I rested an octagon plate in front of him and let out a sigh. “I wish I could say the same for this pasta.” Steam drifted above the flickering candle in the middle of the table. I dropped into my chair with a long face.
“What’s wrong?” He rubbed my bare knee.
“I screwed up.” I shook my head. “It didn’t turn out as planned.” I twirled a strand of hair and gazed into the candle. I quickly grabbed the glass of wine he’d poured for me and took a long sip. He lifted a forkful to his lips. I watched his jaws, waiting for his gag reflex to kick in.
Fernando chewed and chewed and chewed. “It’s not that bad.” He looked like he’d just swallowed raw Brussels sprouts.
My chin dropped. “But I wanted it to be great.” I wanted to kick myself for choosing a Cheesecake Factory pasta dish for our first dinner. Employees weren’t allowed access to secret recipes, so I’d just tried to wing it after a brief conversation with the pasta chef. “The acidity in the vegetables was supposed to complement the wine.” I poked at a penne tube with my fork. “The pasta isn’t soaking up any flavors from the sauce.” For all the years of working in restaurants, I’d failed at my first attempt to pair classy wine and classy food—and for a guy who seemed as interested in wine as me.
Fernando laughed and kissed my forehead. “There’s always next time.” His brown eyes looked black in the candlelight. My clenched jaw loosened. A grin glinted across my face. I loved it that he was making plans for us. “No more talk about food. Tell me about this wine.” Fernando lifted his glass.
I smiled with the pride of a teacher. “This is what Pinot Grigio tastes like when it’s made in America. You taste more tree fruits and less citrus than the Italian style.” Fernando nodded. I raised the glass to my lips, letting the wine’s crisp acidity cleanse my palate. To this day, Oregon produces some of the best-value, high-quality Pinot Gris in the world.
I jabbed a broccoli floret. “So what’s it feel like to run a job site?” I continued picking at my plate. Fernando had a team of twenty employees and contractors working for him. He was twenty-three years old, just like me. The closest I’d come to managing people was new server training, which always made me feel empowered.
Fernando’s face lit up. “I love getting up every morning.” He reached for the wine bottle as he talked. Fernando worked for a small construction company that had landed its first big job building a high-rise in North Miami Beach. He talked about juggling the time lines and material deliveries. He made sure the carpenters, concrete pourers, plumbers and electricians started their work as soon as the other had finished. He was the maestro of a construction site. His hands flapped around his chest while he talked. His eyes sparkled. I gazed at his face, following every detail of the conversation and thinking of my dad, the town carpenter. Talking to Fernando returned me to my roots, and I liked the nostalgia. “Dry wall is going up this week.” He popped a sun-dried tomato in his mouth.
I rested my fork on the edge of my black plate. “Dry wall? Is that the same thing as sheetrock?” I’ve never been one to keep quiet when I don’t know what someone is talking about. Most of my dad’s jobs involved sheet-rocking. I’d watched him sheetrock our house in fifth grade. My mom had told Dad the only way she’d get back together was if he remodeled the entire house. So he did.
Fernando cupped both hands around my cheeks. “You’re so damn cute.” He looked into my eyes. “Yes. It is. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. You totally get me.” He pressed his lips firmly against my forehead, then kissed my nose before finishing with my lips. The energy from his kiss whipped through my body like a tornado. A Cuban guy and a Midwest girl talking carpentry over a bottle of wine—it was as unlikely as Fantasia Barrino winning American Idol.
He caressed my hand. “My sister-in-law can get you an interview at her company, if you want.” Fernando had an older brother whose wife, Christina, worked for one of the top wine distributors, and I’d told him how badly I wanted to get out of the restaurant business. Blending drinks until midnight was not part of the master plan after I’d graduated from college.
“You’d do that for me?” My voice cracked with joy, my heart warmed by his willingness to help advance my career. “I’ll send you my résumé tomorrow.” I squeezed his hand. “I wish there was something I could do to help you.” The only gifts I knew how to give were love and hospitality.
“You help me in other ways.” His face glowed in the candlelight. “You make me feel alive. You make me wonder about the world I’ve never seen. And we’ve only really known each other for like three days.” His tone was soft, yet upbeat. I felt the blood rush to my cheeks.
I smiled, sipping the crisp wine. “I know what you mean.” We were bordering on fairytale romance. I can’t believe this is finally happening. Do not screw it up, Harley.
“You left home. You put yourself through college. You follow your dreams. You want to work in wine country.” He paused and exhaled. “I have cousins in San Francisco. Now I’m asking myself, ‘Why haven’t I visited them?’ ‘Why haven’t I lived there?’ I would love to leave South Florida someday.” My heart began to trot. I tried to stay cool, just nodding. Fernando was born and raised in Kendall, and he still lived at home with his parents, like most Cuban men in their twenties. His father owned a cigar shop on Calle Ocho. They were Miamians for life. I couldn’t stop the thought of us moving to California wine country from popping into my head.
“You even have pet iguanas.” He looked over at Dax and Parker climbing on my potted Hibiscus trees. “I love that.”
“I love that you have sheetrock.” I smirked into my wine glass. Being playful calmed my nerves and took my mind off wondering if he liked me as much as I liked him. I still had not developed the self-confidence to stop worrying about where the relationship was heading from day one. We gawked into each other’s eyes in silence, then began giggling.
I pushed my hair off my shoulders. “What do you think they’ll say when they find out?” My eyes drifted to the candle on our table, and intense visions of fire and horses flashed through my mind. I pinched my lips shut.
“I don’t really care,” Fernando replied, eyes locked on his wine glass. “How could we have known this would happen?” Latins are notorious for their tempers and possessiveness; Raul and Alejandra probably wanted to stuff us in a dumpster behind La Carreta. Learning I’d moved on to another guy was one thing, but Fernando Costas? Now we were talking blood.
I ran my finger around the rim of my glass. “All this time. We were with them.” I leaned back in my chair, staring into the melting candle. Raul had been calling every two weeks around midnight—his booty call—and some were answered, others ignored. The next time my phone rang, Raul would be calling me way worse than “beeatch.”
“I always wondered what you were doing with him.” Fernando’s voice was soft and controlled. “You two weren’t a good match. Just like Ally and me.” He explained how Alejandra obsessed about manicures, facials and shopping; she didn’t care about the things that were important to him—like fishing, hunting, camping. I could feel the heat of his breath on my shoulder. I like all those things. I sipped the racy wine while all the possibilities scurried through my head.
“They’ll be pissed, but they’ll get over it.” Fernando rested his palm on my bare knee. “It’s not like we broke up with them to be together.” He gazed at my face, beaming. We sat there silently exchanging grins, while bugs buzzed in the courtyard and Natalie Merchant crooned “Jealousy” in my living room.
“You’re so easy to talk to,” Fernando said.
“I feel the same way.” I blushed, looking away to the patio screen. “I haven’t had a great date in a very long time.” One week before Fernando had kissed me, Raul’s full extraction from my life was nearly complete. Danielle had set me up on two disaster dates—one with a thirty-nine-year-old fire fighter and one with the University of Miami Hurricanes mascot, who reeked of Surf detergent and clapped his hands way too muc
h. I’d even pursued a fellow Cheesecake employee named Alberto, who had graduated from K-State. He’d dated one of my sorority sisters while I’d been dating one of his fraternity brothers (a fate trifecta), but we’d never met until Miami.
“I just like talking to you.” Fernando’s head rocked from side to side. “It’s different. I don’t know why.” My heart was sprinting faster than a Backstreet Boys groupie’s with a backstage pass. It was so thrilling to have a first date where we talked about our careers and childhood memories, not favorite sexual positions. Fernando refilled my wine glass, then set the empty bottle of Pinot Gris back on the table. We kept one hand locked together and used the other to pick at our plates. Songs from “Tigerlily” continued drifting from the living room while we talked about our first kiss and Sunday night in his truck.
Fernando turned his body toward mine. “This may sound totally crazy.” His face glowed in the candlelight. My stomach did a triple Lutz, as I waited for his next word. “But I want to take this slow.” He grabbed my hands and laced his fingers in mine. My heart thrashed in my chest, as his words replayed in my brain. It was a beautiful declaration—one I’d never heard a man say—almost as beautiful as “I love you.” His head titled toward mine, and our foreheads touched again. A tingling sensation rippled down my body. I exhaled a quivering breath and closed my eyes. We sat with our heads abutted like two iPhones bumping contacts. I always felt like I could read his mind, complete his sentences.
I pulled back to see his brown eyes. “I was hoping you’d say that.” His lips glided to mine, and the fireworks exploded again.
“I’ve never felt anything like this before.” His tone was sensitive yet strong. The candle flame shined on his glasses, revealing watery eyes. “I don’t want to screw this up.” His voice quivered as his fingers locked tighter with mine. My legs began trembling. I’d never seen a man display such tender emotions for anything but his first car. This guy had just put all his cards on the table—seventy-two hours after we’d kissed. He wasn’t playing games. Hearing those words leave a man’s lips—after trying to read minds for ten years—was surreal. It was my first taste of relationship respect and far more refreshing than any glass of wine.
“I feel it too,” I whispered. He kissed the back of my hands while I soaked up our unbelievable conversation. Over a flickering candle, we openly discussed our feelings for one another. The connection between us was special. We owed it to ourselves to enjoy the beginning of something special without leapfrogging into bed.
He leaned back in my chair. “We should set a deadline or something.” He paused and laughed into his glass. “Like no sex for at least eight weeks.”
I shoved my hand at his chest. “Done.” We shook hands, giggling. It felt so mature to have a conversation with a guy about sex—before we were naked. I looked into my empty wine glass, giddy with glee. All my headaches and heartaches had been worth it. I’d hooked a keeper.
I trotted back from the kitchen with a bottle of Elsa in one hand—my go-to value red back then—and my wine key in the other. My body turned to stone in the doorway. Fernando was standing by my desk, reading a sheet of paper—yes, that paper. Fear shot through my brain. My true feelings about our first kiss had already been exposed; I wasn’t ready for him to see my romantic side. Whenever my heart flooded with the excitement of a new love, I felt inspired to write, and giving a guy a poem within three days of the first kiss was a flashing “danger” sign.
“You wrote this?” Fernando asked, grinning. He sounded like a proud parent who’d just stumbled upon his child’s A+ paper. “This is about us?”
I dropped my head and shrugged my shoulders. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“Why not?” His voice screeched. “It’s amazing. It’s beautiful. It’s so freaking true.” He held the piece of paper with both hands. “Could you print me a copy? I want to show it to my mom.”
That was when I decided Fernando was an alien.
Our hectic schedules helped keep our hormones in check. Fernando worked full-time and took graduate school classes at night. The Wine News was deep into final deadlines for its December/January issue, so my days were spent editing feature stories about Blanc de Blancs Champagne and the fledging organic wine movement. I still worked as a bartender at night because magazine editors got paid very little—even back when print publishing was booming. Fernando kept his promise and took me to dinner at his favorite restaurant, Red Fish Grill, for sole meunière. We shared electromagnetic kisses at bars, in cars, on my couch, and fought the urge to fly into my bedroom.
We caved to temptation after two weeks. My bedroom became a lair for mind-blowing sex every night. The beads of sweat felt like electrodes zapping me under the weight of his naked body. My eyes always slammed shut from the fierceness of the energy flowing between us. Every time we made love, time stood still. It seemed like hours before our glistening bodies collapsed, exhausted by the overload of physical, mental and spiritual chemistry. Sex with Fernando reached a spiritual level I’d never known existed. It made rock-star sex with Raul seem so empty, shallow. I realize now that it was the first time since Lance that I’d experienced an emotional and physical connection with a guy where the feelings were mutual. The comfort and confidence that comes with two-way love was something I’d been willing to live without since high school—selling my body and soul short.
Almost every night, Fernando left his dusty work boots by my front door, just like Dad always did back home. Fernando was the first boyfriend I thought I could actually bring to Kansas to meet my family, and he wouldn’t scurry away like a groundhog that had just seen his shadow.
I called Mom on Sunday, eager to hear the test results. Sixteen days had passed since the most insane kiss of my life, and I needed some concrete answers about us—the kind only astrology could provide. Mom had dabbled in reading tarot cards and writing astrological charts for most of my life, and I always asked her to pull every new boyfriend’s natal chart and examine it against mine. My relationship with Fernando was surging ahead with full force, but it felt like a thriller movie was hijacking my life. My interest in classical music grew stronger. Dreams of fire and horses intensified. Maybe her ephemeris could shed some light on the whacked-out situation. Fernando’s moon was conjunct my sun; his Venus fell in my seventh house of marriage. This is the equivalent of a Super Bowl win in astrological matchmaking, people.
I told her about the dreams. “Maybe he’s unlocked a memory from your past life.” She suggested I read two books by Dr. Brian Weiss: Many Lives, Many Masters and Only Love is Real: A Story of Soulmates Reunited.
Once I started reading Only Love is Real, I couldn’t stop. Before finishing the first chapter, my mind was reeling from the doctor’s words:
“You are bonded together throughout eternity, and you will never be alone … He may not recognize you, even though you have finally met again. You can feel the bond … When you both recognize each other, no volcano could erupt with more passion. The energy released is tremendous.”1
I finally had an answer, but so much for clarity. It was the kind of secret no woman wants to harbor. Who should I trust with my freaktastic revelation? I might as well have told Fernando I dabbled in voodoo and handed him a doll full of stickpins. Fernando’s touch had definitely opened a door between our souls. I was experiencing what is known as a past-life recall. One line in the book’s Preface haunted me: “A wrong choice or a missed chance can lead to incredible loneliness and suffering.” I read that sentence again and again. Haven’t I suffered enough? Fernando and I were not a “missed chance.” I already knew he felt the same energy between us, but he didn’t know the reason. How do you tell the man you love—a man you’ve dated for three weeks—that your souls are chained for eternity? After he says, “I do” or maybe never. Part of me wanted to leave the book on the top shelf of my desk, so he could find it just like the poem. But I stuffed it into the bottom drawer of my wicker dresser.
The thought of
losing Fernando began to consume me. My hunger to be close to him grew insatiable. The more time we spent together, the larger my appetite. I listened to my heart, which told me to show him how much I loved him. Sex was the only way I knew how to show love without saying those three words. I couldn’t be the one to say it first; the last thing I wanted to do was scare him away. But I could not live without him. I sat in my apartment alone, staring at my cell phone, begging him to call. I talked to my computer screen, then cranked up Dave Matthews Band on my stereo and cried through the chorus of “Crash Into Me.” I was one drug binge short of a Courtney Love meltdown. I needed professional help. I needed to talk to Dr. Brian Weiss.
Just when I thought life couldn’t get any freakier, it did. In Dr. Weiss’s book, he mentioned that his practice was located in Miami. I grabbed my phone book and scanned the listings. His office was located on Sunset Drive: the same street as my apartment complex, less than one mile away. Talk about a flashing sign from a higher power. I called to make an appointment and learned his fees far exceeded my post-college budget, so I asked his secretary for some suggestions in the $100-$150 range. She suggested a local regressionist. Digging deep into my subconscious through past-life regression could explain my history with Fernando, and what karma we were trying to work out in this lifetime. Cue the crystal balls.
Who needs to spend $3.99 per minute on a Psychic Friends Network phone chat when a girl can get regressed to a past life, in the flesh, for a hundred bucks? The experience was wickedly cool. I could dedicate an entire chapter to my regression session, but then you’d think I was a complete lunatic rather than a love-struck girl grasping for answers. In a nutshell, a female therapist in her mid-fifties with brown hair and a Princess Leia-sized bun guided me into a sterile, gray room—not so different from a doctor’s office examination room. She turned off the overhead lights, leaving only a small desk lamp glowing in the back corner of the room. I sat down on this chair thing that was half couch and half doctor’s table. My heart began sprinting. I was as tense as a teenager about to get her first pelvic exam.
THE EXES IN MY IPOD: A Playlist of the Men Who Rocked Me to Wine Country Page 24