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

by Lisa M. Mattson

  We walked downstairs to the kitchen, wearing fresh sets of T-shirts and gym shorts like two workout buddies. The kitchen was almost as long and wide as my efficiency apartment. Two walls of floor-to-ceiling white cabinets opened to a wide den with French doors and magnificent views of the Intracoastal. The room always smelled like Bath & Body Works.

  “Don’t you have anything we could cook?” I asked, peeking over his shoulder. The first and only time I’d cooked for him at my place, we’d had salade chevre chaud and a bottle of Tavel Rosé from one of my favorite producers, Château d’Aquéria. Tyler opened the refrigerator door, then closed it quickly.

  “Let’s just order pizza.” His suggestion was spontaneous and unhealthy—two traits I didn’t think existed in Tyler’s world. My mood instantly lightened. I professed my love for Pizza Hut Pepperoni Lovers Thin ‘N Crispy—they hooked me forever with the Care Bear glassware series in 1984—but Tyler replied, “I don’t like their crust.”

  We returned an hour later with a bottle of Zinfandel and two lukewarm Papa John’s pizzas: a Hawaiian for him and a double pepperoni for me.

  I stacked the pizza boxes on the kitchen counter. “Can we eat in the formal dining room?” Their dining room walls were covered with patterned felt wallpaper and ornate Wayne’s Coating. It was as fancy as a French hotel banquet room. I envisioned us sipping our Zinfandel under the sparkling chandelier at the cherry table in hand-carved, high-back chairs. We could even dress up our pizza with the fine china displayed in the matching china cabinet against the wall. I looked down at my frumpy gym clothes and frowned. The meal would be impossible to truly dress up.

  Tyler grabbed the pizza boxes and marched them over to the round oak table in the den. “Let’s just eat in here. It’s easier.” He bounced back to the kitchen and returned with a roll of paper towels and a two paper plates. Fancy.

  Their den was four shades of brown, which always struck me funny, considering how pristine and bright the home looked from the outside. The dark paneled walls were sprinkled with colorful pictures of the boys and family portraits over the years. A thick, almost shaggy, brown carpet covered the floor. Two sets of French doors on the back wall ushered in Florida sunshine and waterway views, which transformed the room from dark to cozy. I pulled a corkscrew from my purse—wine pros never leave home without it—and opened the Zin.

  “We can’t break these,” Tyler said, as I poured the inky wine into two crystal glasses pulled from his mom’s china cabinet.

  I set the bottle firmly on the table. “I think we’ll manage.” My voice hissed. I was a waitress for eight years, remember? I stuffed my nose in the glass and inhaled deeply.

  Tyler took a baby sip. “It’s not as sharp as the last one.” Tyler’s first wine tasting lesson had included that bottle of Tavel Rosé, which is known for its strawberry and cranberry flavors and bright acidity. I’d explained to Tyler that the “sharpness” he’d tasted was the wine’s acid.

  “Zinfandel doesn’t have as much acid as the other wines we’ve tasted.” He tried swirling the glass at the base of the stem as I’d taught him. Tyler then asked about the difference between White Zinfandel and a Red Zinfandel, like all wine newbies do. I explained, with enthusiasm, how fermenting red grapes on their skins gives the wine its color. He took a short sip.

  It’s dry,” he replied flatly. I eagerly awaited the night I could walk into a black-tie gala at a wine festival holding his hand. He still didn’t know the difference between Pinot Noir and Pinot Blanc, so that was going to take some time.

  “Yep. That’s the tannins,” I replied, nosing my glass. The Zin had a typical briary-jammy bouquet and gobs of fruit. “This is a big, juicy red wine. The sweetness in the fruit will complement your pizza.”

  “Wine goes with pineapples?”

  I nodded. “Zinfandel tends to add sweetness to the fruits. Pineapples are sweet. Ham is somewhat sweet too. Sweet complements sweet.”

  He raised the glass to his lips and took another sip. “It tastes.” He paused, studying the wine glass. “I don’t know. Hot. Warm.”

  “That’s good. You’re tasting the alcohol. Sometimes wines that have high alcohol are described as having a hot finish.” Zinfandel is known for being a high-octane wine, which is precisely why I drank it in my early twenties.

  He pushed his glass away. “I don’t think I like hot wine.” Tyler scrunched his nose, then picked up a piece of pizza with his fingers.

  I felt my eyebrows cave. “Come on. It’s not that high in alcohol.” I shoved his wine glass back toward him. “Ravenswood is a good value.” Ugh. Newbies. My knife sliced hard through a piece of pepperoni.

  I raised my fork to my lips. “What would you do if your mom walked in right now?” I poked my knife at the door. I looked over at the designer sofa with scalloped edges and remembered his mother waiting there to meet me for the first time. She had dark-blonde hair with a classy, bob haircut, and every hair seemed perfectly placed by a stylist. Her legs were gracefully crossed at an angle with Cole Hahn loafers on her feet. A copy of Architectural Digest was pressed between her manicured fingertips. She looked like a cross between Linda Evans from Dynasty and Chris Everet, with her mint-collared shirt and matching gold bracelet and necklace.

  Tyler chewed his crust and swallowed. “I’d poo in my pants.” He couldn’t even say the word “shit” in my presence, which I found cute sometimes, immature others. “She’d kill me.”

  “Parents aren’t stupid.” I took a lingering sip. “You’re twenty-three years old.” I recalled her swan-like motions, raising from the couch and extending her hand. Her grasp was dainty; I felt like I was shaking hands with a queen. I could tell she was the master of her domain. And nothing got past her. She’d spoke with conviction and confidence. She’d congratulated me on graduating top of my class from FIU and asked questions about what I loved most about writing for a wine magazine. I’d grinned at Tyler across the room when I realized how much he’d been bragging about me to his parents. Meanwhile, my mind was sifting through all my baggage I’d been hiding from Tyler—my father’s drinking problem, Robert the coke user, Michael’s STD or my string of Latin lovers. I wondered if seeing her son date a girl named after a hideous motorcycle got her tennis skirt in a bunch. I couldn’t imagine how Tyler would react on our first trip to Kansas to meet the family. It would be a scene straight out of The Beverly Hillbillies. I’d show his family that I had some class. Someday I would bring over a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon—something elegant and timeless, such as Jordan or Shafer—if Tyler ever invited me to Sunday dinner with his family.

  Tyler put his nose over the glass and sniffed deeply, following my lead. He still cupped the bowl of the glass with his hands versus stem, but I didn’t correct his technique. Tyler’s tasting skills and palate would come around with practice. I’d moved him quickly past White Zin and Riunite D’Oro: bottles with flavors as sweet and simple as Juicy Fruit gum. “Trust me. The taste of good wine will grow on you,” I’d told him multiple times.

  He rested the glass on his oak table. “It seems so strange to drink wine after going running. And it’s a weeknight.” He pulled another piece of pizza from the box.

  My head cocked sideways. “A glass of wine with dinner is good for you.” I looked into my glass while swirling it. “It’s good for your heart, and it enhances the flavors in your food.” It was that time when wine consumption was climbing, thanks to 60 Minutes coverage about the French paradox—how French people drank more wine and ate fatter foods but were healthier than Americans. After graduation, I’d evolved from drinking wine to get buzzed to enjoying both the taste and the health benefits.

  “I should switch to water.” He pushed his glass away again. “I need to study tonight.” I looked down at my half-eaten piece of pizza and chewed slowly. If it wasn’t baseball distracting him from us, it was books.

  I poured myself another glass, wondering if we’d ever get on the same page.

  Tyler poked at my stereo’s rem
ote control, clicking through songs. I sat on the edge of my futon, nervously swirling my wine glass, waiting for him to pop the big question. My roommates pushed around boxes in the dining room; they were moving back to Atlanta. I had two weeks to find a roommate or be evicted, and a week had passed since Tyler and I had played house.

  “What should I do?” I asked, voice cracking. I wore a short tunic dress and black sandals—something that would get his attention.

  “I don’t know.” His tone was flat; he reached for his wine glass. I tapped my foot, watching his muscular arms flex. He wore a Florida Marlins T-shirt and gym shorts—his usual after-work look. Third Eye Blind’s “Semi-Charmed Life” bopped in the air around us.

  My body sunk into my futon couch. “An eviction notice? I feel so dirty.” I took a healthy swig of Glen Carlou South African Chardonnay. Flavors of vanilla and ripe apple danced across my tongue—so sweet despite the sour moment. “What’s next? An application for food stamps?”

  “Stop it. You’ll be fine. You have a great job, and you’re the most responsible, normal girl I’ve ever dated.” He leaned back, his shoulder resting against mine. “That’s why I like you.” The unexpected compliment startled me; I gulped my wine.

  “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” I stared into the golden-hued glass of wine. “For a nice guy to realize I’m normal.” A normal girl was supposed to be the jackpot in South Florida—no hair extensions, no boob job, no jealous ex-boyfriends, no nagging, no overuse of the word “irregardless” and no addiction to expensive jewelry. I kept telling myself that being normal was the key to landing a nice man. But it was also supposed to make the guy love me, not like me.

  Tyler began jabbering about his interview, which took place over lunch at Ruth’s Chris in West Palm Beach’s new CityPlace complex.

  “They offered me the job before the waiter presented the check,” he said with a smirk, all pleased with himself.

  “That’s great news.” My voice croaked. I kept glaring into my half-empty glass.

  He turned his knees toward me. “There’s something I need to ask you.” His usual bashful tone turned sincere.

  My stomach began knitting itself into a crochet scarf. I squeezed the stem of my wine glass. Finally. The proposal I’ve been waiting for. “Okay. Shoot.” My eyelashes fluttered.

  “Well, I’ll finally be getting my own apartment.” He sat down his wine glass. “And I was wondering if you’d be willing to take Rocky.” His blue eyes locked on my face.

  I looked at his beautiful head of blonde hair, feeling like I’d just been hit in the chest with a line drive. “Take? Like take for a weekend?” I needed a lifeline. I grabbed the wine bottle off my coffee table and poured myself another glass of Chardonnay.

  “Like an adoption.” He rubbed his palms together. “Think of it as joint custody. You love lizards, and I don’t think I’m going to have time for him with the new job and everything else.”

  Holy shit. I want to move in together, and he just wants me to raise his fucking lizard. I straightened my back, feeling the anger rage through me. My dreams began to crack like a thin sheet of ice on a pond. I slurped my wine to calm my nerves.

  “I could take him on weekends or something.” Tyler bumped his knee against mine and smiled, waiting for my response.

  I squared my shoulders to him. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m a little busy with my own ‘everything else’ right now.”

  His back fell hard against my futon. “Okay…I’ll take that as a ‘no.’” He grabbed his wine off the coffee table and took a long drink. “This is really sharp.” He peered into the wine glass.

  I folded my arms. “Tell me about it.” My voice could have cut right through him—sharp and crisp like a Sauvignon Blanc, not a Chardonnay. But, I was too emotionally exhausted to teach him the difference.

  I found a classified ad on Yahoo!—not the dating section—from someone in Hallandale Beach looking for a roommate to share a three-bedroom house in a gated community. I quickly moved in with Brandon, the homeowner, who was tall with short black hair, round glasses and always wore a tie. He worked for a paper manufacturer located in the same business park as the wine distributor. My new bedroom was long and wide, big enough for my desk, living room and bedroom furniture all in one space. My new place was located twenty minutes north of my last house, which cut my commute to Tyler’s new apartment in Palm Beach County. Over the six months we’d been dating, I’d moved twice, but the relationship was still parked in the same spot since month two: low-pressure and comfortably cute. We chatted online at least three or four nights a week. We still met up on weekends a couple times a month. I found myself calling him, asking him if he was free, if he wanted to get together. My rules were out the door. School, baseball practice and geography made weekday rendezvous nearly impossible. When the weekend rolled around, he fit me into his schedule.

  Wanna come up 4 a sleepover? he asked on instant message with a smiley face, *wink* and *grin*. I took the bait.

  Driving to Palm Beach County from Broward for the first time felt like crossing over into a different country. The grassy marshes flanking I-95 north of Boca Raton morphed into strip malls and business parks the farther I drove.

  I climbed Tyler’s open-air stairway with heavy legs, admiring the tropical gardens surrounding his building. When I found his unit on the third floor, I paused in the humid air and tugged on the edges of my tunic dress. My fingers fluffed my flat hair before knocking on the door.

  The door openly slowly and Tyler peeked around the edge. He smiled sweetly and pecked my lips. I rested my duffle bag gently on the floor. His kitchen was the size of a walk-in closet and opened to a skinny living room with a sliding-glass door and small terrace overlooking a courtyard. Tyler proudly showed me around his mismatched living room—a mix of freebie furniture from relatives.

  “Now we both have our own places.” He stood in the center of his living room, grinning. His need for a life independent from mine baffled me. If he didn’t want to be with me, why was he keeping me around? It couldn’t be the sex. I didn’t even wear lingerie around him, scared he might think that was slutty. I stood with my arms laced, waiting for him to be hospitable.

  He tilted his head. “What’s wrong?” I peeked into his bedroom to find a twin bed and one nightstand. I’d hardly said a word; I wanted to scream. Tyler obviously wasn’t planning to play house with me. There wasn’t even a place for me to sleep besides the couch!

  I planted both hands on my hips. “I’m your guest. You haven’t offered me anything to drink.”

  “I’m sorry,” he replied. “But I only have milk and water.” He flashed a bashful smile, hoping to squelch my disappointment. I glanced over at my duffle bag, wondering if I should leave.

  We drove to CityPlace, ten minutes east of his apartment. The open-air entertainment complex had three stories of bustling bars and restaurants. Things were looking up.

  “What do you want to eat?” I asked, hopping out of his Honda Civic in the parking garage. “I heard there are some great restaurants here with really progressive wine lists.” My eyes bopped around his handsome face, waiting for an answer that would make my mood go from okay to great.

  “I don’t really care,” Tyler replied. “I haven’t been anywhere but Ruth’s Chris.” My chin dropped.

  We walked into the shopping center’s piazza. “Do you wanna try something new?” I waited for him to grab my hand, like always. He finally did … after I intentionally bumped into him.

  His hand felt lifeless in mine. “Not really.”

  “Let’s start with a martini.” I spotted a Blue Martini bar and guided Tyler to the terrace. I ordered a Cosmopolitan; he ordered a Kalik. I sighed and looked sheepishly around at the other tables. Did people with real jobs drink cheap beer? I saw only bright-colored martini glasses dotting the high-top tables filled with young men and women in designer suits. Was Tyler really ready to grow up? I picked at my fingernails, unsure of what to say. Tyler rav
ed about his office in the fancy high-rise off Worth Avenue and how awesome it was to walk to the bars after work and have a beer with his new colleagues. I sipped on my pink martini, feeling more perturbed with each swallow. Once we finished our drinks, Tyler said he wanted to take me to his favorite local dinner spot as a surprise.

  Within minutes, we pulled into a Blimpie on Okeechobee Boulevard. A freakin’ Blimpie.

  We squeezed awkwardly into his twin bed that night and had our usual sweet, conservative, missionary sex. We slept on our sides so I wouldn’t fall off the bed.

  I woke up the next morning cramped and disoriented. Where am I? Oh, yeah. Tyler breathed deeply on my shoulder, still fast asleep. I slipped quietly out of his tiny bed and tiptoed to the doorway in my tank top and panties. I turned back and watched him sleeping peacefully. Will there ever be enough room for me in his life? Nearly half a decade of prime honeymooning years had evaporated. Moving forward with the CPA Exam was his goal. Moving forward with our relationship was mine. I was twenty-four and he was only one year younger, and I couldn’t imagine anyone our age not thinking seriously about marriage. We’d spent a half-year dating, and the topic had never come up once. Deciding if we had a future should have happened at the ninety-day mark. He’d told me he liked me, and there was one “I missed you” when he’d picked me up at the airport. That was the closest to “I love you” we’d ever got. Those slivers of emotion had kept me going for months. I gingerly grabbed my clothes and pulled them on.