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

by Lisa M. Mattson

  “You’re freaking me out a little bit.” I looked Chance in the eye and sipped the purple-hued wine. Chance’s split personality was unfolding on his living room floor: the gregarious, nice-looking vintner on one hand; the country-music-loving, food phobic on the other.

  “What?” Chance leaned back and crooked his head. “Is it the music?” His icy-blue eyes stared at mine.

  “Uh, yeah. That’s it,” I replied with a jeer, sipping the smooth wine. My heart rapped in my chest. Not liking a guy’s music choices was one thing, but seeing a month’s supply of Slim Fast in a single guy’s fridge was a whole different enchilada. I didn’t know how, when or if I should bring it up.

  “You’ll grow to like it.” Chance laughed, then leaned in and kissed me softly. I felt the air from his lungs enter my mouth. His tongue looped slowly around mine, then quickened. Our lips followed suit, smacking. My ears throbbed from the game of Twister unfolding in my mouth, silencing all the questions in my head. I let my lips continue to follow his, waiting for the next cue. His stubble brushed my chin; his hands cupped my cheeks. His lips moved gently from my mouth to my cheek then back to my lips. I felt the heat of his body through my shirt. Tiny tremors of excitement rippled through me—not the shockwaves of Fernando, but just enough chemistry to remember the thrilling surge. A man’s touch could still excite me! My eyes were closed but felt wide open. My mind danced while his lips led mine through the kissing marathon. We kissed for what seemed like an hour, while his dog whined at our feet.

  I pulled away from him. “I should go home.” I smiled and felt a tinge of pain. My chin was raw, my lips puffy and sore. My face hadn’t felt that beat up from a make-out session since high school. I hopped off the couch and moved toward the door, with Chance and his tiny dog chasing behind me.

  Chance greeted me at his doorstep with a delicious kiss. “Tonight we’re eating light.” Two nights had passed since the big make-out session. Chance always called me right after work to invite me on a date—for that night. I loved the spontaneity of it all. The memory of Paul’s tight leash on my life made me want to accept every one of Chance’s invitations. “We’ll go to Amigo’s and share the vegetarian burrito with no cheese and no sour cream. Then we can go running later.” Chance’s voice buzzed in my head like a yellow jacket. He quickly grabbed my hand and tugged me to his Jeep. Keeping up with Chance was like trying to catch a toddler who’d just learned how to walk. I laughed and scurried behind him, looking forward to a margarita after a long day of prepping for summer wine festivals.

  As soon as we opened the menus, Chance leaned toward me across the speckled tabletop. “Why don’t you get the vegetarian burrito, and I’ll get a chicken chimichanga.”

  I glanced up from the plastic-covered menu. “I thought you wanted to eat light?” I watched Chance’s chipper face bouncing through the dinner selections. “La Bamba” drifted from the cantina’s surround sound system.

  “I’m really hungry,” Chance replied in his ever-hyper tone, his torso hidden behind the giant menu. “We’ll work out later. We can just drink water instead of margaritas to make up for the calories.” I rolled my eyes at him and returned to studying the menu. His jeans squeaked against the vinyl booth’s seat as he squirmed, waiting for me to talk again.

  I kept my eyes glued on the ensaladas section of the menu. “Eat whatever you want. I’m not the boss of you.” I sounded like a sister sassing a younger sibling.

  The waitress arrived with a plastic basket of tortilla chips and two ramekins of salsa. Chance lunged at one ramekin like a football lineman trying to recover a fumble. My eyes nearly popped out of my head. He scooped a heavy mound of pico de gallo onto a single chip. I watched as he stuffed it into his mouth and proceeded to devour the entire basket of chips in less than three minutes. My stomach began churning. I squeezed the corners of the vinyl booth and looked around the half-empty restaurant until the waitress returned with our waters.

  Chance pushed the empty basket and bowl toward her. “We want more chips and salsa.” The words grunted from his mouth. I shot him a mean stare and gritted my teeth.

  I smiled to the waitress. “Thank you very much.” Guys who aren’t super-sweet to waitresses fall into my #nevertrustaguywho Twitter hashtag: #nevertrustaguywho shaves his chest, #nevertrustaguywho sails boats for a living and #nevertrustaguywho doesn’t wear condoms.

  “I’m serious about you sleeping at my place.” Chance popped another tortilla into his mouth. “You are welcome any night. It might be easier on both of you.”

  I shook my head, keeping my nose buried in the menu. My chest got tight every time Chance brought up my living situation. I’d moved into one of the guest bedrooms of my house, and Paul had kept the master. We’d stuck a for-sale-by-owner sign in the front yard and got full asking price from our neighbors within twenty-four hours. (Selling houses in 2004: I miss those days.) Some nights Paul and I ate dinner together in the living room while watching the news. We barked about work like military sergeants from neighboring platoons. I edited his presentations like a good “support tool” would. I walked the dog. The only real difference between marriage and divorce was we didn’t sleep in the same bed. It was beyond creepy.

  “Thanks.” I smiled sweetly into my menu. “I’ll think about it.” I dunked a chip into the salsa and chewed slowly. Staying at Chance’s house on a weeknight would add thirty-five minutes to my commute, which was the only excuse I felt comfortable giving him. I didn’t want to have a conversation about where we were heading. My days of getting too close too fast were so 1994. I wanted to live a life where I could be myself and not feel like I needed a man to love me. Spread my own wings. Be comfortable being alone. Fit a boyfriend into my space, on my own terms, once my wine cellar was restocked. I’d purchased a bright, airy townhouse in northwest Santa Rosa, and the sale would close as soon as my old house cleared home inspections with the new buyers. Until then, Paul was still a part of my life.

  I felt Chance staring at my forehead and looked up at him. The waitress buzzed in and dropped off two steaming platters of food, distracting us from the conversation.

  While Chance inhaled his jumbo chimichanga—and two sides of sour cream—I poked at my vegetarian burrito like a picky child. Eating fast was a bad habit I’d vowed to break. During college, Paul had worked in restaurants too and had picked up the same bad habit of inhaling food between shifts; our meals were always a race to the finish. Whenever I shared a table with Chance, I chewed like a turtle, while visions of Kirstie Alley’s Jenny Craig commercials danced in my head.

  Chance pushed his empty plate to the center of the table and leaned back in the booth. “I feel bloated.” He rubbed his hand on his belly. The logo on his Auction Napa Valley T-shirt moved in a circle. “Why did you let me eat all that food, skinny Minnie?” His eyes bounced around my face. Chance was the Moscato of boyfriends: unrefined, overhyped and cloyingly sweet.

  The red peppers in my mouth suddenly felt like spears. I wanted to spit them out and harpoon his “bloated” belly. I fought to swallow. “You know you sound crazy, right?” I pointed my knife at him, then sliced my burrito.

  Chance slouched in the booth. “We should have shared the taco salad.” His blue eyes were icy cold as he whined.

  I pressed my back against my side of the booth, shaking my head. I felt as if I was watching Gas-X commercial try-outs. The flour tortilla started churning in my stomach. What am I doing with this guy? My eyes moved to the Ms. Pacman cocktail table arcade by the cash register, hunting for a way to make Chance fun again. He glanced out the window next to our table.

  We didn’t go running that night.

  The spring in Chance’s step was never gone for too long. For weeks, he shared his happy-go-lucky world with me, and we left a trail of smiles, good times and great stories in our wake. Whenever he bounced into a Sonoma storefront and started shaking hands, the mood instantly lightened. Chance always ordered all drinks and appetizers and covered the tab, and our party was
rarely smaller than eight. Happy hour at Maya restaurant always morphed into a Sonoma square bar crawl. He liked to dance! Chance was the life of every party, the camp counselor of drinking games. Hanging out with Chance left no time for me to stress about divorce proceedings. The social butterfly in him made up for the food freak. I even shrugged off his zodiac sign—Virgo—my polar opposite. I began staying the night at his place every weekend. Sure, Chance marched to the beat of a different drum only his Pomeranian could hear. But I wasn’t test-driving him for marriage. We were just having fun. I kept my dates with Brian, the builder guy, limited to the occasional weekday and continued surfing Match.com for other potentials.

  Whenever I drove along Highway 12 to and from Chance’s world in the town of Sonoma, I’d listen to James Taylor’s Greatest Hits, and song one was “Something in the Way She Moves.” As Sonoma Valley vineyards and tasting rooms blurred past my SUV’s windows, I sang along and strummed my air guitar. Just like the song said, I really think Chance felt fine anytime I was around him. And I was around him all the time. I was good for Chance, and it felt good to be appreciated. Most nights, Chance would grab my arms and press me against the entryway wall of his house before he could close the door. Our lips had a magnetic pull that gave me the rush of a carnival ride. His kisses always ranged from soft and sweet to deep and passionate. He told me I was pretty. Sex with Chance was more exciting and satisfying than I’d experienced with my husband. Then again, rebound sex is always wicked good, right? My social circle had widened, my confidence had expanded and my sexual appetite had been satisfied. Chance didn’t even have cable television! A housekeeper cleaned his place every month. His idea of weekly chores was walking to the street mailbox and surfing ads on Craigslist. Chance was good for me too. I stopped seeing Brian, who had recently served me Kenwood Merlot in a black Champagne flute. The guy grew up in Sonoma County, so his wine etiquette was inexcusable! He also turned out to be a card-carrying supporter of medical marijuana. Never settling definitely meant no more pot smokers, which excluded probably half of the single guys living in the North Bay.

  Conversations with Chance often revolved around the marketing strategy for his new wine brand. While he’d grown up in wine country and had majored in business at Chico State, the business of wine was still as foreign to him as the art of willpower. Nurturing a vineyard throughout the growing season and marketing a wine brand are two different animals. And he’d found a girl who could fill his holes.

  “You really think I need to benchmark against other wines before choosing a brand name?” Chance asked from his barstool at the Swiss Hotel. He sat quietly with his head cocked, staring at his half-full Margarita glass. His hands slapped the weathered bar counter. “You’re absolutely right!” He whipped his head around to his vineyard manager, Karl, sitting next to him. “She’s absolutely right. Isn’t she brilliant?” Chance’s eyes bounced from Karl to me. I smiled and sipped my flute of Domaine Carneros bubbly, soaking up the compliment. Chance squeezed my shoulder and kissed me on the forehead like a proud parent after a softball game victory.

  That evening, Chance pulled me into his office to continue our strategic discussion. He wanted to call his wine label Chance Gannon Vineyards. Eponymous labeling had been employed successfully by grape growers since the 1970s, but it was spring 2004, and competition in the wine business was exploding as fast as the real estate market.

  My hands cradled the wine bottle with a mock-up label taped to the front. “Have you considered dropping the word ‘vineyards’ or making it singular? Or maybe a little smaller?” The label was black matte with the double-gold foil squares around his name.

  “Why would I do that?” His voice shrieked with shock. A look of horror shot from his blue eyes. “Winemaking starts in the vineyard. The wine comes from my vineyards.”

  “Yes, but you own one vineyard. Plurals equal size. You don’t want consumers thinking you are big.” I spoke with the confidence of a college professor. “You want to be boutique. Artisan. You have a singular, amazing site next to Hess—just over the hill from the historic Monte Rosso Vineyard. Your marketing should milk that for all it’s worth.” My voice was stern. His vineyard might have been divided into thirty parcels, but it was a singular estate vineyard, and he owned it. Chance had untapped equity he needed to exploit from day one with his first label. The word “estate” remains a powerful quality cue in wine marketing. I looked up at Chance’s face. He stared at the bottle with a puzzled look, then nodded approvingly. I smiled, feeling the heavy stroke to my ego. Being involved in the decision-making process of a new brand gave me a power charge. My position as events manager kept me too low on the marketing totem pole to engage in new product development, and Gallo cranked out new wine labels almost as fast as Wal-Mart opens stores.

  “If you want to get a strong reputation as a grower, do what Gary Pisoni did,” I said, leaning against his desk. “Sell your grapes to the high-profile winemakers. Ask them to vineyard-designate the wine they make from your vineyard with your name. Then when you start your own label, you already have name recognition and credibility.”

  He continued nodding. “Do you know how smart you are?” He stared at my face. I glanced down at the full glass of Sauvignon Blanc he’d poured me and grinned in silence. It felt nice to be appreciated for my creativity and strategic instincts, and not be called a “tool.”

  “Have you ever thought about going with a one-word brand name?” I asked, swirling the wine in my glass. I tried to offer my advice in small doses, but he’d opened a floodgate in my wine marketing psyche. His eyebrows scrunched. His nose curled up. He shook his head.

  “Single words convey strength, power, confidence. Plus they are easy to recall.” I grabbed the Bordeaux-style sample bottle from his desk. “Think about it. You know the names. Ridge, Bond, Harlan, Colgin.” I paused, looking at his eyes fixed on my lips. “You could be Chance Gannon Vineyards, or you could be CHANCE with bold, elegant, all caps and the estate-vineyard designate stacked in smaller letters underneath: ‘Chance Gannon Estate Vineyard, Mount Veeder.’” I moved my fingers across the label to demonstrate my idea. “Your first name has such great meaning and strong imagery in people’s minds. You want consumers to take a chance. Try your wines.” I sat the bottle back down on his desk. “You should play that up.”

  He walked around the desk, cupped my chin with both hands and kissed me. “You’re so good for me.” He pulled back and looked deep into my eyes. “I’m so lucky.” My body felt warm—my spirits rewarded, wanted and appreciated—all of which are important in relationships. His eyes darted to the computer on his desk. “Would you mind looking at my website and the writing?” His hand flew to his mouse. A big grin blanketed my face.

  I sat down at the desk and watched him launch Internet Explorer. My eyes scanned his home page.

  “Will you consider other options on the font?” I asked from his office chair. “Times New Roman is pedestrian. You want something readable but more distinctive and elegant.” I looked up at him standing over me. He shrugged. I reached for a cup filled with ink pens. “Can I print these pages?” Chance nodded and scurried over to the printer spitting out his website copy. As my eyes scanned the sentences of every page—Vineyards, History, People, Wines, Contact Us—I scribbled grammar edits and questions where key newsworthy information was lacking. I smiled and let the pride of improving his marketing materials wash over me. It was a welcome return to the personal achievement I’d felt while copyediting for The Wine News.

  Chance leaned over my shoulder. “You could help me with my long-term strategy. There’s so much to launching a wine beyond the packaging and the website, right?”

  My head bobbed the response.

  “You have lots of things to think about once your label is done,” I said. “What kind of wine club are you going to launch, if and how your vineyard is featured on the appellation maps, which winery associations you should join, which wine festivals and seminars you should pour at, which di
stributors you hire to represent you, whether or not you want to open a tasting room.” My tongue rolled until I reached for my wine glass. I sipped while waiting for his response.

  “I’ve never been so pumped.” His ears moved up and down as he grinned. “This is our chance of a lifetime.” He emphasized the word “chance.” Both of his hands squeezed my shoulders. I looked at the mock-up homepage on the computer screen. A big knot formed in throat, gliding quickly down to my stomach. I felt like I’d been kicked by a horse. He’d hit a button, unexpectedly. We couldn’t rewind.

  I dropped the pen on his tidy Formica desk. When I looked up at his face, his eyes darted wildly. My entire body felt cold and rigid; my face must have been as pale as a Pinot Gris.

  Chance stepped around to the front of the desk. “Was it the pun?” His eyes buzzed about my face.

  “No.” I stared at the paper in front of me for what seemed like five minutes. “I think, umm, I’m starting to feel a little uncomfortable.” Whoah, I can’t believe I’m saying this. I paused to think about which words should leave my lips next. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. My eyes fixed on the papers splashed with blue ink. “I think this is starting to move really fast.” My throat tightened as I forced the words out.

  Chance fired back. “I’ll give you space. Just ask. Just tell me what I need to do. I’m new at all this.” Chance had asked me countless times if I was ready to have a boyfriend again. I’d responded with a bottomless “yes.” He was four years older than me and had never been engaged. Long-term commitments didn’t seem to be his thing, which suited me. Hanging out with Chance felt like being in a sorority-fraternity click again, except we all had important jobs in the wine business, owned homes and dabbled in the stock market. Suddenly, he was talking “we” and “lifetime.” It wasn’t very Virgo.