“Did you talk to him about this before you were married?” Ziggy asked, her reading glasses clutched between her bony fingers.
I bit my upper lip while they waited for me to talk. “No.” Tears began to pool in the corners of my eyes. I took a deep breath to fight them off. There was no way in hell I could possibly explain to either of them why I didn’t talk to Paul about my feelings. The hurdles I’d needed to cross before marrying Paul even seemed too big for Lolo Jones. It went far beyond wedding jitters. I had to get over Fernando—the love of my life. Paul’s kisses always felt mechanical and short, like those plastic birds bobbing for sips in water fountains. The thought of Fernando’s touch had crossed my mind almost every time Paul’s lips met mine. For weeks leading up to the wedding, I’d daydreamed about standing in the Audubon House gardens in Key West with our families and friends around us, wearing my A-line wedding gown, looking at stern-faced Paul in his fancy tuxedo, hearing the officiant ask, “Does anyone object to this marriage?” Then, Fernando would jump out of the Areca palms and shout, “I do!”—and I’d burst into tears and rush into his arms. I’d always yearned to feel the exhilaration of chemistry with Paul, even a half of kilowatt of what I’d felt with Fernando. Every kiss with Paul was a search for a hidden switch I’d hopefully find and flip, unleashing that undiscovered passion between us. I was still waiting for it to happen—almost six years later. After six months with Paul, I’d decided that my soul love of this lifetime was not meant to be. Adiós, Fernando. There wouldn’t be another. I had to move on. It was not the kind of affirmation a woman should share with the man who’d just asked her to marry him.
“I thought everything would fall into place once we moved out here,” I whispered, staring at my knees. When I couldn’t figure out why my jitters had not stopped five months before the wedding, I’d begun seeing a therapist. I’d told her about my childhood with an alcoholic father, my nervousness about getting married, my reservations with Paul, my feelings for Fernando, even my career choices. I’d also shared the wedding advice my aunt had given me: “Marry your best friend. All the magic fades away.”
The psychologist had asked me questions that made conversations go in circles, which always looped back to my father. “Do you think it’s healthy for you to work around alcohol?”
“This is not about my job.” I’d folded my arms with a scoff. “I’m not like my dad. I don’t have an addictive personality.” Alcohol had been a healthy part of my lifestyle ever since my senior year of college. I didn’t know why my dad couldn’t stop after one or two drinks, but I could. To this day, I drink a glass of wine almost every day with dinner. The art and science of wine—and the culture of the people who make it—all fascinate me. Wine is about the memories that are unlocked when you open a bottle, the triumphs of each vintage, the hands that helped craft it and how the perfect wine can elevate the flavors of a simple meal. The alcohol is just an afterthought to me. Those therapy sessions weren’t giving me answers, so I’d decided to listen to family: I married my best friend. Within a year, our moving van was headed to California.
“When did you decide it was time to seek help?” Ziggy asked Paul.
A half-laugh left his lungs. His palms gripped the knees of his jeans. “She is the one who thinks we needed to talk to somebody.”
I glared at the floor, feeling my cheeks get hot. I’d been forcing changes in our life for two years, hoping to find marriage utopia. New houses. New paint. New furniture. Our relationship just needed a change of scenery—not professional help. Within a year of moving to the West Coast, I’d convinced the winery to relocate us from the Central Valley to Santa Rosa, thanks to Paul’s expert negotiation tips. Living in a tourism destination like Sonoma County wine country would be healthier for our marriage than living in a track-home community off Interstate 205, I’d thought. I was finally living and working in Sonoma County wine country—my college dream. Paul took an operations job with Wine.com in San Francisco, but the bickering didn’t stop. When it came to work, I felt like I was cruising up a mountain like a skilled rock climber. At home, I felt like a klutz who couldn’t walk two feet without falling on my face. I’d turned to self-help books first, but after seventeen months of living in California, we were sitting down together to talk to someone for the first time—even if it was with a hippie grandma whose only license was probably for massage therapy.
“You’re happy with your life?” Ziggy asked Paul, her brown eyes sparkling.
“Yes,” Paul replied with a hiss. “We have a great life.” She turned her knees toward me. I squirmed in my seat. Friends, relatives, magazine articles and Oprah! episodes had taught me that marriage was about partnership and friendship, commitment and compromise.
“I know our life could be far worse.” I looked down at the carpet. “I have a lot to be thankful for.” It was the same pep talk I’d been giving myself for the last twelve months on my morning run through our neighborhood. We owned a home on a hill with views of Sonoma’s Hood Mountain. We had good jobs. We drove nice cars. There were women in Africa living in huts with no clean water and five hungry children. I was damn lucky. My life was a picnic. I should suck it up and be happy.
“Neither of you has been to therapy?” Ziggy’s eyes scanned his face then mine. She plucked a notepad from the arm of her chair and jotted some notes. Paul shook his head.
Paul folded his thick arms across his chest. “She’s been going to therapy since last summer.” I stared at my clenched fists. My knuckles were white. My ears felt on fire. There was a pregnant pause.
“She has issues with having children.” Paul’s brusque voice shot into my ears. Their heads swung toward mine. I took a deep breath and pushed up the sleeves on my turtleneck sweater. Not the dreaded “C” word again. Paul slouched into the back of the loveseat. His body shape was a reverse pyramid like the super-hero dad from The Incredibles—thick, muscular chest, broad shoulders, big biceps with a narrow waist and skinny legs.
I bit my upper lip. Paul still didn’t know about my therapy sessions before the wedding, and I wasn’t about to throw gasoline on a fire. “Yes, I do have issues about having kids.” I straightened my spine. “The conversations have been, ummm, helpful.” I struggled to find the right adjective that wouldn’t send Paul into a tizzy. Most women my age had baby fever; I had baby malaria. As soon as I’d turned twenty-nine, the high-speed train of life I’d been riding for nearly six years—advance career, find suitable husband, buy house, get pregnant—began to travel in slow motion. I’d become constantly more aware of my surroundings and how every decision I’d made over the last ten years had shaped my tidy, calculated life with Paul. I’d feared getting older and having babies more than a date night with Jason Voorhees from Friday the 13th. The big 3-0 meant far more than another layer of cellulite on my thighs, crow’s feet scratching away at my eyes and my biological clock counting down like Jack Bauer’s timer on 24. Thirty, to me, meant the apex of my life cycle: nearly half of my life had passed. The downhill slide was coming. One creepy thought kept circling in my head like a buzzard hunting mice: If I live another thirty years like this, will I look back on my life with regret? My salary was more than double my highest expectations. I’d been married to a devoted husband and fellow wine guru for more than three years, but something was missing. I’d thought maybe it was a baby. Paul wanted to be the father he’d never had and suggested I see a therapist to “clear” my mind.
“Her dad committed suicide before our wedding.” Paul looked at my face before turning to Ziggy. His tone was strong and firm, like a CEO giving a keynote speech. My lungs sucked in air and froze. I stared at his big nose, feeling my heart break all over again. “I think that might have something to do with her unhappiness.” He paused and puffed out his chest. “They didn’t have a great relationship.”
I sighed deeply, watching Ziggy’s face flash from curiosity to empathy. My fingers began to tremble.
“This isn’t supposed to be about my dad.” My te
eth snipped the words. I took a breath, trying to stay calm. “He has nothing to do with this.” My voice quivered; my fingers barreled through my straight hair. I exhaled until my lungs hurt.
I didn’t want the therapy session to morph into a discussion about my relationship with my dad. What am I supposed to say? We weren’t the Cleavers or the Kardashians. I spoke to my dad on the phone every few months. Before I’d left for college, he’d had eighteen years to put his family before drinking and hunting. As the years passed, Dad became depressed with the choices he’d made; he was living a life of regrets. Rumor has it that he’d upgraded from beer to crystal meth before his death. He’d stopped working, showering, cleaning his house or paying bills. Two months before our wedding day in 2000, a sheriff had found his body in his pick-up truck, parked in a deserted field with a sock stuffed in the back muffler. Through the whole ordeal, Paul was right there by my side. He’d flown back to Kansas and launched into managerial mode, handling financial and administrative details of the cremation, funeral, and sale of assets and payment of debts. My mom, my brother and I had cleaned the dirty house we’d once lived in together, hugging and crying in the kitchen every time we’d found an old picture or a hunting figurine. There was guilt. There was frustration. The signs of depression were there: the withdrawal from responsibilities of daily life and utter self-absorption. Dad had never even opened my wedding invitation or called me even though he’d knew his only daughter was walking down the aisle in September. My family had discussed an intervention on the phone, but we didn’t act soon enough.
Amid all that pain, I was able to make peace with his death. I’d accepted the fact long ago that I couldn’t control other people’s actions. That kept me from being angry about my childhood. How he’d treated me, how he’d died—it was not my fault. Someday, I’d figure out why Dad left this world the way he did and what lessons his life would teach me. Nothing could bring my father back. Thank God for Chris, who’d made me realize that resenting Dad had no upside. Paul was the only person in my life who knew what it was like to not have a dad. His father had been killed in a car crash when he was eight years old. The tragedy had brought Paul and I closer during that time when I’d questioned my feelings about our future.
I slipped my palms between my knees. “I would rather we spend this time talking about how to bring some excitement and passion to our marriage.” My voice croaked. My growing willingness to be open about my feelings in Paul’s presence made me feel strong, in control. My response to any argument had always been to retreat faster than Milli Vanilli after the lip-syncing scandal. During sessions with my new therapist at Kaiser Permanente, I’d come to realize my internal unrest had nothing to do with my dad and everything to do with my marriage. The answers were locked inside my brain. I was close to finding the key.
My eyes followed the elaborate crown molding around the corners of the counselor’s office. Before therapy, I’d never possessed the courage to confront Paul with a “we need to have a talk” talk. I’d wanted to tell him what I thought was missing in our relationship so we could fix it. Confronting Paul about my unmet needs was a recent discovery, and it felt like the weight of Shaquille O’Neal had been lifted off my shoulders.
I sat up on the edge of my seat. “Romance is important to me.” All eyes were on me. I took a deep breath. “I want to feel adored. I want a little magic now and then. An unexpected candlelight dinner or flowers would be nice too.” My head whipped around toward Paul. His idea of romance was smacking my bare ass when I stepped out of the shower. His idea of foreplay was rubbing his dick on my thigh. If it took me longer than two minutes to have an orgasm, he’d sometimes say, “Hurry up.” Over the course of more than five years, he’d brought me flowers twice, and once was a re-gifted centerpiece leftover from a banquet at the Boca Raton Hotel. We’re talking romantically hopeless, not hopelessly romantic. But no guy is a true Romeo, right? Before Christmas, I’d bought three books: one about repairing intimacy, one about growing intimacy and one about passionate partnerships. Then I’d begun watching Dr. Phil—a really bad sign. I’d started making suggestions to Paul about how we could kiss, touch, talk and make love to improve our connection. He’d flipped his lid. When I’d suggested that we spend a few nights per month socializing with other couples, he’d replied, “Why would I want to spend an evening hanging out with people I hardly know when I could just watch TV with you?”
Paul fanned out his chest. “I don’t know why she can’t just be happy.” He opened his right palm and spread his fingers. “I cook dinner almost every night. I pay the bills. I help clean the house and shop for groceries. I wash her car. I sit in the chair with her at night while we watch TV with my arm around her. I tell her I love her every day.” His left hand moved to the tip of each finger as he counted the ways he showed his love for me. “Nothing is ever enough.” His voice boomed like always, laced with a southern drawl that gave his arguments a warm sweetness. A frustrated exhale left his lungs. I stared at my knees in silence. The man could debate better than Tom Cruise in A Few Good Men. He was right. Paul did do most of the chores. I’d cooked for him a couple of times when we’d first started dating, then he took over. Twice a week, he’d make me Kraft Spirals with creamed spinach. We’d drink a pricey bottle of Napa Merlot or Cabernet paired with food that came in a box—fascinating in hindsight, considering our careers. The former waitress who’d whip out pots and pans on the second date didn’t even boil water once married. If the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, Paul should have starved to death after week four. I wasn’t sure why I’d lost my desire to cook. I wasn’t sure why all the things he did for me were not enough.
“I told him in New York that I don’t think I’m asking for too much.” My voice pleaded; I hooked my bangs behind my ears while gathering my thoughts. “I still don’t think it’s too much. These are just little things, but they matter.” For two years, my biannual trips to New York City were strictly business, but they filled me with more pleasure than I could have possibly imagined. Sipping Ecco Domani Italian Pinot Grigio at the Domino magazine launch party at some urban-chic loft in SoHo felt more like an escape from reality than a professional duty. Traveling was my sensorial lifeline, and it could only be discovered thousands of miles from home. I’d indulge in activities unthinkable back in Santa Rosa with Paul. I’d eat Thai food, Indian food, sushi and even chicken; Paul was a meat-and-potatoes-only guy. I’d go dancing with co-workers (Paul refused to dance, even at our wedding), and I’d always sit at restaurant bars, so I could talk to strangers about wine.
“I thought we were finished talking about New York.” Paul’s voice snapped; he rubbed his fingers across his shaved head. Ziggy’s eyes darted from Paul’s face to mine. Three months earlier, Paul had landed a high-level corporate job with a wine supplier who specialized in California and Italian wines. I’d helped him write and edit the strategic proposal for the newly created position, hence my status as a “great support tool.” Their offices were headquartered outside New York City, and my business travel schedule aligned with Paul’s during that fateful trip. He’d insisted we stay at his favorite hotel, the Grand Hyatt Central Station, even though I’d preferred the Hilton Midtown and needed to save up points for a big vacation to Hawaii in September for my friend Alberto’s wedding—the Argentinean who became a dear friend after our pseudo hook-up back in 1997. When Paul had walked into the hotel room, I’d rushed to the door and pressed my lips against his as long as I could. He’d pulled away, giving me that fleeting feeling I always had when we kissed.
“You said you were going to try harder,” I replied, my chin quivering. The New York evening replayed in my head. He’d picked the restaurant, as always—usually a steakhouse where he could order a loaded baked potato and a rib eye. On our walk to dinner, he’d nearly knocked me into a mound of muddy snow while cutting me off in a crosswalk. When I’d tried to stop at the Banana Republic window to admire a gray pants suit, he’d tugged my arm and said, �
��Honey, come on.” The man was always in a hurry. Even on our third wedding anniversary, I couldn’t get him to sit on a boulder with me at Robert Louis Stevenson Park and gaze out at the majestic Mayacamas Mountains above Napa Valley. At Morton’s in New York, he’d let the heavy brass-handled door slam in my face. Sitting across the white-clothed table, he’d made every decision without consulting me: tap water or bottled, Chardonnay or Cabernet, crab cakes or wedge salad. While he’d hacked away at his steak, he had scolded me for forgetting to get the SUV’s oil changed again. I’d asked if we could finally remodel our 1970s master bathroom, which he’d quickly vetoed, so I’d suggested the smaller guest bathroom. “No. We don’t have the money, Honey!” he’d shouted. He’d just gotten a $10,000 bump in salary. I’d just received another raise. The man was tighter with money than a Bernie Madoff victim. When we’d returned to the hotel, I yelled and cried until my throat had burned. I’d told him he treated me like I was invisible. I’d told him nothing in the relationship was mine. I’d told him he had to win me back.
“No, Honey,” he said in his sharp, yet sweet tone. “I said I was sorry. I didn’t say I was going to change.” Paul leaned toward me, eyes wild like he was about to pounce. I recoiled into the couch and looked over at Ziggy, wondering if she was going to jump in like an Ultimate Fighting Championship referee. He started talking to Ziggy as if I wasn’t in the room. My ears burned with frustration until my head hurt. “That’s when I asked her if she’d taken a step back to think about what she was saying.” Paul squared his broad shoulders, then turned toward me on the loveseat. “You’ve been traveling forty percent of the time for more than two years. I handle everything here. Even when you’re home, your head is still at work.” My eyes moved from his red face to my wedding ring.
THE EXES IN MY IPOD: A Playlist of the Men Who Rocked Me to Wine Country Page 29
