We spent the entire afternoon driving up and down Pacific Coast Highway, holding hands while I gazed out at the rocky cliffs plunging into the deep blue ocean. When we cruised past a Chart House restaurant perched on a ridge, I thought of my first dinner with James. I couldn’t believe how much my life had changed in just six months—from country bumpkin to cross-country jet-setter. I rolled down my window and ran my fingers through the cool air. Dating Matthew was going to require travel, and I was eager to rack up miles on my first frequent flyer card. My horizons were widening faster than I’d ever imagined. I could finally squash my Wizard of Oz hecklers like bugs.
Matthew parked the car near Venice Beach. Bright-colored Art Deco buildings lined the oceanfront street. A long boardwalk flaked by towering palm trees snaked along the sand, dotted with artists, street performers and the occasional panhandler. It reminded me of South Beach—only smaller and weirder. Hmmm, I could get used to the West Coast. We kicked off our shoes and walked barefoot along the promenade, holding hands and letting the afternoon sun warm our faces.
Whoosh! Three tube-topped rollerbladers flew past us, close—so close I could smell their cherry bubble gum. Matthew threw his arms around my waist and tugged me into his chest like a protective parent.
“Freaks.” Matthew shook his head in disgust.
“Thanks for watching out for me.” I wrapped my arms around his waist and tucked my head against his heart. His instincts endeared me to him.
“I always will,” he replied.
We stepped onto the warm sand and walked toward the ocean’s edge. The myriad unknowns of making long-distance love work whizzed through my head. Can I afford to keep flying to California? How much will my phone bill be? How often will we see each other? Matthew squeezed my hand tightly every few minutes, releasing my tension.
“Let’s go in,” he said, tugging my hand. We stood at the edge of the Pacific Ocean, looking out into the glowing horizon. Sunset was near.
“No way!” I pulled away from him, giggling. “Are you crazy? It’s way colder than the Atlantic, right?” Matthew leaned down and rolled up his pants. I dipped my big toe into the ocean. “Eek!” My foot flew from the frigid water, as goose bumps shot up my legs. This is no South Beach.
“We’ll do it the hard way then.” Matthew grinned and scooped me into his arms. My short sundress hiked up my thighs, and I squealed like a child.
“Please, don’t!” I wrapped my arms tightly around his neck, laughing. He stepped into the water, holding me like a husband about to carry his bride over the threshold. “You won’t! You won’t!” I pushed my face deep into his chest.
Matthew stepped back from the water’s edge and spun me around like a ballroom dancer. The cool, salty air whisked around my body, while the sun shined down on us. The combination was like steroids for my psyche. I felt as alive as the day I’d snorkeled in the Atlantic for the first time. I wanted to share so many new memories with Matthew. I didn’t want the weekend to end, but my red-eye flight home was looming. I painted a smile on my face. At least we were together, if only for a few more hours.
“How long before you’ll be back?” I finally asked, looking down at my toes. I pressed them deeper into the cool, wet sand. His face darkened and made me feel a little guilty for bringing up his next mission on such a peaceful day.
“I can’t be sure,” he replied, gripping my hand. “Maybe four weeks.”
I didn’t ask where he was going. Missions were always top secret, classified and thus dangerous. I thought of a picture he’d sent me of him leaning against a palm tree wearing his undercover “street clothes.” The words “Bahrain, April 2, 1995” were handwritten on the back. I had no idea if Bahrain was a city or country at the time, but figured it was in the Middle East.
“When will I see you again?” I asked, shutting out the bad thoughts of assassinations and bomb threats. Knowing when we’d be together again would give me something to look forward to.
His auburn eyes were hidden under the rim of his baseball cap. “Soon.” He paused. “Don’t worry. Have faith in us.” He hugged me tightly and rested his chin on the crown of my head like he’d done in the motel room. “Whenever you start to miss me, just listen to ‘Come Monday’.” Matthew was a diehard Jimmy Buffet fan and had promised we’d share a “Cheeseburger In Paradise” on our first trip to the Florida Keys. My very own Parrothead.
My eyes swelled with tears at the airport gate. Matthew stroked my face and hugged me while departing flight announcements boomed from the overhead speakers. I stared into his eyes, almost as cloudy as mine. Matthew stuffed his hand into the pocket of his camouflage pants and pulled out folded papers.
“I’m not sure when I’ll be able to write you again.” He handed me a thick, crumpled envelope. “So you might want to wait a few days to read this.”
I clutched the letter to my chest like a new diamond necklace. “It’s going to be even harder now.” Tears poured down my cheeks. A physical connection was now bonded to our sizzling emotional one, and my personal life was in shambles. Alicia had officially moved out the week before my trip. She’d insisted I owed her a deposit she’d never paid, then left threatening messages on my answering machine. I’d woken up the next morning to find all four of my car tires slashed, right outside my bedroom window. It seemed like my life was lost footage from Single White Female. I’d changed the locks on my front door, but we still had to share the same restaurant bus station when I returned to Miami.
“I know, but you’ve got to be strong.” Matthew brushed my hair from my face. “You are better than any of those people. Besides, I need to know you’ll be there for me.” His strong hands squeezed my biceps like a football coach calling plays to the star quarterback. I looked into his eyes, letting his words sink in. We stood together at my gate in silence, arms locked around each other’s waist. It felt like a pair of pliers was prying my chest apart. I didn’t know what to say. I squeezed him and nuzzled his chest until my final boarding call.
I cried myself to sleep on the airplane.
The phone rang at my apartment before I’d set my keys on the kitchen counter. I dragged my sore body to the bookshelf in my bedroom, noticing how nice it was to not trip over Alicia’s futon along the way. My eyes felt puffy. My back ached from trying to sleep in a cramped, coach seat. Only eight hours had passed since we’d said goodbye. My head felt as if I’d drunk a bottle of NyQuil. I fumbled the receiver from the phone.
“Hello?” My voice cracked with curiosity and fear. It was seven o’clock on a Monday morning. I waited for Alicia’s hiss to strike through the line.
“Hey.” Matthew’s voice, curt and authoritative as always, collapsed my tension. My heart began humming. I swallowed my icky morning breath and grimaced.
“I thought you were leaving today.” Every syllable danced from my mouth. I took a deep breath. His unexpected call made me feel needed all over again.
“There’s something I need to tell you before I leave.” His words marched through the phone line. I could picture his jaw and straight face. My heart pounded so hard, I could feel it in my toes. I’d spilled my emotions—on paper and in person—but thought I’d have to wait another eight weeks, not hours, to hear those three words leave his lips.
“I am married.”
The receiver felt like a rock in my hand. It took all my power to keep from hurling it out my bedroom window. His words were like a Ginsu knife, carving through my heart with the same ease as a tree branch, a beer can, a block of frozen spinach. Bile rose in my throat. My lips couldn’t move. My whole world was suspended, dangling from the edge of a cliff, and I could do nothing but wait for the rocks to crumble to the sea.
“It’s not what it seems.” His voice drowned out the hum of the phone line. My body trembled with fear, shock and exhaustion. The receiver felt super-glued to my ear. I listened to him talk, every word piercing me like an arrow. She was from Colombia. They’d met in Miami just before he’d joined the Navy. He said he’d
married her to help her get her green card, so she didn’t have to live in a place where drug lords had more power than the government. It was a time when he needed some stability in his life, and getting married was something military guys who worked overseas did. He wanted some “normalcy,” and she’d provided it for a few years. They were getting a divorce. His words sounded like typewriter keys bouncing against paper. A Kung-Fu fight scene of emotions broke out in my head. I felt like I’d been conned by Thomas Crown. I sooooo wanted to believe Matthew. He was my ocean, the man I’d sail through life with and into eternity. But the knot that had formed in my stomach never untied itself during his explanation.
I sat on my bed in silence, listening to the low hum inside the phone receiver. The anger of betrayal bubbled inside me. All the pieces of the puzzle began to fuse in my head: calling me mid-morning or mid-afternoon rather than when he woke up or before he went to bed, meeting me in Los Angeles versus San Diego, holding back physically when we were alone together in the motel room. Visions of Matthew in his uniform racing up the sidewalk to his house flashed into my head. And there were two little boys on tricycles and a pregnant Latina smiling at the front door. My stomach began to churn.
“Harley, are you still there?” Matthew shouted, as if we were platoon members separated during battle and the phone was a walkie-talkie.
I should have yelled back, “Ten-four, motherfucker.”
My chest felt ripped open. His confession kept barreling through my head. The only thing I could hear was my shaking breath. The courage to react finally overtook the shock. My move? I pressed my index finger on the “end” button, then dropped the receiver on the floor. My hurt was bottled inside as always, far away from my boyfriend’s ears. Before the off-the-hook beep rang through my apartment, tears shot down my cheeks like guided missiles. I collapsed onto my bed and wailed. My lungs fought for air between the deep cries and rolling waves of denial, guilt and embarrassment. Sure, Matthew wasn’t perfect in terms of geography or job, but he’d wrapped me in a blanket of romance and emotional intimacy I’d craved my entire life. He’d bared his soul to me, which could have been a super-sized helping of crap if he was a liar, a ruthless heartbreaker who got his kicks off having affairs with women at every international port where his ship docked.
I went out and bought a Jimmy Buffet CD. And come Monday, everything was not alright.
That pill is just as hard to swallow now as it was back then. I’m still not sure I believe Matthew was a naval Casanova. I loved the movie Green Card. He could have been the male Andie MacDowell, right? The crippling blow that my dream guy was married made me feel like a second-hand sweater from a thrift store. I was just as dirty as a South Beach shoplifter. I’d broken one of the Ten Commandments—the biggest one. The fact that I didn’t know he was married didn’t make the guilt subside. My grandma’s rosary was tucked in my jewelry box under his heap of love letters, and for days, I considering pulling it out and creating a confessional on the living room floor. What kind of bad karma was cursing me? I gave granola bars to panhandlers. I organized food drives. I took in stray cats. I was a good person. I deserved a happily ever after—not dating hell.
I tugged open the metal blinds in my bedroom windows, flooding the apartment with bright, warm light. The fiery-orange morning sun warmed my wet face, as I stood at my second-story window, looking out at the treetops of palms and Banyans. Four dark days had passed since the phone call. Four days of tears. Ninety-six hours of soul-searching. As I stared down at my favorite saw palmetto in the courtyard, a bright thought sliced through the sorrow: Life could be worse. James could have asked me to follow him to University of Florida, then pulled a Lance and dumped me the second week of college. Robert could have infected me with HIV. Marco could have slipped me a rufie and tied me to a post at some S&M club. With Matthew, I could have been so hopelessly in love that I hung on his every word, believing the promise that someday he’d leave his wife for me. I’d watched those pitiful women tell their stories on Ricki Lake. I had no interest in becoming a statistic. I’d come too far since Kansas to remain involved with some guy who possibly collected women like Beanie Babies. Whether his explanation was fact or fiction didn’t change the situation. He had plenty of chances to spill his nuptial beans before we climbed into bed. It was an unforgivable offense.
True love was still out there—with an honest, local man. Damn you Sleepless in Seattle for making me think a cross-country romance could work anyway! Honesty and trust had always been the first pillars in a relationship for me. I trusted men until they give me a reason not to trust them. Believing Matthew was the man he’d demonstrated on paper—a fellow artist and hopeless romantic who wanted and needed me and showered me with compliments—came naturally. When you’re twenty-one and living alone in a metropolitan city, some red flags just aren’t obvious without the magnifying glass of time.
Matthew’s letters and phone calls stopped after about six weeks; so did my inspiration to paint and write poetry. Everclear released its album “Sparkle and Fade.” When I listened to “Santa Monica” for the first time, goose bumps covered my arms, as the twangy guitar bounced along with the words about the ghost, being lonely and dreaming of the California coast.
I started living with Matthew’s ghost. At least someone was keeping me company.
JOHN
“SUAVEMENTE”
Elvis Crespo
REWIND: John’s thin frame squeezed between the crush of sweaty people circling on the dance floor. The sounds of trumpets, maracas and drums pulsed through my torso. His soft hand tugged me, shooting tiny currents up my arm. Oh, the anticipation of where he’ll touch me next. I swayed my hips to the beat and watched John’s backside flicker under pulsing lights: the full head of short, jet-black hair, the cherry-red silk shirt, the baggy, black dress pants. He looked like detective Scott Valens on Cold Case, and I was dying to be frisked. It was merengue night at Baja Beach Club, a word that, back then, still reminded me of Mom’s lemon meringue pie.
John turned to me in the middle of the dancing crowd. Overhead lights blinked to the music, making his face flash white, then dark. “Could you wait here for a minute, please?” The sweetness poured from his voice. His perfectly trimmed goatee tickled my ear lobe, and I nodded, the smoldering fire inside me igniting. He’s taking a different route to my heart. I like that. His politeness always brought a big smile to my face—just when I was beginning to believe there were no nice guys in Miami. The most-used words in John’s vocabulary were “please,” “thank you, “miss” and “ma’am.” I couldn’t believe I’d spent months letting Alicia brainwash me into thinking that all Cuban men were sleazy cheaters tethered to their mothers for life … by a string of plantains.
“Okay,” I shouted back, bouncing to the music. My shoulders swayed while John’s big brown eyes circled my face. His eyes were always dark yet kind. I quickly glanced away back toward the door.
John brushed the curls off my shoulder. “Who are you looking for?”
I bit my lip. “No one.” It didn’t know what was worse: the thought of Latinos’ eyes burning yucca-sized holes in my head for invading their turf or having a bartender from work see me with my arms wrapped around a busboy. Yes, I can almost hear the servers in metro cities gasping! The unspoken rule of dating hierarchy at restaurants was servers date servers or line cooks, i.e. peers. No moving up the ranks to managers or down to busboys and dishwashers … lines I dared to cross.
“You’ll be okay here?” John flashed a sweet, sexy smile.
“I’m a survivor.” I cracked a smirk, as he brushed his fingers across my chin before disappearing into the crowd. John strutted like a businessman with enough connections to bypass the waiting line at Joe’s Stone Crab. He was not your Olive Garden-variety busboy. His confidence turned me on something fierce.
I watched John’s silhouette carving through the crowd, changing colors under the flashing lights. My eyes scanned the room. Every single person on the dance fl
oor had dark hair and dark eyes—except me. The women had their quintessential Latina curves and the guys their goatees. John fit in so well, gliding up to the DJ booth. I continued to bounce my hips and shoulders, trying to look like a regular. My fingers fidgeted at my sides, and I cursed myself for not ordering another Strawberry Daiquiri. I wore a tight, black jump suit with billowing legs—the nineties answer to the MC Hammer pants. My long, blonde hair fell over the shoulders of my white blouse—one of those frilly tops with cascading ruffles like Prince wore in Purple Rain. I felt like I belonged about as much as a vegan in a steakhouse.
Silence poured over the dance floor. The voluptuous ladies with their short, black dresses and long, black hair froze next to their men. All heads turned toward the DJ booth, waiting to see if the next beat would send their bodies back into orbit. John swaggered back through the crowd toward me, his eyes locked onto mine. He smiled like a kid who’d just been handed a double-scoop ice cream cone. My whole body began to tingle, turbo-fueled by his desire. A man’s deep, sensual voice, singing a capella, poured from the overhead speakers. I watched John’s full lips singing along with every word. Every Spanish word. He could have been saying, “Your ass looks big in those horrible pants” for all I knew. My Spanish was limited to restaurant basics—platos, tazas, serviettas, cuchillos, sopa, pollo. Just hearing those foreign syllables rolling off John’s tongue made me want to declare Spanish as my minor in college.
THE EXES IN MY IPOD: A Playlist of the Men Who Rocked Me to Wine Country Page 15
