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

by Lisa M. Mattson

  The wind never returned. I quietly watched Raul as he pushed the Hobe Cat to shore, me resting on top. I felt like laughing and crying at the same time. My emotions were torn between the sadness of saying goodbye and the joy of putting myself first.

  Back on shore, Raul looked down at me. “How about we make a pact?” He stood next to my car in his swim trunks and flip-flops. “We could still date until one of us starts seeing someone else.” His eyes fluttered behind his broken glasses. His trademark grin emerged.

  “We’ll see.” I stared at his carved pecks and abs I might never touch again.

  I held out my hand. “Can I have my key back?” My palm trembled. He hesitantly dug into his pocket. I tugged on the door handle. Raul slid his arm between the car and me.

  “As long as you break it off before you sleep with someone else.” He paused and pressed his hand against my car door. “I’ll accept it’s over between us. I’ll accept it someday, but not right now.” He leaned down and wrapped his arms around me. I hugged him back, smelling his scent one last time. Sorrow barreled through me, then a wave of relief. As he stepped away from my car door, I looked down at the pavement.

  “I’ll sleep on it,” I replied and slipped into the driver’s seat.

  FERNANDO

  “CRASH INTO ME”

  Dave Matthews Band

  REWIND: I stood on my third-story patio and stared down at the grassy courtyard, dimly lit by the evening sky. My eyes fixed on the calm swimming pool, searching for answers below the surface. The patio screens surrounding me felt like a cage. I twirled an ink pen in my left hand, keeping rhythm with a flickering votive candle on my bistro table. My bare feet tapped on the concrete floor until my heels felt dusty and sore. I darted back through the sliding-glass door and grabbed a sheet of paper.

  I got lost the other night.

  My fingers tingled as I gripped the edges of the paper and reread my words. The cool breeze of a November night brushed my bare shoulders. I walked to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of Elsa Malbec. As the Riedel stem touched my lips, the juicy taste triggered a memory flash. I should buy a crisp, white. Fernando loves Italian Pinot Grigio. I grabbed the Blockbuster Music bag off my coffee table and ripped open the new jewel cases. The night before, I’d spent an hour thumbing through racks of CDs at Blockbuster CocoWalk, searching for something completely unknown yet comfortably familiar. French National Orchestra. Duke Ellington. Beethoven. Mozart. I’d snapped their plastic cases into my arms like a mother stockpiling hurricane supplies. The unexplainable urge to buy classical music had hit me as soon as he’d driven away in his pick-up truck. And I had no idea why.

  The sound of a delicate violin streamed through my apartment. “Violin Sonata No. 5” instantly collided with memories of the past forty-eight hours. The conversation. The dance floor. My dream. I rested my wine glass on the dining room table. When a piano joined the airy strings, my body glided effortlessly with the music. I flew onto my tiptoes and extended my arms like a swan. My heels dropped to the floor, landing naturally in “first position.” I’d never taken a ballet class in my life.

  More violins chanted with the piano. Visions of two horses racing through burning trees flashed in my mind, the same wicked scene from the dream that had woken me the night before. My eyes slammed shut. An endless, shiny wall of white covered my mind like a blizzard.

  I rushed back to my desk.

  I stood in a crowded room with

  bright lights, buzzing conversation

  and loud music.

  But I couldn’t hear a thing.

  Two nights. That was all that had passed since the moment. My thoughts had strapped themselves into a roller coaster without brakes, but I didn’t want the exhilaration to end. I just needed to know why. Why me? Why him? Why now? Why did the uncertainty of this budding romance feel as if our first date would be followed by a funeral?

  More words hit the paper. My heart bounced with every mental picture reliving Saturday night: squeezing through the crowd at Sloppy Joe’s in Coconut Grove, bumping shoulders with him—in the exact same spot—two weekends in a row, and chatting all night about our new careers and recent break-ups. I couldn’t help but wonder what force was steering my destiny.

  The sounds were muffled in my mind.

  My eyes were closed, but

  I know, even if they’d been open…

  I rested the pen on my desk and grabbed my glass of wine.

  “What is it about you, Fernando?” I whispered, gripping the crystal stem. Fernando was no stranger, but I knew him about as well as I knew my dry cleaner. He was Cuban. He’d been dating Alejandra—think Daisy Fuentes with a bigger nose—since high school. She was vivacious, intelligent, driven and my main competition for the highest grade in every public relations class at FIU. She also had grown up in Hialeah on the same street as Raul, and they were as close as cousins. I’d seen Fernando with Alejandra at a few college parties.

  On that night at Sloppy Joe’s, we’d spent two hours talking at a tiny bar in the back corner.

  “If Wal-Mart would have sold Camo Barbies, I may have never stopped hunting,” I shouted over the music blasting from overhead speakers on the dance floor. My back was arched and my legs crossed at the knee. “The biggest piece of furniture in our living room was my dad’s gun cabinet.” I pushed the hair off my shoulders, laughing. I wore my favorite button-fly Levi’s, a teal tank top that made my blue eyes pop and black slip-on sandals with high heels—comfortable with a touch of class. Fernando’s brown eyes widened behind his thin, designer glasses.

  He threw back his head. “No way! I have a gun rack in my bedroom.” His whole face was one big smile, as he leaned into my ear. “I usually don’t tell girls about that right away.” His black goatee was pencil thin; his black hair kept short and sleek.

  “Yeah, my experience with loading guns and skinning frogs usually falls into the ‘wait-at-least-four-months-before-sharing’ category.” I sipped my Malibu and pineapple and flashed him a wink. I told him how I’d spent many Sunday afternoons as a kid shooting empty beer cans off tree stumps with my dad. While music blasted and the crowd noise hummed, we debated the merits of live bait vs. lures and bait casting vs. spinning reels. The conversation was worthy of a Jeff Foxworthy redneck skit. This guy can’t possibly be Cuban, I kept telling myself.

  My mind continued to race through the memories of that night, as I walked back onto my patio.

  He grabbed a wine list from the bar. “So, tell me why I like Pinot Grigio so much.” Fernando loved to drink Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio, which would soon become the most popular Italian wine in America. He had a lean face that reminded me of a young Andy Garcia and wore Banana Republic dress shirts. Yet he drove a black Toyota pick-up truck with a big, metal toolbox spanning the bed—just like my dad.

  “Pinot Grigio is a good gateway wine for getting started.” Our cheeks nearly touched as I chatted over the music. “I think it’s because of the combination of fruit, acidity and a touch of sweetness. My first wine love was Riunite d’Or.” It was winter of 1997—more than two years since my summer with John. Between the common interests and the ease of conversation, my heart was doing the “Macarena.”

  “What wine would pair best with sole meunière?” His thin lips looked so cute when he said, “MOON-ee-air.” He had me at “moon.” Fernando scooted his barstool closer to mine. “That’s my favorite dish at my favorite restaurant.” My heartbeat revved like a sports car engine. I’d found a guy who liked to shoot guns and enjoyed fresh fish cooked with a classic French preparation.

  Fernando kept asking wine questions like an over-eager bookworm. Why are white wines so crisp? Why are red wines so dry? Why did Cabernet stain his teeth? How can you tell when a wine is corked? What types of stories are in a wine magazine? It felt so good to have a guy showing interest in my brain before my body.

  I looked down at the half-empty bottle of Malbec of my patio table, remembering what he said next: “I want to
be the guy who thumbs through a wine list with confidence.” The guy worked days as a construction foreman. His split personality was utterly fascinating. Throughout the conversation, my brain was swimming in shock. Fernando was the only guy who could relate to the two Harleys: the small-town girl who still liked to go fishing and the career-driven, city woman who wore cocktail dresses to fancy wine tastings.

  I got lost the other night.

  The poem continued to form in my mind. I jotted down more words, then stared into the courtyard below.

  “Let’s dance.” Fernando pulled me onto the dance floor. His callused palms cupped my hands, and the feeling of a new touch made my pulse skyrocket. Almost two months had passed since the Raul break-up, and more than two years since I’d been on a dance floor with a man. We started off with bodies farther apart, bouncing to “Hypnotize” by Notorious B.I.G. It was nothing like my merengue days, but Fernando had the same fluid hip moves as John, my first Latin lover. (I wish we could isolate the dancing part of their DNA and inject it into all white dudes.) By the time Puff Daddy—before he became Puffy, P. Diddy, Diddy and whatever Sean Combs calls himself today—started rapping lyrics to “Mo Money Mo Problems” my back was pressed against Fernando’s, his arms wrapped around me. Heady, dreamy elation consumed my rocking body. My face hurt from its ginormous grin. Even the drunken college girls sloshing their beers beside us could not knock me off my cloud. Fernando rested his chin on my bare shoulder. Our break-ups were a distant memory. We landed on common ground.

  The room was dark, almost black.

  I had no idea where I was, yet

  “Hey!” A voice called out over the music, jolting me from Fernando’s trance. My friend Danielle was standing in the middle of the dance floor with her hands on her curvy hips. “We’ve gotta get outta here.” Danielle cocked her head of wavy brown hair toward the door. She had Chelsea Handler’s spunk and Nigella Lawson’s body—my perfect partner in crime for barhopping. We’d always vowed to use the buddy system, but usually got split within thirty minutes, thanks to our suitors.

  I pulled away from him on the crowded dance floor. “I have to go.” I tucked my lips behind my teeth, trying to hide my big-ass smile. Playing it cool was critical. My body turned away. It was like watching an instant replay in slow motion. My eyes followed Danielle’s voluptuous frame, squeezing between two bouncing girls on the dance floor.

  My world seemed copacetic even though

  I couldn’t explain this amazing thing.

  Fernando fingers grabbed mine. He spun me around like a bottle. My nose brushed against his hairy chin, then our lips touched.

  I can only call it electric.

  Like nothing I’d ever felt before;

  Something so powerful and intoxicating

  I got lost when I was most in control.

  Even though my eyes were closed, I saw the brightest light. Every nerve in my body prickled, turbo-charged by the thrill of the unknown. It felt as if a pair of jumper cables was plugged to our chests. My lungs expanded and froze. I teetered on the edge of numbness and hypersensitivity. There was no music. No bar. No people. Nothing in the world existed except the two of us. I was under his spell. I’d never felt such a wicked sensory overload in my life.

  It was a rush of uncertainty and nirvana.

  I always dreamed it existed, but

  Never knew it would be like this.

  What a crazy thing—a kiss.

  We backed slowly away from each other, our mouths still open. His eyes locked onto mine. We stood two feet apart on the crowded dance floor for what seemed like five minutes—just staring at each other like two frozen statues. I raised my hand to my tingling face. My fingertips felt like lightening rods touching my lips, but my body couldn’t move.

  “Holy fuck,” Fernando said, his jaw hanging open.

  “Holy shit.” My eyes stayed locked on his, as I backed away, disappearing into the crowd.

  I read every scribbled sentence on the paper three times, then sat in my swivel desk chair and launched Word Perfect. My fingers flew across the computer keyboard. I desperately needed each line, each word, to be neat and perfect. The clarity would hopefully end the confusion. When the paper fell from my printer, my fingertips caressed the page. I read the poem once more just to relive the sensory rush.

  “He is for real,” I whispered, looking at my reflection in the patio doors. “You gotta chill out. Pull it together.” A single kiss had melted my brain, sucking me dry of rational thoughts. I’d been talking to my reflection in doors, windows, mirrors, my computer screen—even the Coconut Grove Arts Festival painting on my living room wall. Visions of flying horses? I felt more strung out than Fergie from The Black Eyed Peas the night she talked to the clothes hamper. And I’d only had two mixed drinks and two glasses of red wine—over a three-day period.

  I grabbed my cell phone and checked for missed calls. Nothing. Damn. I poured myself another glass of Malbec and took a lengthy sip of the full-bodied, dry wine. My edgy nerves squelched the alcohol in my bloodstream, keeping it from calming me down. Double damn. At the time, most big red wines still clocked in under fourteen percent alcohol, and you couldn’t get smashed off two glasses of a Napa Valley Cabernet like you can today.

  My mind replayed the events of Sunday: I spent the morning floating and gloating behind the bar, recommending Santa Margherita to anyone and everyone—then I spotted Fernando, sitting at the other end of the bar, watching me work. He neglected to ask for my number at Sloppy Joe’s, and I never offered it. Look where practicing restraint had landed me. We went to a nearby bar after work and watched the Dolphins game … with his best friend. Serious stuff.

  After sunset, we sat together in his pick-up truck without the air conditioning on—a late November luxury. He flipped on his CD player and Dave Matthews Band’s “So Much to Say” poured into the cab. He leaned into me, and the explosion of energy short-circuited my nerves all over again. We both jerked back like our bodies had been shocked with a cow prod.

  He exhaled deeply. “This is insane.”

  “I know.” My voice was breathless. My fingers squeezed both knees of my dirty work jeans. My entire body felt exposed, turned inside and out, every time his skin touched mine.

  His forehead rested against my temple, rolling a bolt of desire through me. “What are we going to do?”

  My heart pounded as the words crawled across my lips. “I don’t know.” My forehead stayed pressed to his for minutes, listening to the music and my runaway thoughts.

  The sound of drum brushes rippling across cymbals filled his truck. Dave Matthews’s words from “Crash Into Me” echoed in my ears—the line about touching your lips and love glowing in your eyes. I totally felt like that song was written for me, for us, and our lives were unfolding with the lyrics in real time. An emotional connection to that song was tattooed inside my head forever.

  Fernando gripped my chin with his fingers. Thirst for his touch poured over me, anticipating his next move. We kissed over and over while “Crash Into Me” roared from Fernando’s stereo. Our tongues looped with ease, as if we’d been kissing for months. He knew almost nothing about me, yet he knew everything when his lips touched mine. I could not wait to learn more about the man behind the kiss—his hopes and dreams, what he ate for breakfast. Fernando’s touch had a softness and spark that always sucked the air from my lungs. I felt like I couldn’t breathe yet had more energy than a middle school cheerleader. When the song was over, Fernando hit rewind without leaving my lips. The steam on his windshield was as thick as fog on the California coast. All night, Fernando never tried to grab my boobs or dry hump me—not even when Dave Matthews sang the skirt-hiking part.

  “I’ll make you dinner,” I whispered as his lips floated across mine. “That’s what we’ll do.”

  With the poem out of my head and onto paper, I had less than twenty-four hours to pull myself together and whip up something amazing, and this was long before the Food Network had gone mainstrea
m. Epicurious.com did not exist. Fancy recipes only lived in hardback books and on hand-written notecards. I had to be resourceful.

  I prepped for that meal as if it were an Ironman triathlon. The menu, the music, the lighting, the napkins, the wine, the glassware, my hair, my nails, my outfit—everything had to be perfect.

  By the time Fernando knocked at my door, all the boxes on my list were checked. The table was set. The wine chilled. My Wonderbra? Strapped on. Depeche Mode’s “It’s No Good” drifted through my spotless apartment, strategically selected because he didn’t need to tell me that he loved me. It was definitely understood. I floated to the front door in my short, black skirt and baby-blue rayon top, leaving a pot of boiling penne pasta on my stove. Fernando looked and smelled delicious—black slacks and a crisp dress shirt, all sprinkled with sandalwood. He greeted me with one of his Earth-shaking kisses, making me lose myself all over again.

  “The pasta!” I darted back to the kitchen. “Make yourself at home! Wine’s chilled and on the table!”

  My mouth dropped as I stood over the stove in my galley kitchen. The pot of boiling pasta tubes looked like a tiny swimming pool stuffed with bloated rafts. I let out a deep exhale while straining the pasta over my sink. My mind launched into triage mode. I tossed the penne with a pre-mixed dressing of minced garlic, olive oil, and salt and pepper. I popped a tube into my mouth and chomped and chewed. I looked like an old man eating a peanut butter sandwich without his dentures. Shit! My heart sank. I added more garlic and a medley of steamed vegetables and sun-dried tomatoes. Better, but not good enough. It was terminal. My head felt like it was going to explode.

  I walked sluggishly onto my balcony with two plates in my hands and a frog in my throat.

  Fernando raised a Riedel glass filled with Ponzi Pinot Gris. “I like this.” I flashed a tiny smile while he stared into the glass like a jeweler studying a diamond. He’d said he wanted me to broaden his wine horizons.