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

by Lisa M. Mattson

  Until that moment arrived, I had plenty of sparkling wine on hand, and many reasons to celebrate.

  Epilogue

  The pilot anchored his seaplane to the white beach with ease, as if it were a canoe. I climbed out of the cabin and scurried onto the tiny island, excited to continue our little adventure. The Gulf of Mexico splashed at my feet, its clear, teal waters shimmering like emeralds in the summer sunshine. A day trip to the Dry Tortugas, seventy miles off the coast of Florida, seemed like the perfect way to introduce my man to my former life.

  Devon descended from the co-pilot’s seat. He was lean like a marathon runner with the kind of lanky legs most women would kill for—minus the hair. He always wore designer golf shirts and baggy cargo shorts to add a few pounds. I stood on the beach in my white shorts and tan halter top, admiring him from afar like usual. He stepped toward the pilot and extended his hand. Devon has always had this calming, gentle way of shaking a hand, making small talk or ordering a drink that immediately puts others at ease. He can be a part of a conversation without saying much; “I’m more of an observer,” he’d told me on our blind date. That night at Tex Wasabi’s bar, I’d kept looking at Devon’s baby-blue eyes and button nose, waiting for his lips to move while he’d sipped a draft beer (strike one). The man took longer to open up than a bottle of Richebourg. I’d spent the next week trying to set him up with my assistant at Gallo, who was as equally tall, thin and quiet.

  I squeezed his hand. “Surprised?” For Devon’s thirty-second birthday, we’d decided to spend a weekend in South Florida for the first time. I’d surprised him with a front-row seat to fly to Garden Key, the most famous in the island chain that strings from Key West into the Gulf of Mexico.

  Devon popped his sunglasses atop his head of short, brown hair. “Very. I almost leaned over to the pilot and yelled, ‘Da plane! Da plane!’” His full lips twisted with a smirk, as his voice jumped an octave. I giggled at his imitation of Tattoo from Fantasy Island—nostalgia only children of the eighties can appreciate.

  I looked up at him and cocked my head. “Aren’t you glad I didn’t take you to Disney World? A surprise visit to your old love nest?” My lips flashed a toothy grin. We’d met not long after Devon had moved to California to start a new life—about the same time Kevin had probably returned to the sand trap (i.e. his ex-wife). Devon had grown up in the Midwest and had just divorced his college sweetheart. They’d honeymooned at Disney’s Blizzard Beach—a dream vacation for two kids from rural Wisconsin.

  We both turned circles to take in the postcard views. Fort Jefferson’s faded brick walls towered over us, its footprint covering most of the island. “I had no idea it would be like this.” He plucked his Canon 60D off his shoulder and snapped a photo. Devon never left home without his camera and dreamed of leaving his day job in pharmaceutical research to become a full-time photographer.

  We walked toward a moat surrounding the octagon fortress. The ocean breeze whipped my ponytail. “So, what would you like to do first?” Devon laced his long fingers with mine. My chest fluttered like it does whenever he says something sweet. Always putting me first, even on his birthday.

  I threw our mesh bag of gear over my shoulder. “Snorkel.”

  We strolled past a cluster of mangrove bushes to a skinny, white beach that spilled into the ocean, stopping along the way to photograph the glistening water, the behemoth fort, the chattering seagulls. Devon was never in a hurry and never wore a wristwatch. Time was always on his side. He grounded me. He slowed me down.

  “Did you ever think you’d spend weekends doing something like this?” I looked up at Devon’s baby face. The sky was a never-ending blue that disappeared into the ocean. Snorkeling together was another first for us. Three years had passed since we’d become adventure companions.

  He brushed his thumb across the back of my hand, sending my pulse to its happy place. “All I wanted to do was get away from the cold. Move somewhere sunny.” I’d told him I’d help him find a great wine gal if he’d help me find a great non-wine guy. We were two Midwest refugees with divorce parachutes, jumping head-first into every corner of Sonoma County I’d only dreamed of visiting while married: winery bocce ball courts, hiking trails, rocky beaches, tasting rooms with a view and Russian River Valley back roads. He always let cars merge in front of him and held doors open for strangers. Devon was the polar opposite of my ex-husband, and that’s one of the greatest things about failing at love—I learned exactly what qualities I did not want in a man.

  I pulled his hand to my face and kissed it. “I’m glad you winked at me.” Devon had found me on Match.com—my first and only posting of a public profile the week before my three-month membership expired.

  We reached the beach and dropped our backpacks. “I’m glad you stopped trying to set me up with your co-workers,” Devon said.

  I emptied the bags of snorkeling gear onto a beach towel. “I’m glad you finally stopped being so shy.” My tone was playful like it often is when we talk. This is how it’s always been with us: joking, talking, exploring. The more time I’d spent hanging out in Sonoma wine country with Devon, the more he’d opened up, and the more intrigued I’d become with the skinny guy behind the camera. I’d begun to wonder why I was trying to hook him up with my girlfriends. Devon also loved running and hated couch potatoes. He spent every weekend hiking trails and driving winding roads, capturing the stunning California scenery with his camera. His favorite wine was Beringer Sparkling White Zinfandel, but hey—we all have to start somewhere.

  Devon moved his sunglasses back to his nose. “It’s all about the anticipation.” We’d talked for hours every night—first on Yahoo! Instant Messenger, then on the phone, then in my living room. We’d dished about our failed marriages, our humble upbringings, our passions in life and our dreams of traveling the world. He knew what it felt like to scarf frozen pizza on the couch while watching Dukes of Hazzard. He knew what it felt like to do time in marriage prison. He’d learned from his journey, and all roads had led to Sonoma County wine country.

  I gasped a laugh. “Where were you when I was twenty-two?” I pulled off my shorts and top, then readjusted my bikini. For more than two weeks, we’d simply enjoyed each other’s company. We’d focused on getting to know each other without the pressures of getting to first base. By the fourth date, Devon still hadn’t tried to hold my hand or kiss me. If only someone had told me dating in my thirties would be so civilized and mature, maybe I would have gotten divorced sooner! Whenever I’d invite him into my townhouse for a glass of wine, he’d always sit on the couch—across the room from me, sitting Indian-style in my cushy chair. The man had moved slower than a turtle. Devon was the perfect gentleman. And I’d respected him for respecting me. So, to all the single ladies out there: considerate men who don’t think with their dicks do exist. Don’t give up on finding yours.

  He took off his shirt and let me rub sunblock on his back. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we’d met sooner. Would we have made it? Would we have been this happy?” My fingers spread the white lotion across his skin. I leaned in and tenderly kissed the big mole in the center of his back. During those late-night chats, I’d told Devon about my dream relationship—being with someone who adored and respected me. Someone who shared my hopes, ambitions and dreams because we’d traveled the same path, and met at a crossroad. Someone who gave me goose bumps every time he kissed me. I’d told him I’d never settle for less ever again.

  “I think we would have.” Devon plucked the sunblock from my hand. “I’m glad we met when we did though.” I turned and let him squirt the cold lotion on my shoulders, remembering our courtship. I’d never worried about whether Devon was going to call or if I was saying the right things to push his buttons. The relationship was relaxed and platonic. Once I’d finally stopped struggling to impress a guy—and focused on trying to determine if he was right for me instead of trying to win his heart from day one—the guy pursued me. Devon called. He asked me out on d
ates. We hiked, we took long runs, we went wine tasting. Feelings blossomed. Desperation is the ultimate male repellent. Confidence attracts them like bears to honey. But, if I’d learned that pearl of wisdom at age twenty, I wouldn’t have moved from Kansas to Florida to California. I wouldn’t have got into the wine business. I never would have met my Devon.

  I grabbed my mask and spritzed it with no-fog spray, then helped Devon with his gear. “After you get the no fog all over the inside of your mask, then dunk it.” I stepped into the clear, cool water and demonstrated. “Just breathe out your mouth, but if you do get a little condensation in your mask, this stuff keeps it from getting cloudy.” Now, I’m the teacher.

  With snorkel masks strapped on, we waded into the ocean and slipped on our blue flippers. “I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to bring you to Florida.” I popped the snorkel into place.

  Devon tightened his mask, chest bopping in the water. “None of your ex-boyfriends ever brought you here, huh? That sucks.”

  I spit out my snorkel mouthpiece. “They spent all their money on drugs.” The turquoise water splashed around my chest as I sneered. Well, most of them. I’d told Devon about my mind-numbing string of ex-boyfriends when the time was right. Was I ashamed of my past? No. Embracing the beauty of my relationship baggage was not about confessing my dating history to a man, and worrying about him blowing away like a tumbleweed halfway through my Robert story. It was about me sticking my nose deep into the murky wine glass of my failed relationships, taking a long sniff and smelling only roses. No regrets. My experiences were assets, not liabilities. Finding internal peace with my torrid love life had helped me shed that last layer of dating desperation. I was a great catch, and I would only be hooked on my terms.

  Our heads dropped into the water. We kicked toward Fort Jefferson’s moat with the sun warming our backs. The cool, salty water tingled on my face and legs. I missed this feeling. Purple and yellow coral rocks clung to the moat’s underwater foundation. Rainbow-colored parrotfish pecked the coral with their bird-like beaks. My heart fluttered wildly, in awe of the moment: being in Florida with Devon, sharing our first snorkeling experience. I watched Devon’s lean frame kicking ahead of me, bubbles streaming behind him. Oh, how I love this man. I would canoe down the Amazon with wooden spoons for oars if he wanted to. Devon is a mix of the best qualities of all my exes and none of the bad. He’s got Chris’s knack for constantly dreaming, Matthew’s gift with words, John’s love of dance music, Michael’s endless affection, Raul’s laid-back vibe, Fernando’s intoxicating touch and stimulating conversations, Tyler’s athleticism and shyness, Paul’s stability and devotion, Chance’s spontaneity, and Kevin’s romantic openness and kind heart. Is he Mr. Clean? Only when he needs to be. He’d rather spend weekends in Las Vegas clothes shopping. He knows who Franco Sarto is, but Franco Harris? Not a chance. He put the “M” in metrosexual. He’s now a closet White Zinfandel drinker, but I can live with that.

  We kicked along the shallow edge of the moat, exploring the vibrant, underwater world that had opened a door in my life thirteen years before. We were like one person moving in the same direction. It felt so natural—so right and rewarding—to show a fellow Midwest transplant the world beyond the Great Plains: majestic mountains, fine wines, exotic foods, tranquil beaches. My mind drifted to my Blackberry, probably chirping in my backpack on the shore. I’d just started a new job as director of public relations for a boutique wine importer in Napa Valley, and one of our French winemakers had an interview at Wine Enthusiast magazine world headquarters in three hours. I’d need to send some emails and take a couple calls before our day trip was over, but I no longer had to fear the wrath of my man. Devon has always admired my work ethic. He never gets mad when I work late or go on a business trip. He respects and loves me for the woman I am. To this day, Devon realizes that I wouldn’t be me without my past—the naïve, redneck girl from a line of alcoholics who left home searching for true love and her calling in life—only to find both in wine country. Now isn’t that ironic, Alanis Morissette? It took me thirty years and fifty boyfriends to get love right, and I feel the denouement of it all in my bones everyday: The end of the exes is finally here. I can already hear the naysayers asking, “How can you be sure?” I get it. I’m now only thirty-nine years old. Divorce rates are high for a reason. People change. Accidents happen. But I will never question our love. It’s impossible to think that anyone or anything could come between Devon and me. And the moment my confidence is lost is the moment that a bond this strong will weaken.

  My breath quickened when a huge queen angelfish poked out from behind a brain coral. I shouted bubbles to Devon, hoping he’d hear me. That’s the only kind of shouting I’ve ever done with Devon—simply trying to get his attention. From laundry and dishes to television and finances, not one thing in everyday life seems worth fighting over, especially when it took us a third of a lifetime to find each other. It’s been a long road to happiness, and I will never forget the climb. We’ve had 3,247 days (and counting) of laughter, friendship, devotion, respect, discovery and timeless love. We kiss at least five times a day and double down on weekends. It’s the kind of puppy love that makes most people gag. We never hold back our feelings. We talk about everything, so there is nothing to hide. We give compliments, backrubs, favors, advice and hugs without expecting anything in return. It’s how we nurture the awe-inspiring knack of keeping the thrill of our love alive and growing. If there’s a world record for the longest honeymoon, we plan to shred it. I light up for him every day. I do everything in my power to make him feel special and appreciated. This includes making him dinner from scratch almost every night. The best part of my day is sitting down at the dining table side-by-side over a glass of wine and a spicy Thai salad with Pandora streaming through our surround sound system. Good food, good wine and good music—all part of our recipe for a happy marriage.

  We returned to the beach and lay down on our towels, side by side. I looked up at the cloudless sky through my rose-colored glasses. “We’re so lucky. I love our life.” I turned toward him and kissed him three times on the bicep. My lips stayed pressed to his skin. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. I could live off his scent for days.

  He kissed my forehead. “It’s already time to start planning our next adventure.”

  I rested my chin on his shoulder. “Where to?”

  “Where ever you want to go, Beautiful.” His tone was soft and tender. Devon is a go-with-the-flow kind of guy that loves keeping his woman happy. I freaking love it. He likes it when I make decisions, but when I ask which shoes or earrings I should wear, he always gives honest opinions. Did I mention he likes to go shopping?

  I gazed up into his eyes. “More snorkeling?”

  “How about Belize then?”

  My face flushed with joy. “It’s a date.” Devon is always planning our next trip. Conversations revolve around travel, dreams and early retirement—never around work. I love how this man can be spontaneous and organized, scientific and artistic, all at the same time. I’m as attracted to his brain as his body.

  Devon rolled over and kissed me softly, yet deeply. My entire world went dark and bright white at the same time. His energy charged through me, shooting my heartbeat into orbit.

  “You still give me goose bumps,” I said, breathless. I nuzzled into the crook of his chest—my favorite destination on the planet. Every kiss is like the first. He adores me. He calls me beautiful. When Devon had finally kissed me one night in my townhouse, my entire body had melted. It was exhilaration of epic proportion from the anticipation of his touch and the thrill of a new love because we’d spent two weeks—yes, I said two whole weeks—discovering our parallel universes before our lips ever touched. And, the chemistry is megawatts above what I’d felt with Fernando. With that first kiss, I’d known Devon was The One, but I didn’t start collecting wedding magazines. I didn’t stalk him online or ask questions about where “this” was heading. I’d let him set the pace
. A few weeks later, Devon had told me he loved me. He’d said it first, and we still hadn’t slept together. I’d finally started a serious relationship slowly and respectfully after sixteen years of diving straight into bed. Love before sex: I’d kept my promise to myself. I’d felt stronger than a King of the Mountain jersey winner at La Tour de France.

  Devon sat up and reached for his backpack. “I have something for you.” My ears and cheeks perked; Devon was always surprising me with gifts: diamond earrings, Tiffany bracelets, greeting cards, airplane tickets. He still does. Did I mention how unbelievably amazing this guy is? Well, believe it.

  He handed me a tiny box about the size of a cell phone. My fingers ripped away at the silver wrapping paper with anticipation.

  “An iPod!” I threw my arms around his shoulders and planted a firm, loving kiss on his full lips. “I finally have an iPod!” I caressed the white metal rectangle, admiring its curves. It was the bulky, white, U2 Special Edition model. “Thank you, Baby. I love you.” I leaned in and kissed him again, letting the usual roller coaster of chemistry barrel through my body.

  Devon lay back down on his beach towel. “What songs are you going to download first?”

  I followed his lead and reclined, resting the iPod gently between us. “‘The Reason’ by Hoobastank. That’s our song.” The fiery Florida sunshine beat down on our lean bodies. My eyes scanned the endless blue sky, finding a memory. One afternoon a few weeks after our first date, we were cruising through Dry Creek Valley in his BMW Z-4 convertible. That song had blasted around us as rows of gnarly, zinfandel grapevines blurred by. Devon had laced his fingers into mine for the first time and softly stroked the back of my hand with his thumb. I’ll never forget that day, or that song; I could feel those lyrics because I’m definitely not a perfect person, but I will keep on learning. If I could relive my twenties, I wouldn’t change a thing. Well, maybe I’d have Robert cheat on me with a woman instead of a man, but that’s it. Sharing my life, and the world of wine, with Devon has been better than any teenage pipe dream. Our love is effortless, our relationship easy. The magic has never faded away.