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

by Lisa M. Mattson

  I twisted my lips. “You’re geographically undesirable.”

  “Come on!” Kevin leaned closer. “We live in the same state.” Kevin proceeded to tell me he’d done some research on MapQuest and needed my home address to confirm the actual drive time.

  “You realize there are countries smaller than California.” I hid my face behind the wine glass. My mind was spinning faster than a grape hopper during harvest. Stalker or sweetheart?

  I sat in silence, picking at the corn relish on our crab cake plate. The bartender came over to check on us and bought me some time. “This is all happening so fast.” My head shook. I ran my fingertips around the rim of my Champagne flute. “Once upon a time, I was good at fast. Those days are behind me.” I turned back to my plate and cut a dainty piece of crab cake with my fork.

  Kevin leaned in and nudged my shoulder. “Aren’t you going to invite me up for a drink?” I stood in the hotel lobby, looking down at my pink toenails peeking through my sandals. I felt like I’d just been thrown into a round of Final Jeopardy!, and I didn’t know the answer.

  I linked my hands behind my back. “I only have water.”

  Kevin’s face lit up like Maya’s at the amusement park. “Perfect. I like water.”

  I slipped the plastic card into my door and slowly turned the handle. My hotel room looked like a Pottery Barn catalog spread with espresso furniture and Earth-tone accents. Two olive green chairs with accent pillows bordered sliding glass doors to the patio. I marched right past the plush bed to the sitting area and motioned for Kevin to join me. I plucked two bottles of water from the mini bar, feeling the ball of nerves whirling in my stomach. As I sat the waters on a tiny table between our two chairs, Kevin touched my bare shoulder. I winced.

  “You’re really burnt,” he said softly.

  “Thanks for the reminder.” My voice snapped like a whip. My entire body was as red as a boiled lobster. My pink spaghetti-strapped top only accentuated my new skin color. I sat in the chair, gingerly.

  “Do you have any aloe vera?” His voice was as kind and caring as a grandmother. I shook my head. “Lotion? There’s got to be some lotion in here.” Kevin scurried to the marble bathroom by the front door. My lips parted, but no words came out. My heel tapped nervously on the floor. I wasn’t sure I liked where he was heading.

  Kevin trotted back with a bottle of Bath & Body Works in his hands. “Turn around.” He sounded like a parent talking to his child. I pouted with arms crossed, then rolled my eyes and gave in. He stood above my chair, gently rubbing the cool lotion on my arms and shoulders. I grimaced with every touch, but the cooling sensation did soothe the pain.

  “We should put some on your lower back too,” he said, kissing me softly on the ear. I felt the warmth of his lips against my hot flesh. Thoughts were spinning out of control in my head. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. His hands glided over my shoulders down to the bra strap on the middle of my back. I jumped and arched my back, frightened by the electricity of his touch. I grabbed the bottle of water and took a swig. He gripped my hands, pulling me up from the chair.

  “We don’t need to move. You can do that here.” My voice barked. I tugged at my top to reveal the small of my back. He continued to pull me slowly toward the bed, smiling. I looked at the fluffy king bed covered in pillows. My legs locked.

  “I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do,” Kevin said sweetly. I shook my head and dug my heels into the carpet.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Heard that one before too.”

  “You need the lotion.” He sounded sweet and orderly like a nurse. “I can’t get it on all the burnt spots without removing your shirt. I mean it.” He grabbed my arms. We stared at each other in silence, hands locked in the middle of the bedroom like two kids about to start a tug of war.

  “Fine.” I dropped my hands to my side. My chest pulsed like a subwoofer in a low rider. “I’ll take off my top, but only because my sunburn hurts so freakin’ much.” I stood impatiently next to the bed like a customer in a massage parlor waiting for the masseuse to leave before getting undressed. The curtains were drawn. The bathroom light bathed the room in a low glow. I turned my body away from him and unlatched my strapless bra. I pulled the bra out the bottom of my shirt and rested it on the nightstand, then crawled onto the bed. I pressed my face into a gigantic, down pillow. Be strong, I told myself. Kevin slowly pulled my top up to my shoulders. I kept my back to him, my chest glued to the comforter. He straddled my body, continuing to glide his cool, creamy hands across my bare back and shoulders.

  “I would give you a massage if you weren’t in so much pain,” he whispered. My heart did a flip and then a nosedive. I’d dreamed of dating a massaging man for years, but I wasn’t expecting a guy in his early thirties to get so physical so fast. I assumed older men had more restraint and respect in the bedroom.

  Kevin kissed my shoulders, then turned me over. His lips slid across my shoulder blades and onto my chest. I exhaled, then shivered. He kissed me, deep and wet, and pulled my top over my head before I could give it a second thought. The electricity of his touch rocketed through me. My fingers instinctively flew to his chest. I could feel him unbuttoning his shirt. My mind was paralyzed, lost in the heady moment of feeling his lips against mine, his fingers softly brushing across my body like feathers—that carnival ride of emotions I’d desperately missed since losing Fernando. Kevin’s openness and compliments echoed in my head. Talking to Kevin felt natural. Kissing Kevin felt intoxicating. His fingers moved to the zipper of my pants.

  “Wait.” I pushed my body weight against his like a barricade. I took a deep breath, my chest and pelvis throbbing in concert. “We need to stop.” My voice sounded like a boot camp trainer’s. I looked up at Kevin’s toned, tan body. It was never too late to say “no” to a guy. It only took me fifteen years to realize it.

  He grinned and kissed my nose. “I know, I know. I haven’t wanted to stop since the first time I kissed you.” His arms straddled me. I shook my head and crossed my arms like a kid about to be fed a spoon of cough syrup.

  I wiggled out from under him and looked into his eyes. “I really, really like you.” I rubbed his arms. “You revived a passion inside me I thought was dead. I love how open you are about your feelings toward me.” My hands caressed his bare chest. “But I made a promise to myself. I’m never having sex again with a man unless we’re in love.” I glanced down at his hands and touched his fingers. My voice remained steady. “I don’t love you. You don’t love me.” I looked at my bare, quivering stomach. “I can’t go through with this.” I’d been using sex as an icebreaker in most relationships—James, Robert, Marco, Raul, even Paul. My life in California was a new era, a new me. I had so much more to give than my body.

  Kevin dropped to his elbow and lay down next to me. He pressed his lips against my shoulder. “Maybe it could be love,” he said between kisses. “It just feels so right.”

  I pulled a pillow to cover my chest. “If it’s meant to be, it will happen.” My tone was sturdy and confident. “You’re the one that said, ‘everything happens for a reason’, remember?”

  “I’ve been doing some research,” Kevin said on the phone. “There are several PGA golf courses near your place. I could drive all night and be there before dawn.” I stood in my townhouse living room with my Blackberry to my ear, grinning. My second long-distance love affair with a man from San Diego who liked to surf was in full swing. But now we had two game changers: cellphones and divorce papers. I remained cautiously optimistic that Kevin was a prince. “How far is Sonoma from you again?” Kevin asked.

  “Twenty-five minutes,” I said in a purr, prancing past my lounge chairs. Kevin had been texting me at least three times a day since I’d left Arizona. His love notes ranged from “cant stop thinking about u” and “missing u like crazy” to “want 2 kiss u” and “want 2c ur blue eyes.” My hopelessly romantic side ate it up.

  “Sonoma Golf Club looks like a grea
t property.” He cooed the words. “I’m sure there’s work for me there.”

  I gasped into my smartphone. “You’re a nut job.” The golf club was located near Chance’s house, and I daydreamed about bumping into him with Kevin on my arm. “You can switch gears with your job, just like that?” My hand muffled a gasp of surprise as it left my lips. His words kept catapulting the relationship forward. I continued putting on the brakes.

  “Being self employed is the best,” he replied. “You should try it sometime.” I let his suggestion sink into my psyche. I’d always eaten lunch at my desk and took calls on my chirping Blackberry until seven o’clock at night. The winery had a meat-grinder work culture, which I’d fully embraced for two years. Meeting Kevin had helped me put the hectic pace in perspective. Maybe I should start my own business someday.

  “Someday,” I said.

  “I could get some teaching gigs and spend weekends at your place.” His tone was as giddy as an Auction Napa Valley winner. The idea of hanging out with Kevin in my new townhouse and showing him Sonoma County’s best wineries and restaurants excited me. The fact that he’d proposed the idea thrilled me even more. But I couldn’t help but wonder how he’d have anytime for his daughter, bouncing between Southern and Northern California. Weekends were his Maya time in Arizona.

  “Did you receive the packet from your mom yet?” he asked excitedly. In Scottsdale, we’d gotten into a conversation about zodiac signs, and I’d told him about my mom’s hobby of writing astrology charts. “Cool! Can she do mine?” Kevin had asked. I’d quickly called in another astrological favor to Mom, wondering if Kevin had a VIP card for the Psychic Friends Network hotline.

  “Yes.” I pressed the cell phone closer to my ear. “And it’s all here alright.” I collapsed into my cushy couch and propped my bare feet on the coffee table—something Paul never allowed. I looked down at the fat, manila envelope mom had sent me, stuffed with Kevin’s chart and a fifteen-page comparative report overlapping Kevin’s planets with mine.

  “What did it say? What did it say?” Kevin chanted like a schoolboy who’d just had a secret note snatched from his desk before he could read it.

  “It says I’m your good-luck charm.” I grinned into the phone, looking out my giant, living room window. The findings blew my mind: Kevin was the best astrological match my mom had ever seen, and she’d run boyfriends’ charts for me at least twenty times.

  “That’s so freaking cool!” Kevin’s voice cheered through the phone. “That is so right. I’ve been playing the best golf of my career since we met. Will you read a few pages to me?” I looked at the phone like he’d just asked me to lick his forehead.

  “Ummm, okay,” I replied, grabbing the envelope. A handsome pro golfer who loved to talk about life and spirituality, was an incredible kisser and was eager to learn more about astrology? He was too good to be true—just like Mr. STD, Michael. I could see the huge grin on Kevin’s face as I recited the paragraphs summarizing our connection. We could talk for hours. We could read each other’s minds. We would have eternal luck while together. We have a powerful physical connection. The list went on and on.

  “It’s just the stars.” I squeezed my Blackberry, wondering what to say next. “It’s just a guideline. You know, fun food for thought.” I set the report back on my coffee table.

  “Sounds spot on to me.” Kevin’s voice tickled my eardrums and my heart. I looked up at my high ceilings, feeling my pulse ready to take flight. His every word had my emotions and dreams soaring with possibilities. I decided not to tell him we had a grand trine. He’d think I had a crystal ball and mixed potions in a boiling caldron. A special bond exists between two people whose natal charts form a grand trine. Grand trines involve three points (three or more planets) that form mutual trines to each other; when lines are drawn from each planet to the other person’s chart, a triangle results. One of the most powerful indicators of special relationships—like soulmates—occurs when a simple trine in one person’s natal chart is effectively turned into a grand trine by another person’s planets in his/her chart. The planets said that Kevin was a better match for me than Fernando.

  Still, I wasn’t ready to give him my heart. Something deep inside me needed more proof that he was my soulmate.

  I decided it was time for a girlfriend getaway—some estrogen and Chardonnay to distract me from Kevin. Melanie had a family friend who owned a cabin on the north shore of Lake Tahoe, so we drove to the mountains, cars loaded with girls, beach chairs and coolers of wine. Melanie invited two girls from Napa I’d never met, and I brought Kate, a wine marketing director who’d just relocated to wine country from New York.

  My fingers punched a text message to Kevin while the girls sipped their white wine on the chalet’s deck.

  “I just have a quick question about our trip,” I said, as they rolled their eyes. It had been ten days since Arizona, and my first trip to San Diego was less than a week away. Southwest Airlines was running a special on flights between Northern and Southern California, so I’d forwarded it to Kevin.

  cool, i would luv 2 c u!!! he’d texted back. His calls and text messages were fueling the anticipation of our next rendezvous; he’d already had to cancel his first trip to Santa Rosa due to a golf clinic job in Palm Springs.

  let’s talk about my trip soon; can’t wait! Xoxo. I hit the send button and returned to our girl party. I didn’t know his address or what time he’d be picking me up at the airport. My event planner’s brain was programmed to finalize trip logistics fourteen days prior to departure. We’d passed our deadline.

  My Blackberry didn’t beep or ring for two full days. I checked it every hour, even turning it off and on to hopefully unlock a trapped message. The girls and I jogged the running trail along the lake’s west shore, sunbathed on Commons Beach and danced at Altitudes nightclub in Harrah’s Casino. But the familiar feeling of relationship limbo was barreling through my veins again. Both of Melanie’s friends were bitter divorcées and offered plenty of reasons for why Kevin had disappeared. I bit my nails and let my thoughts run in circles all weekend.

  When I returned to Santa Rosa, I flipped on my laptop and googled Kevin’s full name. The search turned up nothing. I googled his name in parenthesis with the word “golf,” then again with “Scottsdale,” then with “San Diego.” Zilch. I couldn’t help but wonder: Is San Diego the capital of men who live double lives and no one bothered to tell me?

  My chest began to twinge. I remembered how much it sucked to be on the dating circuit, waiting for a guy to call. Kate offered to help me numb the pain with a pitcher of margaritas at Guy Fieri’s bar-restaurant, Tex Wasabi’s. When two guys in their mid-twenties grabbed nearby barstools, we took the bait. They were construction workers with rough hands and big muscles. And for one night, Kate and I got to have boy toys. Eli was mine. He looked like a young Kevin Costner and was a Capricorn like Kevin. And he happened to be perfectly comfortable with the fact that he was never going to bed me. Kissing another man didn’t help my heartache when I was twenty, and it didn’t help at age thirty either. I still felt like crap.

  Five days passed without a text from Kevin. After two weeks of his constant communication, I couldn’t stop my mind from reeling with the woulda-coulda-shoulda. I shouldn’t have read him the astrology report. I should have never bought that airplane ticket. I should have never agreed to go to his house. Then my brain screeched to a halt.

  Stop it, Harley. Stop apologizing for being yourself. Stop second-guessing your instincts.

  He’d flown away, and I had to set him free, just like Fergie sang in “Fly Away.” I grabbed my Blackberry and began thumbing a letter:

  K, I’m not sure what happened, but I just want you to know that whatever it was, I would have understood. This is me. Remember? You know me. You can trust me. I would have been there for you, even if only as a friend. Scottsdale was a blast. I’m so glad we met. Everything happens for a reason. I wish you all the happiness in the world. Keeping surfing, k
eep smiling, keep dreaming. And don’t forget: be opti-mystic. L

  A smile spread across my face, as I hit “send.” I pulled a bottle of Iron Horse Wedding Cuvée from my fridge and grabbed a Champagne flute. My spirits may have needed a lift, but my conscience was clear. I’d gained so much from my brief relationship with Kevin:

  1) Confidence. I’d stuck to my guns about sleeping with a man I’d just met.

  2) Pride. I’d kept up my guard and didn’t get emotionally attached too quickly.

  3) Hope. I’d reaffirmed my belief that I could have an amazing connection with a man again.

  The best things in life come in threes, right? I’d just begun the third decade of my life. Fiona Apple’s third album, Extraordinary Machine, was finally coming. I’d find a soulmate connection a third time in this lifetime. I was born lucky. Don’t forget the round-trip ticket on Southwest. I definitely came out ahead in the relationship. Did I ever hear from Kevin again? No. (I recently found him on Facebook, but he didn’t accept my friend request.)

  My internal soldier in pursuit of the elusive Mr. Right regrouped and redeployed. Being divorced isn’t the scarlet letter of single life. Thirty is the new twenty. I had a new decade to look forward to. I raised a toast to myself, letting the sparkling wine’s layers of strawberries and cream dance on my tongue. What a difference a decade makes. I pictured myself in my white Cheesecake Factory uniform with my big hair, big dreams and a bottle of Rolling Rock in my hand. Look at me now. I was a confident, driven woman with a palate for fine wine and a Kung-Fu grip on my future. I knew what kind of relationship would make me happy, and more importantly, when to stand up for myself and say “no” to a man. A wonderful circle of wine biz friends supported me through the divorce, and my event-marketing career was on the fast track at Gallo. I owned my own home, my SUV was paid off and my credit cards had zero balance. My heart belonged to Sonoma wine country, and my soul to a man whose path had yet to cross mine. The hardest hills had been climbed. My Champagne flute was more than half full. It didn’t matter if it took five months or five years, my heart and soul were willing to wait for the right guy. The one who would respect me for the bumpy road I’d followed in life. The one who would run to me, not from me. The one who would unconditionally love the woman molded from all those experiences before him—because there will always be skeletons in my closet and bottles of Burgundy in my cellar.