew is normal. I am safe. No freak would spend hours writing love letters, right? My guardian angel always had my back. I picked at my fingernail polish, then rested my chin in my hands.

  “What’s wrong?” Matthew asked, resting his ball cap atop a stack of neatly stacked clothes next to his army-green duffle.

  “Oh, uh, I don’t know.” I stared at the carpet floor, stalling. “I guess, uh, it’s just that, um, I think I’m overwhelmed.” I rocked my knees from side to side. “You. Me. Us. Finally together after all this time.” The true reality of our relationship was unraveling in my head. We’d basically had a whirlwind romance over six weeks with less than a day of face-to-face communication. All the emotions had been vividly expressed with only a pen. It was a love cultivated under geographical circumstances where his poetic words were a string of unspoken sentences. I’d never really took a step outside my head until that moment to realize how strange it felt to be in the physical presence of a man I’d grown to love purely on paper. I wanted to pinch him to make sure he was real. I wanted to hear him say the beautiful words he wrote in all the letters.

  “I know how you feel.” Matthew reached for my hand. He tugged me up from the chair and hugged me firmly. “Fate works in mysterious ways.” He pulled away and guided me to the edge of the bed. We sat down side by side.

  I stared at our reflections in the mirror above the desk. “Do you need at least three thousand miles between us to open your heart?” Matthew had waited until we got into his car in the airport-parking garage to kiss me. We’d kissed and hugged several times at the top of the mountain. But it felt like there was a barrier between us, though as thin as a bed sheet. Twice I’d told him how much I’d missed him. His response? The dreaded, “Me too.” I was Juliet standing on a balcony, and my Romeo had dissed me. I’d convinced myself the whole situation would be awkward for anyone. I’d distracted both of us with small talk about my unsettling work environment with Marco, Gabriela and the Mardi Gras posse, as well as our weekend tourist agenda. I always had this knack for justifying the weird behavior of men. I could never call bullshit.

  I felt his eyes staring at the right side of my face. “It’s not that I don’t have feelings for you.” His voice was rigid. “I just need time to analyze my thoughts, screw my head on straight.” He touched my face with the back of his palm. The warmth of his touch flushed through my entire body. I raised my hand and palmed his fingers, then turned my head toward him. His eyes darkened.

  “I don’t expect you to understand this.” I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “I’ve witnessed some terrible acts in my life.” His jaws locked. “People can be savages. The world can be cruel. Life is precious and love even more so.” There was a pregnant pause. My chest ached with empathy, just sitting there, helpless, watching the man I loved share his pain. He cleared his throat twice and rubbed his palms on his knees. “Something bad could happen to me any day in my line of work. I’ve learned to put up walls. My emotions can’t run wild in my head or something really bad will happen. I need to be focused to stay safe.” His eyes were heavy and dark; his tone swayed from bitter to tender, tugging my heartstrings. Tears swelled in the corner of my eyes.

  I leaned in and kissed him softly on the forehead, holding my lips against his skin until I felt my tears retreat and the tension between us release. Oh, Matthew. My very own prisoner in a bottle. My love could hold the key to unlock all his troubles; I really hoped so. I had no idea what secret-ops military life entailed, but if it was anything like Full Metal Jacket, I couldn’t imagine the psychological baggage he’d be forced to carry for the rest of his life.

  He grabbed my hands and squeezed tightly. “It doesn’t mean I don’t have strong feelings for you.” His serious, hazel eyes sliced through my fear. I exhaled deeply, raising both hands to cup his chin. Strong feelings for me. A wave of comfort drifted through my mind as soon as those words left his lips. Every relationship, every choice I’d made in life was driven by my belief in fate. I’ve always embraced the idea that everything happens for a reason. Too bad I’d yet to learn the second part of that mantra—and sometimes the reason is that you’re stupid and make bad decisions. I believed it didn’t really matter that he’d locked us in a cheap motel room instead of taking me to his house. Or that he couldn’t talk to me about his life. My world was as it should be. We could overcome any obstacle. We were meant to be. He’d faced the terror of military combat. I needed to buck up. The silence between our conversations didn’t need to be stuffed like a decorative throw pillow. We’d said so much in our letters already, and his written words were like nicotine to my inner daydreamer. I’d perfected my signature as Harley Smith. Our children’s names had already been picked out.

  My hands dropped into my lap. “We’ve just said so much without speaking.” I shrugged my shoulders, staring down at my knees. “It would be nice to hear you tell me how you feel, you know.” There really wasn’t anything else to say but those three little words I’d dreamed of hearing within two weeks of meeting every guy I’ve ever dated. I wanted to hear the love—not just feel it. I’ve always been a junkie for positive reinforcement.

  “You know how special I think you are,” Matthew said in his usual firm, almost calculated way. “And pretty.” He laced his arms around my waist and rested his jaw on the crown of my head. My shoulders caved, and my cheeks gleamed with pride. I felt cherished and wanted. Words from his letters began flooding my head:

  You are my guardian angel. I feel you watching over me during the most dangerous times. When you’re farthest away, you are closer to me than you’ll ever realize. The missions always come to an end. My feelings for you never will.

  “My job makes it hard for me to express my feelings verbally,” Matthew continued, brushing my curls off my shoulders. “I need to write to you.” I could feel the hurt in his sober tone. The realization that writing and drawing were his only outlets for self-expression made me love him even more.

  Matthew sat next to me on the edge of the bed in silence, his back straight, his arms still wrapped around me. His conflicted feelings seemed to seep from his skin to mine as he squeezed. He breathed deeply into my hair. Heartache pried at my chest. It was going to be some time before he opened up to me, but I needed to be there for him. My worst days were getting kicked off the high school cheerleading squad for drinking and being cheated on by a coked-up bisexual. Matthew had been through far worse than I could possibly imagine.

  I pulled back to look him in the eye. “I will always be there for you, whenever you need someone to talk with or write to—no matter where you are or what you’re going through.” My voice trembled, fighting off the urge to cry. “I promise.” I felt strong and totally helpless at the same time.

  We reclined slowly onto the bed, exchanging kisses, gazes and soft touches until we both knew the time was right. A fleeting tenderness lingered in and out of Matthew’s kisses; he ran his fingertip gently along my arm to my cream-colored top. Every muscle in my body ached for him. His hand fumbled with my bra latch under my shirt. I could feel his hesitation, as he kissed me firmly, then softly, then firmly again, as if he wasn’t quite sure which felt more natural. His stiff body seemed on edge, constantly alert. He couldn’t lose himself in me. I ran my fingers through his hair and pushed my tongue deeper
into his mouth. I felt like a priceless bronzed statue he was protecting from the evils that existed in our everyday lives. He pulled off his shirt, exposing a jagged scar across his right pec and one from a bullet hole on his lower-left abdomen. Tears began to build in my eyes again, and I choked them back.

  “It’s okay,” I whispered, caressing the thick scar tissue on his chest. “I have scars too.” He stared into my eyes. I felt a tear trickle down my cheek; he wiped it away with his thumb, his eyes never leaving mine. I listened to our breath, feeling his wall begin to crumble—even if only for a moment.

  Then, Matthew lifted my flowery skirt and pressed me against the mattress.

  Afterward, we lay naked on the bed side by side in the dark. I leaned over and kissed his shoulder. “I love you.” I gazed into his dark eyes. Then I told him it was okay if he couldn’t tell me he loved me yet. Where was Dr. Phil when I needed him? Twenty miles away, waiting for his first call from Oprah.

  Matthew surprised me with a visit to the Los Angeles Zoo. It was a sunny, spring morning—the morning after our first time making love. The air was dry and crisp. So refreshing compared to muggy Miami, I thought. My sudden distain for South Florida weather intrigued me. We strolled through every exhibit, arms locked around each other’s waists. I made googly eyes at him all morning, tipsy from the thrill of a cross-country rendezvous. I wore an almost-too-short sundress and chunky heels; Matthew sported a golf shirt, camouflage pants and white sneakers. We looked as mismatched as RuPaul and Rupert Murdoch, but I didn’t mind. With Matthew, I got my first glimpse of zebras, elephants, giraffes and camels. Discovery seemed to be a common theme in our newfound love, and I liked how cultured and smart exploration made me feel.