About the Book

When Harley Aberle got her first iPod, she created the kind of playlist every girl wants to keep on solitary lockdown. She called it The Exes—a collection of long-lost songs that instantly steamrolled her down a memory lane of men wider than a six-lane freeway.

The Exes in My iPod: A Playlist of the Men Who Rocked Me to Wine Country is a no-holds-barred account of Harley’s quest to win the hearts of a motley crew of men during her twenties—that golden decade of poor judgment where college, career, alcohol and romance run a crash course. With a musical time capsule of “lucky 13” songs, Harley takes you on a rockin’ journey through laugh-out-loud heartaches and headaches, as this redneck waitress from a long line of alcoholics searches for true love and her calling in life—finding both in California wine country. Grab some earbuds, pour a glass of wine and kick back with an amusing e-book that will inspire you to create your own Exes playlist and discover the hidden beauty of all that baggage.

“Like a great wine or memorable song, this deliciously funny and heartwarming tale brings joy to your soul and a smile to your face. Enjoy the read with headphones on and glass in hand.”

— Leslie Sbrocco, author of The Simple & Savvy Wine Guide and host of Check, Please! Bay Area

“Hilarious and frank, Mattson is one part relationship anthropologist, one part adventurer—like Amelia Earhart and Carrie Bradshaw rolled into one. Every woman of our generation will identify with Harley and her journey.”

— Erin Jimcosky, Mutineer Magazine

www.exesinmyipod.com

THE EXES

IN MY IPOD:

A PLAYLIST OF THE MEN

WHO ROCKED ME

TO WINE COUNTRY

Lisa M. Mattson

Copyright

THE EXES IN MY IPOD

Copyright © 2013 Lisa M. Mattson

ISBN: 978-0-615-89645-8

Published: September 30, 2013

First Edition

The right of Lisa M. Mattson to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This book is a work of fiction, inspired by personal experiences. All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this e-book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work.

Lyrics are not included to respect copyright licensing requirements.

Songs mentioned are the property of the artists and/or their record labels.

iPod® is a trademark of Apple Inc. in the U.S. and other countries.

All other trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

Cover design by Andrew Brown, Designer for Writers. Interior design by 52 Novels.

Find out more about the author on her website, Facebook or Twitter.

For all my ex-boyfriends—without you, this book wouldn’t be possible.

A Note from the Author

This book is the result of a decade-long journey through men, music and alcohol to find myself. First, I must confess that I am no music expert. The only thing I have in common with Nick Hornby is a flat chest. I’m just a thirty-something woman with a career in wine and hospitality who has met Mr. Right as many times as Madonna sings the word “material” in “Material Girl” (45, if you’re wondering). When I hear a favorite song from my past, my mind is always transported back to an ex-boyfriend. Did I really need a teleporter to the past lives of my failed relationships? At first, I wasn’t so sure. But if I walked into a bar right now and Extreme’s “More Than Words” was spewing from the jukebox, my mind would race to prom night, when my high school sweetheart stood in a gravel driveway sporting a black tuxedo, cooing to the guitar melody spilling from the tape deck of his Ford Tempo. That will always be my Lonnie song. Period.

Fast-forward twenty years, and my iPod is a diary of my life—the roads I’ve traveled, the jobs I’ve held at restaurants and wineries, and the men I’ve chased harder than a cold beer after a shot of Jägermeister. When I got my first iPod at age thirty-three, I had no idea that shiny little square was the best relationship therapist money could buy. As soon as I started digitizing my CD collection, I was steamrolled down a memory lane of men—well, more like a six-lane freeway of boyfriend blunders. Triggering these embarrassing memories for the first time in years, I could have hit fast-forward or delete—or grabbed a sledgehammer and went Gallagher on my MP3. Instead, I created a playlist called “The Exes” and let the music transport me.

Years ago, music helped me mourn those men. It gave me the strength to strap on my boots and wade into the dating pool (and take a face-plant) again and again and again. Now technology has helped these long-lost songs make a comeback with a purpose. With this musical time capsule of my love life, I can reflect on what I’ve learned from my mistakes. I can laugh at my immaturity—and my insecurity—with men, and my progression as a lover of delicious food and drink. Am I proud of the fact that practicing poor judgment with men for fifteen years made me the Jedi Master of heartache? Absolutely not. The healing powers of time and music have helped me face down embarrassment and embrace the beauty of all that heavy baggage. I now realize it was my destiny to find happily ever after through trial and error. Every time I journey to my past with my Exes playlist, I learn something about myself and how I’ve grown as a woman. I’ll never stop listening. I’ll never stop learning.

So, I’ve done enough hard time on the dating circuit to make Dr. Drew blush, which I believed gave me enough street cred (and material) to write a novel based on my own experiences—my bewildering journey from lust to love and beer to wine told through a playlist of songs. This book is a work of fiction, shaken and stirred by music and alcohol-lubed memories. Any resemblance to actual persons is purely coincidental. While my string of ex-boyfriends is deep enough to fill a National Football League roster, those guys without songs did not make the cut to inspire chapters in this book. (My apologies to the Puerto Rican techno dancer, the Harley-riding waiter, the Egyptian poet, the Bolivian saltwater fish salesman, the exotic flower importer, the aspiring actor, the South Beach hotel manager, the wine collector, the medical marijuana defender and the cougar-chasing construction worker.) And that only includes half the rejects of one decade! This whittling act resulted in a fitting number of exes—thirteen—who left their mark both emotionally and musically on the most pivotal years of my life. And revisiting those relationships through fictional writing was an exercise in self-discovery with a poignant reminder: being unlucky in love doesn’t have to mean being unlucky in life.

Reliving past relationships has been a powerful tool for understanding the woman I’ve become. The journey back in time—and the search for the real Mr. Right—has been much brighter and colorful set to music. Grab a chair. Pour yourself a glass of Champagne. Read along. Laugh at dating mistakes. Distant memories can be unlocked from the corner of your mind too with a quick visit to iTunes. Create your own Exes playlist and see where the music takes you.

Besides, it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than therapy. Time to play on. And drink up.

Note: This e-book is sprinkled with hyperlinks, allowing readers to preview songs, peruse lyrics or simply brush up on pop culture references. After opening iTunes hyperlinks, click on the number next to each song to hear a preview. Explore and enjoy.

“People take from songs only what they want to hear.”

—John Mellencamp

Fresh Air, National Public Radio, March 31, 2009

The Exes Playlist

Chris: “Box of Rain,” Grateful Dead

James: “Labour of Love,” Frente!

Robert: “Laid,” James

Marco: “Closer,” Nine Inch Nails

Matthew: “Santa Monica,” Everclear

John: “Suavemente,” Elvis Crespo

Michael: “Troubled Mind,” Everything but the Girl

Raul: “Brass Monkey,” Beastie Boys

Fernando: “Crash Into Me,” Dave Matthews Band

Tyler: “Superman’s Dead,” Our Lady Peace

Paul: “Hunter,” Dido

Chance: “Something in the Way She Moves,” James Taylor

Kevin: “Fly Away,” The Black Eyed Peas

THE EXES

IN MY IPOD:

A PLAYLIST OF THE MEN

WHO ROCKED ME

TO WINE COUNTRY

CHRIS

“BOX OF RAIN”

Grateful Dead

REWIND: Business in front, party in back. That’s how the burly guy ran his dive boat and wore his hippie hair. Thick curls of gray snaked behind his leathery shoulders as he tossed a rusty anchor over the back end of the boat’s hull. He had the face of Blue from Old School and more tattoos than 50 Cent. A real catch.

This is the man Chris calls his idol? I thought, sandwiched between two divers on the side bench. I looked down at the blue flippers on my feet and readjusted the matching mask stuck to my forehead. Chris was following his dreams, and while the original plan didn’t involve being mentored by a tatted up mullet man, I knew it was my duty, as his girlfriend, to be supportive.

The fiery, summer sun heated my face and broad shoulders. I glanced at the turquoise waters glistening in the afternoon light and inhaled deeply, letting the salty, warm air fill my lungs. Never again will I live without the ocean. The epiphany kept replaying in my head. My eyes moved to Chris, hunched over a giant bucket of water near the engine room. As he forcefully plunged snorkel masks into the bucket, his long, chunky bangs bounced over his round, sunburned face. Party in front, business in back: that was how Chris lived his life and wore his hair.

“Hey, what did those masks ever do to you?” I cocked my head sideways. A gust of wind whipped my ponytail, and I wrapped my beach towel tighter around my waist.

Chris cracked a smile. “It’s how we remove the salt, Honey. The salt water damages equipment.” His thick arms pulled a trio of dripping-wet masks into the air.

My eyes sunk to the lower half of my swaddled body. “Ohhh, got it.” Chris always helped fill in all the blanks in my head, and I had more than Cher Horowitz in Clueless. He taught me about the world outside my childhood zip code—my very own Mr. Miyagi, minus the karate.

“Who wants to be first to take a dip?” Captain Bob, the old man, asked with a cackle. The faded mermaid tattoo on his arm looked like Roseanne Barr when his leathery bicep flexed. A Grateful Dead keyboard-harmonica riff wailed from two overhead speakers. I looked around at the clusters of tourists smiling and swaying their shoulders to the beat. They all let out a “Woo! Woo!” in unison, like a crowd of fans hollering back to cheerleaders at a pep rally.

“Me!” I shot up from the fiberglass bench as if Chris had just goosed me. I’d volunteer to be the first in line for anything except giving blood. My heart pounded so hard my chest hurt. It was the kind of dip I’d dreamed of taking for years, and it didn’t involve chewing tobacco or jumping into a muddy pond. Back when my only wheels were on a doll stroller, I’d already begun plotting my escape to the real world. I hail from a very isolated town in southeast Kansas near the Missouri-Oklahoma border—the kind of backwoods place where mullets and Skoal Bandits are still in fashion. I would have worn my snorkel gear in the car if Chris had let me.

I looked down at the beach towel covering the bottom half of my body. A knot of shame formed in my stomach. I wanted to swim, but I wanted to hide. Hesitantly, I peeled away the towel and rested it on my backpack. My eyes darted around the boat to see who was looking at my body, i.e. who looked like they were about to blow chunks. My ears filled with the sound of fins slapping on fiberglass for the first time, as I hurried past a couple from Orlando who were grabbing their snorkeling gear from Chris. I kept my butt turned away from them—like a horse backing into a stall—and nearly knocked over the cluster of yellow dive tanks lined up like bowling pins, bringing even more attention to my dimpled body.

“Sorry!” I mouthed to Chris, quickly pulling the snorkel mask over my eyes. I wanted to crawl into a conch shell.

The old sailor impatiently waved his wrinkled hand at me. I adjusted the Kodak disposable camera lassoed around my wrist, trying not to stare at the missing pinky on his right hand. I had my own scars to deal with—three hideous wounds across my pubic area from kidney surgery, two sliced up knees from car accidents and two forehead gashes from playing catch with a metal water nozzle when I was seven. Part of me wondered why any boy would want to date such a damaged girl. My first name only made things worse. My parents named me Harley because they loved motorcycles, especially choppers, but couldn’t afford one. Cue Jeff Foxworthy saying, “You might be a redneck if…”

The back of the boat blended right into the calm, turquoise ocean. My cheeks began to ache, partly from smiling and partly from the snorkel mask stuck to my face tighter than a Shop-Vac hose. I exhaled deeply through my mouth like Chris had taught me, while Captain Bob herded the rest of the group like a teacher on a playground. Divers snapped the buckles of their buoyancy compensator vests (BCs) while Chris scurried in the corner, checking the pressure on each of their air tanks. Chris always took care of other people first—that was one of the reasons I loved him.

I fumbled with my snorkel and quickly plopped down on the submerged platform at the back of the boat. My thighs spread out around me like Jabba the Hutt’s rolls, and I grimaced, praying for the water to engulf my horrific saddlebags and ugly knees. I had the kind of shape you’d want … in a Bartlett pear. My bikini had been buried in a sock drawer since high school. The boat rocked gently, water sloshing against its bow. I looked up at the blazing sun in a cloudless sky and tried to find the bright side of my insecurities. Chris deserved better on such a special day.

It was the first week of September in 1994, and I’d just turned twenty; I’d crossed that imaginary line into a world of wisdom and independence, the land without teens. I was living out the kind of fantasy most Midwestern girls dream about while sipping Slurpees in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart—sitting on a boat off the coast of Key Largo, Florida. Most of my family had never even flown on an airplane before. My grandma had never driven a car.

The sun sparkled across the ocean’s tiny waves as I moved my flippers up and down in the water. My eyes fixed on the crystal-clear surface—a gigantic window into an undiscovered world. I looked over my shoulder to Chris and smiled. Our life was one big, awesome adventure, just like he’d promised.

“Don’t forget to breathe out of your mouth,” Chris said, hunched over the yellow tanks. His long, brown bangs fell over his rosy face again, as he struggled to heft a full air tank onto the diver’s bench. He’d looked far more natural at a desk back home, writing code for computer programs.

“I won’t!” The muffled words spit out my snorkel as I rolled my eyes. My head bobbed along with the rocking boat. A ring of pasty-white belly peeked out from under Chris’s The Cure T-shirt while he continued trying to put the tank into a Half Nelson. I winced and suppressed the urge to run over and tuck in his shirt. Chris had this pudgy Charlie Sheen thing going for him—long before Charlie had #tigerblood. He was barely 5-foot-9 and proudly referred to himself as “200 pounds of aquatic fury.”

The cool water splashed over my warm thighs. I looked down at Chris’s fraternity lavaliere pendant on my necklace and exhaled. I had no room to be passing judgment. Sure, my long, blonde hair and sky-blue eyes helped me get double takes from guys now and then; my hair and clothes hid the scars. Customers at the restaurant often told me I looked like Sarah Jessica Parker back in her Miami Rhapsody days. But my curls were fake—the product of way too many perms—and I was 5-foot-3 with more “junk in the trunk” than Nicki Minaj. And I had to stuff my bra. Chris had told me I was pretty when other guys would have called me … well, a booty call. He’d seen me through the darkest hours during my first years at college, and he’d never stopped smiling and telling me our life would be better if I’d just trust him. Take a chance. Move to Florida.

I plunged the rest of my body into the tepid water.

“How’s it feel?” Chris yelled from the side of the boat. My legs stung as if tiny pins were pricking every pore. Chris had told me swimming in the ocean would feel like taking a bath in Epsom salt. Those were the kind of pictures he had to paint for me. Before that day, I’d only seen the Atlantic Ocean once on a postcard Chris had brought back from St. Croix. For years, my idea of an adventure was coon hunting with my dad after midnight.

I pulled the salty snorkel from my mouth. “It really does sting, but it’s a good sting.” The ocean tasted like the bucket of tears I’d cried in first grade when my first cat had died. I looked up at the clear, blue sky, letting the sun warm my face. Only months before meeting Chris, my pipe dream was to move to the big city—Kansas City. I’d already plotted a master plan for life with my high school sweetheart, Lance, and step one was following him to Kansas State University. Two weeks into my first semester, he’d dumped me for a Kappa Kappa Gamma—a Kappa cow! Talk about Pan-Hellenic devastation.

Enter Chris, four months later. It was hard not to notice Chris, the only person at the frat party sporting a cable-knit sweater, cut-off jean shorts and hiking boots, when six inches of snow had fallen the night before. He wanted everyone to know he’d rather be in the Caribbean than sitting in computer science lectures. He loved Pearl Jam and hated Birkenstocks—just like me. My heart had melted when Chris’s chunky bangs fell over his green eyes while he’d pumped the keg for me. It was the ultimate form of chivalry to an eighteen-year-old girl who’d gained twenty-three pounds and depleted a case of Kleenex during the mini-depression triggered by Lance. While other college guys thought beer funnels and Jell-O shots were foreplay, Chris had invited me to dinner at the Bristol on Country Club Plaza in Kansas City. He was a big city boy, who didn’t drive a pick-up truck with a shotgun rack. His dreams were bigger than the grain elevator that towered over my hometown. My myopic world would have never exploded without Chris. He was my first gateway boyfriend; if you want a colossal life change like I did, you’ll need at least one of these angels.

My legs kicked the flippers awkwardly on the ocean’s surface. The blazing sun warmed my back. My pulse skyrocketed as I got my first glimpse of the rainbow-colored coral reef ecosystem below. Lavender sea urchins and green anemones clung to staghorn and brain corals. A school of shiny minnow-lookalikes swarmed below me, dodging the zebra-striped sergeant majors. I recognized each fish from the laminated identification card Chris had handed me on the boat. I grabbed the orange underwater camera from my wrist and snapped off more shots than the paparazzi.

A pack of grunts and blue wrasses buzzed me, their spiny tails brushing my arms. Fish nipped at my shoulders and sides. My breathing quickened. I squirmed, turning to find the fish swarming around chunks drifting on the surface. I popped my head out of the water, then pulled off my mask and snorkel. Mushy, white blobs bobbed in the water around me.

“What are you doing?” I coughed, looking up at Chris and Bob, standing at the back of the boat. Chris clutched a half-empty plastic bag of Wonder Bread in his stubby hands.

Chris tossed a handful of bread chunks onto the water. “Say hello to my little friend!” His tone was more playful than sinister, a pitiful impersonation of Al Pacino in Scarface. I giggled and shook my head. Chris may have been tubby, but his personality made up for his weight. He was the Artie Lange of his frat house—resident prankster and comic relief. Nude Slip ‘n Slide was his springtime sport of choice. At age twenty-two, Chris was naked in public more often than Angel Soft commercial babies. From the grand balcony of his fraternity house, Chris often played “make it rain.” And I’m not talking throw-glitter-on-it rain, Ke$ha. I’d loved the fact that he didn’t care what other people thought. If you could bottle and sell insecurity, my family would be rich.

“You need to get to know your new neighbors.” Chris shook the crumpled bread bag over the side of the boat, smirking at me as the last crumbs landed in the water. His XXL T-shirt hung off his shoulders like a tent. The extra weight made him cuddly, like the Winnie the Pooh bear I’d slept with until the fourth grade.

“You said I would feed the fishes.” I slipped my head gear over my wet ponytail. “Not get eaten by them.” I laughed until I snorted, watching the fish tickling my shoulders. I raised my fingers slowly from the water like a bobbing shark’s fin and flipped Chris off. Chris always made me laugh—especially during college when studying and waitressing left no room for monkey business.

Chris squeezed the plastic bag, his round face glowing with content. “Back in Manhattan, everyone’s buying books for the fall semester.”

“College isn’t a bad thing, you know.” My tongue clicked. “I’m going back whether you do or not.” Putting myself through school had gotten too complicated my sophomore year at K-State. My financial aid was taken away due to a change in Federal Pell Grant policy, which said my mom could contribute half of her $19,000 salary to my college education. (Yes, our government was almost as messed up in the 1990s as it is today.) McDonald’s wouldn’t even hire me despite my drive-thru experience, which would cause serious damage to anyone’s ego. When Chris had suggested we move to the Caribbean, I’d nearly sprayed a mouthful of Keystone Light in his face. Dropping out of college would be a scarlet letter on my résumé … and conscience.

“Stop worrying about what other people think,” he’d scoffed. I’d taken on two student loans and three part-time jobs. Birkin-sized bags had begun forming under my eyes from juggling school and work. While waddling through muddy snow in a parka and duck boots, I’d finally caved and yelled out in a freezing campus courtyard, “Fuck you, McDonald’s. I’m moving to Florida.”

Chris adjusted the dive flag on the tail of the boat. “School is the farthest thing from my mind.” His sun-kissed cheeks plumped with an air of elation only permanent vacation can provide. “You need to give it a break.”

When I’d met Chris, he was a fifth-year senior contemplating number six. The only time he’d actually attended class was right before midterms and finals—just enough time to score notes from a friend and speed-cram over a carton of Camels. As long as he got Cs, he was happy. The invisible tractor beams that drew me into relationships with my polar opposites must have been turbo-charged by all the Zima I drank.

“I’m just sayin’.” My Kansas drawl rang through. “I’ll graduate.”

“When are you going to buck up and take some real classes?” Chris hefted a black BC in the air. “This reef is practically our backyard.” He’d always dreamed of finishing his PADI certification and becoming a dive instructor, rather than following in his father’s footsteps as a successful video game designer. Chris had traveled to Mexico and became a “dive master” a few months before our big move. He’d been dogging me to get certified.

“I don’t know.” I stared down at my wide hips below the water’s surface. What I really wanted to do together was lose weight. “I’ve got other priorities right now.” I readjusted my snorkel. I didn’t want to make excuses or take diversions. I wanted to change.

Chris huffed a laugh. “Like what?”

“Like I need to get my residency first.” My responsible side fired the rebuttal as I treaded the sparkling waters. Getting through college as soon as possible—with a GPA of no more than 3.5—had been my focus at K-State. The summer between high school and college, I’d worked the McDonald’s drive-thru all day, then waited tables at a fried chicken diner, Pichler’s Chicken Annie’s, all night so I’d have enough money the first semester at K-State to focus on studying rather than paying bills. I’d never skipped class. I was the girl in the front row scribbling enough notes in one semester to fill two binders. Neither my mom nor dad had gone to college, nor made enough money to help pay my tuition or rent. I was determined to beat the odds and become a successful businesswoman.

“Why don’t you start acting like a Floridian and relax.” Chris’s threw his meaty hands to his sides then fished around his back pockets. He raised an unlit Camel Light to his lips.

I rolled my eyes in disgust. Chris knew how much I hated him smoking. His balance between intelligence and laissez-faire attitude fascinated me. Hiding his upper-class roots behind concert clothes, cigarette butts and a skater-boy haircut was one of Chris’s talents. In college, his dad had paid for his tuition, his Ford Probe GT, his rent, even his beer money. It was hard for me to chill out when all financial responsibilities had rested on my shoulders since age eighteen.

I watched the other snorkelers’ fins sloshing on the ocean’s surface around me. My smile returned. Snorkeling was way more exciting than buying a semester’s worth of books. Swimming in an ocean that looked endless, I felt free. Free of judgment. Free of responsibility. And more importantly, surrounded by beauty. Beauty that engulfed me as the water passed over my skin. Beauty I could never find in my life back home. I took a deep breath and plunged a foot down into the water. Yellowtail snappers sparkled around me. The surface above glowed from the sunshine. A long, skinny fish that looked like a needle buzzed over my head. My cheeks ballooned from holding my breath. I wanted to stay underwater as long as possible, getting acquainted with my new surroundings—feeling free and beautiful.

Leaving Kansas, and my entire family, was the most pivotal decision I’ve ever made. If I hadn’t endured a record-breaking winter without a car—and my childhood would have been filled with pool parties and family vacations instead of parental separations due to Dad’s binge drinking—maybe my decision to move would have been more difficult. Then again, I was the girl who’d sold peanut brittle in high school for four years so that I could spend a week in France with a language study group. I’d never even walked into an airport before then. There was a little spirit of Amelia Earhart hibernating inside me, and Chris had awoken it.

I snapped another photo and thumbed the plastic wheel, then turned. My eyes widened. A wide, pointy nose hovered in my face—close enough to French kiss me. The forked tail swayed. Adrenaline surged through my veins, stiffening my body. The unmistakable hooked dorsal fin crested the surface.

“SHAAAUUKKK!” I yelled, a stream of bubbles flowing from my mouth underwater. I kicked and flailed like a kid on the first day of swimming lessons. My heartbeat hammered in my ears. I never thought my bad luck would follow me in Florida! I’d survived two car accidents and three tornados—only to be eaten by a goddamn shark during my first dip in the ocean? Shark attacks were my grandma’s greatest fear when I’d told her I was moving to Miami. Like my mom and dad, she’d lived her entire life in Columbus, the quaint town of 3,000 people where I’d spent eighteen long years, and she’d watched Jaws at least three times.

I flew up the boat’s metal ladder faster than a child on a jungle gym. Chris doubled over, laughter roaring from his lungs. He raised his head and wiped his watering eyes.

I gasped for air and ripped the mask and snorkel off my face. “I…saw…a…shark!” My chest fluttered between words. I leaned over and gripped my knees to slow my breathing. Water trickled off my body. I looked up at Chris, still wiping his eyes. “You’re a shithead.” My lips snarled. Captain Bob chuckled, deep creases forming in his weather-beaten face.

“I’ve gotta get you out here more often.” Chris hopped up and down with the glee of a third grader. “You’re my good luck charm. We rarely see nurse sharks.”

My lungs panted. “How big was it?” I grabbed my beach towel and speed-wrapped it around my waist.

Chris held up his hands roughly two feet part. “Just a little fella. He wouldn’t have hurt you.” Chris bounced around the edge of the boat trying to spot the shark again. I’d never seen him so giddy. He was a laid-back type who didn’t get excited about much of anything besides diving deep-sea shipwrecks and going to Grateful Dead concerts.

“Really?” I tugged my beach towel tighter and sat down on the bench. “He looked so big.”

Chris plucked the snorkel and fins from my hands. A big smile rippled across his face. “Everything looks bigger underwater because our eyes are truly open.”

Those snorkeling trips with Chris were the highlight of our new life in the Sunshine State. Living together in a one-bedroom apartment in southeast Miami-Dade County, on the other hand, blew a gaping hole in my pipe dream. Whoever designed the glossy brochure for our apartment complex must have been snorting crack. “Tropical splendor of waterfront living”? Our building backed up to a skinny canal filled with green slime and cattails overlooking Miami’s largest landfill. The ocean sunsets we’d dreamed of watching from our third-story balcony on Saga Bay were replaced by views of dump trucks and dust clouds, complemented by the stench of decomposing food on a windy day. Saga Bay was a neighborhood, not a body of water, and we were none the wiser. All moving decisions had been based on close review of two maps and a three-pound manila envelope filled with brochures and postcards. If only the Internet had gone mainstream a few years earlier! We’d never even heard of Hurricane Andrew, honestly. The twenty-four-hour news cycle wasn’t a part of daily life back then, and many people in my hometown really don’t care to pay attention to what’s happening outside of their zip code to this day. Andrew’s Category 5 winds and rains had demolished our new hometown precisely two years before we’d arrived in Cutler Ridge. Neighborhood streets were still lined with roofless homes that looked like concrete boxes. Walls were spray painted with insurance policy numbers and trespasser warnings, such as “LOOTERS WILL BE SHOT.” That moving van was the proverbial turnip truck, and we’d just fallen off.

“This is false advertising,” I said with a snip, staring out at the swampy canal below our apartment. We’d been living in Cutler Ridge for three weeks. “The brochure said ‘Pre-Approved for Construction.’ They lied. This is a disaster zone, and we live in the only building that’s been rehabbed.” A deflated orange raft clung to the cattails. I stomped over to the kitchen table and grabbed my black work apron off the chair. My first job in Florida was waiting tables at a new sports bar next door to a Publix grocery store. More glamorous than McDonald’s, but not exactly the gig of my dreams.

Chris peeked through his bangs. “Come on, Harley. It’s not that bad here.” The sides of his mouth drooped. He looked down at the white tile floor. “I did my best.” His bare foot traced a circle on a tile. “Can’t you just be happy?” He pushed his hair from his eyes but wouldn’t raise them to look at me. The pangs of guilt began clawing inside my chest. I pulled a hair scrunchie from my apron pocket and squeezed it like a stress ball. The open-concept apartment was sparkling white from floor to ceiling, and four times the size of my college dorm room. My childhood home had a sloping floor and sagging back porch with plastic-covered windows. I looked at Chris’s sad eyes, then down at my wide hips. Why can’t I just be grateful? I wanted to crawl into the pantry and eat a bag of Doritos to feed my guilt.

I stepped toward Chris and wrapped my arms around him. I stood there in silence, nuzzling his thick, soft chest where all my problems could melt away. Chris had made so many sacrifices to make sure we had a good life in Miami. He’d dropped out of college mid-semester and had taken a freelance job writing computer code to cover all our moving expenses. He didn’t even complain when I’d started researching universities and had asked him if we could move to south Miami-Dade County instead of the Virgin Islands or the Florida Keys. I’d wanted to be closer to Florida International University, where I’d be enrolling in college the next fall. He’d quickly shifted gears and found a job working as a deck hand for Captain Bob in Key Largo.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my face tucked into the skull on his Grateful Dead T-shirt. “You know how happy I am that we’re here.” Chris laced his big arms around my back and squeezed, giving me the signal that we were okay once again. Our apartment complex beat K-State Ford Hall dormitory hands down. Beyond the tile and central air-conditioning—two things I’d never had in a home—three-story-high palm trees lined the divided driveway leading up to our complex’s entrance, graced by a three-tier fountain with a dolphin on top. Our lawn looked like an Amazon jungle, and the blue-tiled swimming pool was almost as big as a football field. We are living in paradise.

Chris shoved his stubby hand at my face. “You’re only truly sorry if you pull my finger.” I rolled my eyes and soft-punched him in the arm. Any moment with Chris was never serious for long. I played along and reached for his index finger hesitantly, waiting for the grand finale.

Chris ripped a huge fart and said, “I smell French fries.”

The whale-sized dose of reality spread to our jobs. Chris didn’t expect the starting wage for a certified dive instructor to be $6 per hour, or the thirty-three mile drive to Key Largo to morph into a sixty-minute commute when “high season” arrived and tourist numbers tripled. So much for the Keys being “practically our backyard.” I’d daydreamed about wearing sunscreen as part of my uniform, serving Strawberry Daiquiris to men in Hawaiian-print shirts at a beachfront bar with sand squishing under my feet. At the sports bar, my rowdy regulars dressed and talked like trailer park trash, and my fellow servers had the kind of life stories that get “revealed” on Maury. It was too much like home.

So I quit.

Such an act would have been unthinkable back in southeast Kansas, where job openings were scarce and most family and friends worked at one of three manufacturing plants for decades—if not their entire careers. But I’d been devouring data about Miami like a feeding polar bear that had just awoken from hibernation. Cutler Ridge and the neighboring town of Goulds were kind of like South Central Los Angeles. Shopping at my local Kmart on a Friday night probably increased my risk of getting shot and/or robbed by 300 percent. The place to make hundreds in tips, avoid getting car-jacked and walk along the oceanfront was called Coconut Grove. I’d hatched an escape plan and accepted a job waiting tables at The Cheesecake Factory, which was opening its first restaurant in Florida. My new job included a thirty-minute drive to an open-air shopping center in Coconut Grove called CocoWalk. The potential to double my tips seemed worth the drive. Our monthly rent was $600. No matter how many times Chris told me not to worry about money, I knew Chevron and Burger King were scarfing up a good chunk of his paycheck. It was my introduction to the one thing that puts stress on every live-in relationship when you’re low on the income totem pole: paying bills.

“Let’s go to Key Biscayne today,” I said with a chirp, perched on his black leather couch in our living room. It was our first day off together in weeks. I’ve always had a tendency to throw myself into my work, and my first job at a corporate restaurant had me doubling down on hours. Serving Chinese Chicken Salads on a veranda felt like a vacation compared to making potato salad in the sweltering kitchen at Chicken Annie’s, so I didn’t mind picking up extra shifts. But I still wanted to sit on a beach at least once a week; it was one of the reasons why I’d moved to Florida.

“I don’t want to drive,” Chris replied, sitting Indian-style in front of his stereo across the room. His baggy T-shirt pooled on the floor around him like an oversized curtain. Late morning sun peeked through the drawn vertical blinds on our sliding glass doors. It was 10 a.m. Our white living room was almost as dark as his basement bedroom at the frat house. Grateful Dead’s “Ripple” filled the room; the peaceful twang of guitars drowned out the humming air vents in our ceiling. “It’s too hot to be outside.” His eyes stayed glued to the plastic jackets of Memorex cassette tapes strung around his bare feet. Chris grabbed a pencil from the floor and scribbled on the cassette’s paper jacket. Chris’s only extracurricular activity, besides smoking and diving, was copying and trading Grateful Dead cassette tapes.

“Too hot?” I shook my head and exhaled, looking down at my white tank top and baggy jean shorts. “We moved here to get away from the cold.” After living off cups of soup and sourdough bread at Cheesecake for a month, I’d dropped ten pounds since starting my new job, and finally felt confident enough to wear a bikini without a towel wrap (well, once I’d downed two beers). During college, we’d spent most nights curled up under a blanket on his stilted platform bed, eating pizza and listening to The Cure’s “Pictures of You” in the dark. Talk about depressing. I never wanted to be that girl again.

Chris glanced up at his stereo speakers, ignoring me. When Jerry Garcia began singing, he raised both hands in the air like a concert conductor. His deeply tanned arms had a rosy hue from spending eight hours a day on a dive boat. He looked up at me on the couch, then tugged discreetly at his navy T-shirt. Behind closed doors, Chris always seemed uncomfortable clothed or naked. I never realized the irony: He couldn’t turn on the lights while naked with the girl he loved, but he could streak the 50-yard-line at a K-State football game in front of 30,000 people.

“Hello?” I waved my hands at him across the dimly lit room. “Earth to Chris. Can’t we talk about this?” My eyes fixed on his wide body. Four weeks had passed in college before Chris took off his bulky shirt in front of me. He was the first guy I’d dated who didn’t go straight for my zipper, which seemed hopelessly romantic back then. We were two obese kids with surgical scars only our parents and lovers had seen: a perfect physical match. I never had to truly expose my body to Chris; I think that’s why we were so comfortable together for so long.

Chris stared at the cassette tape in his hands. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

My body shot off the couch. “But there’s so much we haven’t seen yet.” I threw my hands in the air. Because my cultural horizons were as broad as a barn door, I’d sponged a boatload of knowledge from new co-workers, which added a dozen items to my bucket list. The sweeping waterfront gardens of Vizcaya, the walled fortresses where Sylvester Stallone and Madonna lived, the drive-up beaches on Virginia Key, Everglades National Park—all were at our doorstep. We had moved to Florida so we could be outside all year-round, exploring. Chris was acting like a spoiled brat who belonged in Alaska … in an igloo.

“Whenever you’re not working, you’re still working,” Chris muttered, never looking up. “If you’re not studying, you’re making lists and planning a vacation day.” His voice was cold and sober. “I just want to rest. You should too.”

My mouth fell open.

“Work hard, play hard.” My ponytail whipped around my shoulders. “I thought that was the plan.” When I’d scored ninety-three points on the final service exam at The Cheesecake Factory, Chris didn’t even say, “Good job.” I’d spent two weeks enduring nine-hour training sessions to learn every ingredient in a twenty-page menu that was more exotic than an issue of National Geographic. I had to work harder than the other servers to memorize all the dishes. They knew what artichokes, tamarinds and calamari were, and what those things tasted like. I couldn’t believe my taste buds had gone two decades tasting mostly frozen dinners and processed foods. My tongue had finally been exposed to a new world of flavors, and my eyes were jealous. I’d earned a day trip, and a supportive boyfriend.

“I’m cooped up inside all day.” The words shot from my lips with frustration. My hands anchored on my hips. “I wanna go relax in the sun. Somewhere. Not here.” My days were spent racing through an air-conditioned dining room that resembled a Mediterranean villa. On my day off, I wanted sand on my feet and sun on my shoulders. Sheryl Crow had just released “All I Wanna Do” and I’d made it my personal anthem. I always left my bathing suit and beach towel on the dresser the day before our day off, so Chris would get the hint. Subtle hints don’t work with guys; it would take me another decade to realize that.

Chris threw back his head. “I don’t want any more sun.” A sigh of exasperation escaped his clenched jaw. “I get enough at work.”

“But I don’t.” I flung my arms into the air. “You knew it was going to be sunny here. Just wear more sunscreen.” My cheeks plumped. I squeezed my hands like a valet about to park his first Ferrari. “We have money. We can do things.” I’d never been able to break $35 in tips back home, and I’d leave every shift at Cheesecake with $100 in my apron. I wanted to celebrate a life where I finally had money—and chimichurri sauce. I was too young to realize that the great weather and jobs that drew us to Florida were hijacking our time to reconnect and recharge—two things couples need to keep a relationship healthy.

Chris groaned with irritation. “It’s not about the money.” His eyes met mine. I remembered the time I’d proudly fanned out my thick stack of tips in his face like a deck of cards. Chris had rolled his eyes and said, “It’s just money.” Now, Chris gently stacked three plastic cassette boxes on the floor. “Go to the store if you want to go somewhere.” His voice was snippy—colder than our apartment. “We’re out of ice cream and pop.”

“It’s called SO-da.” My voice snapped with a hiss. We’d been transplanted to another world, and Chris wasn’t even trying to blend in with the locals. Pop was called soda. Supper was dinner and dinner was lunch. Thongs were flip-flops. But most importantly, perms and fanny packs were not cool.

Chris shoved a clear cassette tape back in its jacket. “Whatever. Just leave and get some.”

My shoulders caved, my heart pierced by his hurtful words. “Don’t be mean.” I stared at Chris in silence until he looked up at me. “You said we weren’t going to eat crap once we moved here.” I tugged at the belt loops on my saggy jean shorts. My weight loss boosted my spirits. “Why should I ‘just leave’ and buy it?” Chris and I usually played tug of war with the tub of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia in the middle of the aisle at Publix. I didn’t want all the fatty foods we’d gorged back home in our refrigerator anymore. We were living in a place where women with tanned, baby-oiled bodies sauntered down the street in bikini tops and Daisy Dukes, and my body still belonged in a burka. To lose weight, we needed the buddy system. That was our original plan, but Chris had no will power. He couldn’t drive past Dairy Queen without making a Peanut Buster Parfait pit stop. His tummy was getting wider, his shirts tighter. It wasn’t the only big promise he’d broken since crossing the Florida state line—he hadn’t quit smoking either. The guy couldn’t make it down our apartment stairwell without wheezing. But I kept reminding myself that he’d kept his word about rescuing me from a world of mounting financial aid debt, and about teaching me to snorkel.

“Why don’t I go get some fresh shrimp then.” I laced my arms across my chest. “We could eat outside on the patio or by the pool. Where there’s shade.” I kept my eyes on his plump face, hoping he’d appreciate the compromise. Before we moved, I thought we’d spend evenings on our balcony nibbling on peel-and-eat shrimp—not sitting on the couch with a bag of Doritos and a can of Fritos bean dip anchored between us. At least our taste in beer had started to evolve—only a tiny trade up from Keystone to Rolling Rock—but we all have to start somewhere. Beer was the alcoholic drink of choice in America back then; we didn’t have access to the sea of wines that have arrived on retail shelves since the late 1990s. I still thought Chardonnay was just a stripper name, and a corkscrew was our county fair roller coaster. My first and only wine experience had occurred my freshman year of high school. The night started with me drinking straight out of a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill in the backseat of my best friend Emily’s station wagon, and ended with me hugging a toilet bowl. I’d decided to stick with beer.

Chris paused from writing on a cassette tape and looked up at me. “Sitting outside sweating through my shirt.” He took a deep breath. “That sounds like fun.”

I sighed and clenched my fists. The muggy humidity hit me like a wall every time I walked out the front door of our apartment. He was right, but if I had to break a sweat while eating, Miami was the place to do it.

My fish tank bubbled on the plywood bookshelf next to the couch, and I glanced over to Beavis and Butthead, the goldfish Chris has given me for my twentieth birthday. Central air-conditioning vents in the ceiling hummed as I stood over Chris, wondering what to say next. The air made our closed vertical blinds dance across the sliding glass doors like keys on a self-playing piano. Little bits of frustration began snapping together in my chest. I looked down at Chris, huddled over his milk crate of Dead tapes like a hen protecting her eggs. I’m pretty sure that was the moment I started to despise the Grateful Dead.

I marched over to the blinds. “I can’t stand it.” I tugged the cords. Sunshine poured into the room. “I can’t be inside all the time. I need fresh air. I need light.” Chris covered his squinting eyes with the back of his forearm. Leaving his cubbyhole to party with other Greeks wasn’t his preferred way to spend a Saturday night in college, and driving sixty minutes to Miami Beach to get our first glimpse at Ocean Drive wasn’t either. It finally struck me: Chris may have worked in the sun, but he really wanted to be in the dark. Vampire in a past life? Maybe Count Chocula.

Chris pushed his pile of tapes aside. His prankster grin reemerged. “What you need is a Hot Carl.”

“I’m serious. This isn’t funny.” My hands gripped the hips of my jean shorts. His mouth was a fountain of endless toilet humor, and he always dropped a joke bomb at the most serious moments. He’d taught me the meanings of “Hot Carl,” “Dirty Sanchez” and “Cleveland Steamer”—without demonstration, thank God. (Google these terms only on an empty stomach.)

Chris hopped to his bare feet. “Could you do me a favor?” He pushed his hair from his eyes, exposing his round, tan face. “Pull my finger?” He began coughing uncontrollably. I rolled my eyes and stomped to the bedroom, turning up my nose as I passed him.

Chris trailed after me. “Come on, Honey. Let me check your oil.” His voice sang in a happy cadence like the chorus of “Sugar Magnolia.” His fingers poked at the back pockets of my jean shorts, trying to “check my oil”—an urban dictionary favorite. I swatted him away and pressed my back against our bedroom wall. He continued poking at my butt with a smile on his face. I giggled, slapping his thick arms playfully. I couldn’t be mad at Chris long. Deep down, I owed him so much. Guilt and co-dependence are such a powerful pairing. They override gut instincts.

We melted into our daily routines. Chris would crash before 10 p.m., so he could shoot down to the Keys at the crack of dawn to catch the first dive. I’d leave for my dinner shift commute at 3:30 p.m., then crawl into bed around midnight or later, sleeping with my back to Chris. I could feel his wide body filling most of the queen bed while I’d lain in the dark, mind racing. His job. His jokes. His diet. Looking back, I realize it was the only relationship I’ve ever had that wasn’t built from physical attraction. Being with someone who could push both my emotional and physical buttons should have been on my non-negotiable list, but I didn’t have one of those yet. Epiphanies just didn’t come easy to my twenty-year-old brain. My extra pounds were melting away with the hectic pace of bustling Cheesecake Factory. I wanted to celebrate a new life, and the new Harley. After each long night shift, I’d throw on a tank top and hang out at CocoWalk terrace bars overlooking Bayshore Drive with new friends who were teaching me everything I needed to know about city life. Co-workers—the lanky, blonde Christina, a Columbian beauty named Alicia, and James, a handsome Lacrosse star with a college degree—always invited me to go dancing or dining after a couple drinks. And because my friends were friends with all the bouncers, I never got carded. I’d nurse a Sex on the Beach—my idea of a sophisticated drink—and shake my head. “Sorry, I have a long drive home.” My mind was thinking, “Sorry, I have a boyfriend.” My new friends were all single. And thin. Both seemed like prerequisites to wait tables in Miami.

Driving to and from CocoWalk, my mind replayed the two months that had passed since we’d left Kansas. Living in Florida was supposed to be my fairytale realized. I wanted excitement, passion and partnership with Chris. I wanted us to be like Bo and Hope on Days of our Lives. Back then, I thought the ultimate goal of every relationship was marriage. Taking Chris on the live-in test drive was supposed to determine if we could make it for the long haul. I didn’t want to make a mistake and marry the wrong guy. I wanted to beat the odds. My parents broke up and got back together more times than Whitney and Bobby. Growing up, Chris’s family was all smiles in our state capital, Topeka, living in their gigantic Victorian behind a white picket fence. But his parents also had gotten divorced while he was in high school. Chris was shocked. During high school, I’d been relieved when my mom and dad’s seesaw relationship finally stopped teetering. I didn’t want my kids to go through a divorce too. I had to find the right guy … and fast. My brain was feeding off the pressure of social norms. It took years to realize I could be deprogrammed. Girls back home got engaged during college and popped out all their kids before age twenty-six. My mom got married at nineteen and gave birth to my brother two months after she turned twenty-one. And I was living with a guy who asked me to smell his farts.

I dragged my body up our apartment building stairwell. My legs felt like tree trunks in the sweltering heat of an October afternoon. It had been two weeks since our big fight, and we both just kept working on our jobs, not on us. I loosened my checkered necktie, feeling my chest dampen under my stained work shirt. My forty-minute work commute on Old Cutler Road was taking its toll regardless of the breathtaking Banyan trees. My sweaty thighs were stuck to my white Levi jeans before reaching the second story of our building. If someone would have jumped into the stairwell and sprayed a water hose in my face, I would have danced a jig.

I opened our front door. Slivers of sunlight peeked through the vertical blinds on our sliding glass doors, lighting the silhouette of Chris’s stereo system in the living room. An air-conditioning vent in the ceiling hummed. As the blast of cold air hit my chest, I exhaled a sigh of relief. I clicked the dead bolt behind me. The faint scent of smoke hit my nostrils. The smell was earthy like incense, which Chris hadn’t burned since college. I flipped on the light switch. My jaw dropped.

A crushed Keystone Light can rested on a white paper plate in the middle of our round oak table, surrounded by dirty, wadded up napkins and two empty bags of chips. My shoulders caved. I’d grown up in a house where crumpled beer cans on the table were commonplace, but this looked like a very different kind of party. Little specks of ash circled the can like a trail of black pepper. I dropped my backpack and apron on the tile floor.

I glared at the filthy table. “Motherfucker.” Since my fifteenth birthday, I’d been making money by picking up other people’s messes at restaurants. The last thing I wanted to do after a nine-hour shift was come home and clean up Chris’s shit.

I grabbed the plate with both hands to examine the contraption. The stench filled my nose again. I coughed hard. My chest began to thump. I’d smelled that smell only once before. My hands trembled. I slowly placed the crumpled can back on the table. The memory of Chris smoking weed at a Grateful Dead concert in St. Louis raced from my head to the pit of my stomach. I gagged and covered my mouth. My fists clenched. I’d never so much as seen a bud of grass before meeting Chris. Back home, drugs were for scuzzballs, and we only had one of those in our entire high school. Chris knew I didn’t do drugs, so he’d never smoked weed around me except that one time at the Dead show. He’d respected my opinion about drugs. Even though we’d been together for almost two years, I’d never really seen a joint or a bong. Smoking marijuana had its place in the experimental phase of many lives—just not mine. I’d told myself the bong hits would stop once Chris had left college.

My ears got hot. I gritted my teeth. Recent events rolled through my mind like cherries on a slot machine. First, the urgent notice mailed to Chris from World Credit Services. Chris had had a few run-ins with credit collection agencies back in college, which he’d brushed off as “misunderstandings” that had been handled. Then, the past-due letters from Florida Power & Light flashed in my head. We’d also received an overdraft notice from NationsBank. Another promise Chris had broken: handling all our bills, and paying them on time. I’d been stuffing $75 to $100 in Chris’s sock drawer six days per week for nearly a month. When I’d asked Chris why he didn’t deposit the money, he’d grinned and asked, “Can’t we just noodle?” Then he’d dropped his arms to his sides and started to shimmy from head to toe like those Spinners at Dead shows. I wanted to have a serious talk about our finances. Chris wanted to dance a jig. The bong was my boiling point.

A deep, guttural roar left my mouth. I sounded like a bear that’d just been shot in the ass with a BB gun. I raced for an exit and threw open the sliding glass door in the living room. A wall of humidity hit my face. My heart flailed. I took three deep breaths, filling my lungs with fresh, warm air. I wanted to scream again. I wanted to rage down a mountain like Perry Farrell in “Mountain Song.” I wanted to strip the dancing bear sticker off Chris’s car bumper and stuff it down his snorkel.

When my pulse slowed, I collapsed onto the couch. My fingers stumbled down the buttons of my work shirt. I ripped the oxford off my sweaty back and dropped it on the floor. My bare arms stuck to the leather. I pulled my bra from my chest, using the underwire to fan myself. Chris’s stupidity baffled me. A deep-sea diver filling his most precious asset with cancerous smoke? His brain was far superior to mine; Chris could have been cracking code for the CIA or helping his dad launch another new line of video games. Instead, Chris wanted to eat junk food and smoke weed. And play “pull my finger.”

A trail of Doritos crumbs dotted the crease between two cushions on the couch. I exhaled and swept the tiny orange pieces into my left palm. The diamonds on my twenty-four-carat gold Bulova watch sparkled. The memory of our first Christmas made me crack a half smile. At least Chris knew how to give gifts. As I stepped toward the kitchen, sand granules stuck to my bare feet. Fuckin’ pig. I stomped over to the dining room table. Nose scrunched, I grabbed the beer-can bong and empty bags of chips. I marched to the kitchen closet trash bin and returned with our broom. While sweeping his sand from the floor, my mind raced. I actually believed a man in his early twenties, who’d lived five years in a frat house basement, would have a magical metamorphosis once we’d left college and moved to South Florida. No one had taught me that the whole girls-mature-faster-than-boys thing didn’t end at puberty. I’d been asking Chris to quit smoking—cigarettes! I’d also asked him to clean the sand off his diving equipment, shorts and shoes in our breezeway before coming into the apartment. Since the moment we’d moved in, sand was sprinkled on our floor like rock salt on a frozen road. And as much as I love sand between my toes, a girl can only take so much. Living with a boyfriend for the first time felt like trying to potty train a puppy. Chris stacked dishes caked in ketchup and melted cheese in the sink when the empty dishwasher was eight inches away. Piles of dirty laundry were strung around the bedroom, living room and bathroom, depending where he decided to get naked for the day. The burps, the farts, the requests to either smell or pull his finger continued on a daily basis. I certainly wasn’t a walking infomercial for Spic and Span, but I wanted to keep our home neat. I wanted to be a responsible adult. And date one.

I looked out the window to the muddy canal below our balcony, twirling my hair. The waters surrounding me could be bluer. And the grass was greener. I stomped into the bedroom, grabbed a plastic laundry basket from the closet and headed to our wicker dresser. I yanked the top drawer from its railing. My jaw locked as thoughts of Chris smoking at our table buzzed through my brain. Panties, socks and bras toppled into the basket. My hands stripped the baggy Levi’s off my legs. I threw on a tank top and pair of gym shorts and looked in the vanity mirror. My clothes, my apartment, my life. It’s all a mess. My chest ached from the anger. It was a kind of fiery hurt I’d never felt with a boyfriend—frustration and disappointment sparked by his bad habits—not the usual numbing, crippling pain of being dumped for another girl.

After packing make-up, toiletries, half my street clothes and all my work uniforms, I called Linda, a co-worker who’d just moved to Miami from Gainesville. She was also taking a year off school.

“I have a huge favor to ask.” My voice shook.

I stacked two overflowing laundry baskets by our front door and looked at my watch: 4:35 p.m. Chris would be home in less than an hour. My pulse jumped. Confronting a boyfriend about serious issues scared me more than major surgery. I had no idea where to start. When my father used to waltz into our house months after Mom had divorced him, her tactic was usually the silent treatment. I’d snipped at him like a guard dog just for opening our fridge or using our toilet without permission. Chris was the person who’d convinced me to leave any resentment toward my father back in Kansas. It was another reminder of the all the good that existed in Chris’s heart, which made facing him even harder. My eyes darted toward the kitchen. I sifted through the piles of junk mail on the counter and found an ink pen. I took a deep breath. I was always the kind of girl who never rocked the boat in relationships. Guys should do the dumping. The pen felt like a butcher knife in my hand. My mom had taught me how to end a relationship. She’d left my father three times, packing up our belongings at night because she’d gotten fed up with his drinking again. Dad had never known there was a problem until he’d arrived home and found our beds and dressers empty, and one of Mom’s hand-written letters on the kitchen table, spilling her heart.

I spun around and looked at the oak table behind me. Pieces of ash and potato chips were sprinkled across the surface. My nostrils flared. My fingers trembled. I stared at the pen in my hand, thinking of all the frustrations I needed to get off my chest. The bills. The food. The cigarettes. The drugs. I thought of the notepad we kept in the bottom drawer of the kitchen cabinets. A deep sigh filled the room. My shaking fingers rested the pen in the middle of the table where he’d left the bong. I walked to the door and stacked the laundry baskets in my arms. Chris would get the hint.

Running away from my childhood with my boyfriend, then running away from my boyfriend. That was how this Harley rolled.

Tropical storm Gordon blasted Miami and the northern Keys—just days later. My side of the bed was still empty the night Gordon made landfall. My heart was crammed with guilt, then elation, as thoughts of a new life in Coconut Grove careened with the reality of sending Chris a message about our future without saying a word to his face. Maybe that storm is the reason “Box of Rain” became Chris’s song, over all the other Grateful Dead, The Cure and Jane’s Addiction tunes he’d forced upon me. My mind is tempted to trip over every bad memory while the bittersweet sting of the lyrics hits me—especially the lines about walking out a doorway, feeling your way, finding a new direction that had been waiting for you.

Chris gave me one of the greatest gifts of my life. If Lance had not dumped me, I would have never met Chris. I would have never left Kansas. I may have never stopped wearing LA Gear sneakers or using Aqua Net hairspray. And I definitely would have never found that gateway to the doorway of my destiny. Every person we meet and every relationship we have is for a reason. And those relationships sculpt us forever. Chris’s gift—that box of hope and dreams for a new life in Florida—was filled with excitement and disappointment, sunshine and rain. I wanted to ask Chris the same question Jerry Garcia sang in his chorus: What did I want you to do, Chris? I wanted your dreams to be bigger than a dive boat. I wanted you to be more responsible. I wanted you to care about your weight as much as I cared about mine. A new direction was right there, just waiting for me. And I didn’t need a trail of Doritos crumbs to follow it.

Seven days later, I drove to our apartment around three thirty when I thought Chris would be at work. As I pulled into my parking space, a knot formed in my throat. His white Probe, plastered with Grateful Dead and Greenpeace stickers, was parked in its designated spot. I gripped the steering wheel, feeling the tension build in my neck and shoulders. I’d done to Chris what Lance had done to me: moved on with my life before ending ours face to face. Chris knew it was over, and I was sure he knew why. My clothes were gone. I’d left him a pen. But we shared a lease agreement and a checking account. I couldn’t avoid Chris any longer. It was time to face Mr. Dirty Sanchez.

I pushed my legs up the stairs, feeling the beads of sweat under my white work uniform. I stood outside the front door in the thick humidity for five minutes, breathing out of my mouth. My hand trembled as I slid my key into the lock. When I slowly pushed the door open, my eyes immediately met Chris’s. My body froze. The shock sucked all the air from my lungs. He stood three feet in front of me, stacking cassette tapes in a laundry basket on the kitchen table. His green eyes were dark and distant. His ever-rosy cheeks were covered with stubble. Greasy chunks of hair fell around his stout face. I wondered when he’d last taken a shower. Part of me wanted to crawl under the table and die from shame, part wanted to call his mother. Chris couldn’t run a household, and now he’d lost the ability to care for himself. My stomach squished. He glanced back into the basket, before hefting it into his arms. His baggy T-shirt fit snugger than ever before. My keys dangled in the open front door. I felt the humid air pouring into our frigid apartment. My pulse shot into orbit.

Chris brushed past me in the doorway, laundry basket tucked under his arm. The air around us suddenly smelled of sweat. A look of disgust and sadness coated his face. “I can’t believe you would do this, Harley.” He paused with the front door to his back. I could feel the heat of his body standing next to mine. I pried my eyes from the tile floor and looked into his watery eyes. My heartbeat banged so hard I felt it in my ears. “You disappeared. You couldn’t even tell me why. How could you just throw two years of our lives away?”

My mouth went dry, my lips numb. The weight of frustration and disappointment resting on my back for weeks was instantly doubled by a barbell of shame and sympathy. There was so much that needed to be said. I tried to scrape the remnants of courage from the kitchen counter still littered with unopened mail.

“I…I am…sorry.” My lips trembled, my voice quivered. Tears began building in the corners of my eyes. My tongue felt paralyzed. My eyes scanned the living room wall beside me. With the exception of his stereo, Chris had purchased every piece of furniture for us—the dining room table, the couch, the white wicker bedroom set, the queen bed. My expensive GT Talera mountain bike bought for the exercising that never happened: a gift from Chris. With the exception of a coffee table I’d bought at Wal-Mart for $20 and a papasan chair on the balcony, my physical possessions fit neatly into a half-dozen milk crates. Chris had financed my world.

“I love you,” Chris said, voice shaking. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved any girl.” His eyes burned through my skull.

I wanted to say, “If you loved me, you wouldn’t use drugs. You would stop smoking. You would pay the bills. You wouldn’t tell me you want to ‘check my oil’ after sex. You would stop eating a pint of Ben & Jerry’s everyday.” My lips quivered. My knees felt shaky. I couldn’t make a single syllable leave my mouth. My anger stayed bottled inside my flat chest, like always. Being quiet was easier than speaking up with guys.

“Rent is paid through the end of the month…” His voice trailed off as he walked down the stairs. “I’ll be back to get my furniture then.” His emphasis on the word “my” made the sting worse. My feet tried to step toward the front door, but my knees locked. I wanted to chase him down and block the stairwell. I didn’t want our breakup to make us enemies. I needed a happy ending. The thought of having someone who once loved me hate me still makes me sicker than watching The Blair Witch Project. My mind screamed as I listened to his flip-flops smack down the concrete steps.

I looked around the apartment, listening to the hum of the AC. I wiped my eyes and walked over to a pile of jewel cases in front of his stereo. The milk crates of Grateful Dead tapes, Jane’s Addiction and The Cure CDs were gone. Only my favorites remained: Indigo Girls, Sarah McLachlan, Gin Blossoms and New Order. I thought of Chris cursing me as he drove down the Florida Turnpike. I should have told him why it was over. I’d never had to look someone in the eye and deliver bad news before. Bad news hurts people. And I like to please everybody. Eighteen years later, I finally perfected my exit speech: Chris, I want to thank you. Thank you for pulling me through a doorway in life I never would have found on my own. I’m sorry for being such a scared, spineless girl. You are an angel. You rock. Enjoy your Doritos.

I just wasn’t old enough to realize the importance of confronting my man about our problems. I didn’t know that guys want girls to spell shit out. It took me a decade to learn that the best way to deal with relationship issues is to talk about them immediately—don’t let them stew, don’t think the problems will go away. I can’t believe I thought living together would force my boyfriend to grow up. Because I’d turned twenty, the next logical step was finding the man who would be my husband. Getting to “happily ever after” as quickly as possible was always my goal, so I thought every guy who showed interest in a banged-up country girl like me deserved a chance. And that was my biggest problem.

I cranked up the Indigo Girls’ “Closer to Fine” letting the strum of a six-string guitar dance in the air. I snapped open the vertical blinds and let sunshine bathe the entire room. I walked into the bedroom and pulled my last stack of white milk crates out of the closet. The Indigo Girls’ voices filled my ears. I sang along, pulling K-State T-shirts from the bottom dresser drawer. Tears ran down my cheeks. Chris had helped me take life less seriously. I couldn’t fight away the smile. The fear of leaving Chris (and being all alone so far from home) had wrapped me like a blanket. I’d sailed my ship of safety all the way to Florida, and sank it in less than ninety days. Now I could crawl on your shores, Miami. I was free. Everything in my life was one step closer to fine.

It was time to return to the place where I’d been sheltered from the thunder and rain.

JAMES

“LABOUR OF LOVE”

Frente!

REWIND: “Let me show you how to do it,” James said, his voice low and raspy. He ripped a long piece of duct tape off the roll. I stood next to him on the banquette tapping my foot and biting my upper lip. My eyes watched his strong hands grip the shiny tape. I tried not to think about where the day was heading and stuffed my hands deeper in the pockets of my apron, waiting for James’s next move. My introduction to kinky foreplay? Not quite.

“This really works?” I watched him press the strip diagonally on one of the veranda windows at The Cheesecake Factory. It was a very strange side-work request for a waitress from the Midwest. When tropical storms were brewing in the Atlantic, people in Miami who didn’t have storm shutters plastered their windows with tape. Hurricanes called for plywood. I found all of this utterly fascinating, considering that the only thing we did in Kansas during a tornado warning was hop in the bathtub and throw a mattress over our heads.

“I’m from Atlanta. How should I know?” James laughed, as he continued to cover the wall of windows with diagonal silver Xs. “I bet people wouldn’t do if it didn’t work.” His southern drawl became stronger as soon as he started talking about home, which I found so cute. Rain pelted the glass, blurring the view of the brick sidewalks below. His citrus-scented cologne filled my nose as his hands glided along the strip of tape. My stomach began making a quilt. I gnawed at my thumbnail, then grabbed the tape roll and tugged. A gust of wind smacked against the glass. I gasped and dropped the roll on the floor. With every band of rain, a wave of anxiety washed over me. It was the first week of November, and Tropical Storm Gordon would make landfall within eighteen hours.

I stared blankly at the piece of tape in my hands. “I’m not ready for this.” I had far more to worry about than preparing for my first tropical storm.

“Are you going to try to drive home?” James hopped off the banquette. His bangs bounced in the air. James had dark brown hair and wore it slicked back on the sides and feathered on the top—very 1990s, very sexy. We both wore blue-striped neckties with our white uniforms that day, which was a telltale sign of our compatibility. He always looked more like an attorney than a waiter, with his crisp, white shirt and perfectly knotted tie.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” I turned to him from my perch on a banquette and sighed. “I don’t know where I’m going.” I rolled my head from side to side, hoping to release some tension in my shoulders. My bushy ponytail flopped behind my head.

James sat down in a booth across the dining room to begin folding a two-foot-high stack of white linen napkins—the primary side-work duty of all Cheesecake Factory servers. Another band of rain slapped the windows. I shrieked like a teenage girl at a horror movie. James laughed. My body whipped around to the wall of glass behind me.

“What’s going to happen? Will the windows shatter? Can flying glass kill a person?” The words flew from my mouth, turbo-charged.

“We’ll be fine.” James continued to neatly fold napkins at a casual pace. “You can always stay in the Grove.” His tone was warm, almost sweet. I looked into his hazel eyes. My mouth felt numb. My eyes darted down to the terra cotta floor.

I shrugged my shoulders. “It’s too late.” I looked into the empty dining room. The veranda’s tables were dotted with washrags, spray bottles and rolls of tape. Most of the servers had been “cut” for the day because the restaurant was “dead,” and only four of us stayed to help clean and prep for the big storm.

“Too late for what?” His eyes barely peeked over the napkin stack.

“It’s too late, for, I don’t know. For everything.” I tossed an empty roll of tape on the table and re-tightened my curly ponytail. With Hurricane Andrew’s wrath still fresh on locals’ minds, Miamians were stockpiling supplies as if Gordon was a Category 5, and I had only two bags of Doritos and a liter of Coke in my pantry. “Publix’s shelves are totally bare. You’d think the store’d been looted.” I didn’t mention Chris; James had heard plenty about him during pre-shift napkin-folding sessions, which were basically staff gossip sessions.

“We just need to wait.” James looked out the window. “See which way the storm turns.” A look of concern crimped his lean face. I tried not to focus on his muscular forearms, his soft hands gently turning each napkin. James channeled a young Gary Cole—back when he played Vice President Bob Russell on The West Wing, i.e. before he drove a car through his house on Entourage.

I followed James’s eyes to the blurry window. “I hate all this waiting.” I tossed an empty tape ring on the table. Waiting for a slow-moving cyclone. Waiting to save enough money to get my own apartment. Waiting sucked.

My fingers fumbled with a new roll of tape. “What’s going to happen?”

“It just rains a lot.” James began tapping his foot to the beat of elevator music drifting from the restaurant’s surround sound speakers. “The wind knocks down palm fronds. Streets get flooded.” His head bobbed with the music while his hands folded the napkins, smoothly.

Tropical Storm Warnings had been issued for all of the Florida Keys and voluntary evacuations recommended for Marathon Key south. I felt trapped, helpless and alone. There was no one to hold me during the storm—except the blanket on Linda’s couch.

“Tornadoes are way worse, Wheels,” James said in his carefree tone, folding a napkin three times with the same precision he used to part his feathery bangs. He always had a black plastic comb in his back pocket, just like my dad.

A bashful grin spread across my face, like it did every time James called me Wheels—a nickname I didn’t want to broadcast to everyone in Miami. I’d been dodging motorcycle jokes since kindergarten, but let’s face it—Wheels was way better than Boss Hog or Harley the Hog. I wanted the tattoos of my past life in the Midwest to forever fade away—well, until the moment my nickname rolled off James’s tongue.

I held a strip of tape to the glass and pressed with precision. “I just don’t get it.” My curly ponytail brushed my shoulders. “Why does everyone here think tornadoes are worse than hurricanes?” I pushed my index finger along the tape to make sure the seal was strong. Wind whistled against the windowpanes.

“You just did it again.” James's words filled my ears. My ponytail whipped around and popped me in the forehead. I blushed as our eyes met. His skin always looked as soft and smooth as if he’d just put down a razor. James took care of his body … unlike Chris.

“Did what?” I asked, batting my eyelashes.

“Your accent,” he replied, still folding. “You say ‘git’ not ‘get.’ You don’t pronounce your g’s when you say ‘nothing’ either.” His white teeth gleamed when he said “g’s.” I could feel my chest getting warm despite the humming AC vent above my head.

I scoffed and turned back to my window project. “Your accent is stronger than mine.” Everyone at work said I talked like a Kentucky girl who’d just had a root canal. People kept asking me to say, “getting,” which I pronounced “gittin’.” I felt like a circus act. I’d become increasingly conscious of my speech and began trying to articulate every syllable like a spelling bee finalist.

“I like your accent.” He didn’t raise his eyes from the mound of napkins. “It’s cute.” His cheek twitched. My face flushed, as I pulled more tape from the roll. James threw a wink my way more than once during pre-shift and closing time. Chris hadn’t told me I was cute in months. I looked over at James’s broad shoulders filling the booth. He had played lacrosse at University of Georgia and had the body to prove it. He’d looked so fine in his navy sports coat the night we’d shared a three-course meal at the Coconut Grove Chart House.

The windows began to rumble. A huge band of rain smashed across the building. I jumped onto the Spanish-tiled floor and gripped a stone tabletop to steady myself.

James twisted his face. “You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy!” I mocked a laugh, then neatly readjusted my long apron. People were constantly asking me if my name was Dorothy and if I had a pair of ruby-red slippers. It was as annoying as watching Gilbert Gottfried tell a long joke (make that any joke). Many people from Kansas don’t know what Munchkinland is, and they don’t look like the cast from Twister either.

A radio in the main bus station blared weather reports through the empty restaurant. Major flooding was already reported in Goulds, Homestead and the Redlands, not far from my apartment. Visions of my Pontiac Grand Am stalling in four feet of water on Old Cutler Road rushed through my head. If my car flooded, I’d be forced to call Chris for help. I slammed my eyes shut.

“I can’t go home.” I grabbed half the napkins from James’s stack and plopped them on a table across the aisle. “Wherever that is.” I collapsed into the booth. The fear of drowning in my car paled in comparison to confronting Chris. It had only been seven days since Chris had left me a homemade bong as a kitchen table centerpiece—two steps away from a crack pipe in my book. I’d spent days bouncing from one co-worker’s couch to the next, with milk crates of clothes in the trunk of my car, trying to decide when to deal with the baggage of our break-up. I was sure Chris had gotten the hint we were finished. Nothing more was left to do but settle our “estate,” i.e. the co-signed, one-year apartment lease, the joint bank account, two sets of bath towels and the bed sheets. Without financial or material ties, I may have never had the nerve to face Chris again.

“You’re welcome to crash at our place, Wheels.” His words sounded like piano keys gliding through a melody. I kept my eyes locked on the stack of napkins in front of me, hiding my rosy-red face. My mind was in a free-fall, tethered to a parachute of anxiety and excitement. I want him. Already. I discreetly fluffed my bangs to make sure they were covering my forehead scars. My eyes followed the razor-thin crease pressed into the arm of his dress shirt. He even wore his waiter’s uniform like a Wall Street businessman. Boys like James had been reduced to mere eye candy once I’d gained twenty pounds in college. I’d shed half the extra weight, and it seemed as if every guy but Chris had noticed. James’s gestures were Las Vegas Strip-sized signs of courtship. James had an undergraduate degree in mechanical engineering and was planning to attend University of Florida’s med school next fall. Chris? I hoped he’d enroll in Jenny Craig. James cut bread for my tables, and filled my salt and pepper shakers. He ordered me a Rum Runner at Fat Tuesday before my butt met the barstool. Don’t get me started on what Chris constantly tried to do to my butt.

I pulled my raincoat over my head and darted through the parking lot, following James and his fancy, wood-handled umbrella. We slipped through a gate of his apartment building into a lush courtyard of traveler’s palms and Bougainvillea bushes, raindrops bouncing off our jackets. James raced ahead and ducked under a concrete stairwell that sheltered his doorway. I stepped onto his doormat and scuffed my sneakers. Before pulling off my raincoat, guilt crept into chest. I pictured Chris tying down the dive boat for the storm, then driving home to an empty apartment.

James’s place looked staged for an open house. The kitchen and living room were one big space with white cathedral ceilings and a sparkling chandelier. A spotless, oak dining table separated the kitchen from his minimalist living room, which included a chocolate leather couch, sleek glass coffee table, a big screen TV and a stereo system tower. My mind checked a box: Mr. Clean, unlike Chris.

“What can I get you?” James asked in his bartender’s voice while loosening his tie. He kicked off his white Nike sneakers by the hallway closet and walked over to the kitchen. Rain pelted the rooftop and windows. I stood in the hallway, listening to the windy rain.

I unlaced my sneakers. “Do you have any Sauvignon Blanc? Like the one we had with dinner?” Two weeks had passed since our Chart House dinner with fellow co-workers, celebrating our ninety-plus scores on The Cheesecake Factory’s final service exam. James had perused the Chart House wine list skillfully like a gemologist at a jewelry display case. “We should have the Silverado Sauvignon Blanc,” he’d said. “It’s from Napa, so it must be good. We’ll need the acidity to complement our conch ceviche.” I didn’t even know how to pronounce “conch” or “ceviche,” but I knew I wanted to know more about debonair James.

James pulled the refrigerator door open. “Wine?” His eyebrows perked. “Looks like you’re adjusting to city life very well.” Good, my first Brownie point. Sauvignon Blanc had only been on my radar for a couple months because Cheesecake Factory poured Robert Mondavi Woodbridge Sauvignon Blanc by the glass. Cheesecake Factory beverage training was my introduction to wines that had corks, and didn’t have the words like “dog” or “bird” in the name.

I shrugged my shoulders playfully. “Thanks to you.” I slipped my work tie into my backpack while James continued to poke around his fridge. At Chart House, the citrusy, crisp bottle from Silverado danced on my tongue with the juicy, spicy conch. It was my first fancy food and wine pairing experience; James had planted a seed in me that would grow into something—I just had no idea what, back then. The fanciest meal of my life had occurred at the Topeka Olive Garden on my birthday, when Chris had given me a gold chain, and threatened to fart at the table. When we’d arrived at the Chart House, James had pulled out my chair for me. I was twenty years old and felt like a debutante arriving at my first gala.

“You’re out of luck, Miss Harley.” James turned toward me, waging his head. “We have no wine, but I’ve got three beers to choose from.”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” I said, standing near the entryway.

James leaned back into the fridge. “You’re easy to please.”

I smiled and stared at his butt like I did every day we worked the floor together. I liked being the low-maintenance girl. It was part of my strategy to get boys to like me and look at the results: James was taking care of me before he’d even changed out of his uniform. I was at the nascent stage of understanding young men and their true motivations in relationships. His gestures were so polite and genuine; I thought he definitely wanted me as his girlfriend.

“Make yourself at home.” His voice sounded like silk. At home?!? My heart began to pound even faster.

James turned toward me with two bottles of Heineken in his hands. I stood behind his couch in my white work jeans and oxford, caressing the fancy leather cushions. The boy had a level of class I’d never seen before.

Thank you.” I raised my hand to grab the green bottle from him. Our fingers touched, and I looked away. “How often do you drink wine?”

James walked back to the kitchen. “Rarely. Wine’s just for special occasions.” I stared at the back of his head while he talked. He flipped open the kitchen cabinets one by one. I stepped to the front of the couch, staring at the cold bottle in my hands. My heart deflated like a cheap beach ball. Tonight was not special to him? The majority of Americans believed they had to be celebrating a birthday at a restaurant where the waiters wore tuxedos in order to drink wine, but 60 Minutes had aired its “The French Paradox” segment a few years before; it was only a matter of time before wine became mainstream in America.

“That’s cool. I like German beer.” I took a dainty sip, trying to look and sound sophisticated. I tugged my scrunchie from my hair, and layers of long curls cascaded down my back. Note to my twenty-year-old self: letting your hair down in front of a guy sends a message. Make sure that is the message you want to send.

James continued rummaging through his refrigerator. “Heineken is from Amsterdam.” Crap! So much for sounding cool.

“Oh, I guess I need to drink more beer.” I felt my cheeks and ears grow hot. “I’ve got some studying to do.” I took a long swig to drown my embarrassment. Sure, maybe I needed to learn a thing or two about wine and beer, but my Busch and Keystone days were a distant memory from a past life—just like my pet raccoon, Cooter, named after the mechanic on Dukes of Hazzard. I sat quietly on the edge of his couch and reflected on the day’s events, letting it all soak in: Chris, the storm, James’s invitation. James handed me a beer coolie, then strolled back to the kitchen. I grinned. I loved the way he anticipated my needs. I couldn’t believe mature, considerate James was a year younger than Chris.

James slipped two veggie pitas onto ceramic plates. Healthy and classy. Two more boxes checked. On our first date, Chris had given me cold pepperoni pizza on paper towels. I sat on the couch, watching James in the kitchen, tending to my needs. He floated over to his stereo and clicked a few buttons. Counting Crows began crooning about rain kings.

“How fitting.” James returned to the kitchen, bouncing to the beat.

“Are you going to play something tonight?” I tried to hide my grin as I pointed to James’s acoustic guitar, cradled in a metal stand next to his stereo tower. James’s mother was a high school music teacher in Georgia. She’d taught him to play guitar and piano before age six. He could listen to any song on the radio, then pick up his guitar and start strumming the tune. Talk about turn-on.

He rested our dinner plates on the glass-top coffee table. “If you want me to.” He looked down at me on the couch. I nodded eagerly. Both my mother and brother played guitar, and James’s talent reminded me of good times back home. He strolled back to the kitchen, then returned with a short stack of napkins and handed the top one to me.

My heart flapped under the weight of his full-court-press courtship. Dating servers can be dangerous; it’s hard to tell if they’re just being kind or just want to get your panties off.

I stared down at the pita, overflowing with bean sprouts and zucchini—two vegetables I’d never eaten before Florida. James kept exposing my taste buds to a world of flavors, and I was hungry for more. After weeks of learning about new foods and flavors, I finally felt my palate could hang with his. He sat down next to me. My heart leapt into my throat.

“Where’s Adam?” I bit into the floury shell. His roommate, Adam, worked as a financial advisor at a South American banking firm on Brickell Avenue. He had blue eyes and blonde hair and the face of a dashing high school jock, but he’d never offered me a beer or pulled out my chair.

“He’s staying at his mom’s house,” he said between bites. “She’s scared of storms.” A band of wind smacked rain hard against his windows.

I leaned farther over my plate on the coffee table. “I’m scared.”

“You shouldn’t be.” James took a long sip of his beer. We sat in silence, eating our pitas. I wondered if we were talking about the same thing. He didn’t ask about my fall-out with Chris.

After finishing his pita, James grabbed his guitar. I rushed over to my linen backpack by the door and fished my Frente! jewel case from the side pouch.

I shoved the CD in his face. “Will you play song eleven, please?” I plopped down Indian-style on the couch. I’d heard James play his guitar once before—after dinner at Chart House. The next day, I’d listened to “Labour of Love” while ironing my work apron and dress shirt. I’d daydreamed about us performing a duet, even though my vocals could make William Hung cringe.

The guitar strings began to bounce off his fingers, and a big grin shot across my face. I listened to the playful lift in the lead singer’s voice, as James crooked his head toward the stereo speaker. He listened intently to the chords, and the sound of his guitar glided perfectly with the CD before the first chorus. My shoulders swayed from side to side. I grinned like a front-row groupie as James strummed. He began to sing along with the second chorus while the storm released its fury of rain and wind. His voice was soft and controlled. He hit every note with a high, sweet tone like only Adam Levine can pull off today. He was my rock star. Like the Frente! lady sang, he was as cool as he believed. I laced my fingers around the green beer bottle, smiling at James. My head was a hazy mix of alcohol and frayed emotions. My break-up wounds were still healing. That’s always the easiest—and riskiest—time to fall right back into love.

Snap! A loud crack blasted outside living room window, echoing through the apartment. The entire room went dark. I squealed and clutched the edge of the couch, trying to keep myself from grabbing James.

“Shit.” James jumped up from the couch, resting his precious guitar between us. I listened to him in the darkness, fumbling his way through the living room toward the window. He peeked through the blinds. “The electricity lines snapped.”

“I thought you said we had nothing to worry about,” I whispered.

“We’re fine.” He stumbled toward the hallway closet with his arms extended, helping him feel the way. “I’ll get my flashlight.”

Boom! Boom! Boom! The sound of a fist pounding on James’s front door echoed through the apartment. My eyes zigzagged around the dark room.

“Damn it,” James said with a hiss. “What now?” James fumbled at the door.

Holy crap! What if it’s Chris? The thought slammed into my head. No way. He couldn’t find me here. My fingers flew to my mouth. Chris writes code. He’s beyond smart enough to hunt me down. I felt like a hurricane was churning in my stomach and started gnawing on my fingernails.

I leaned over the back of the couch and squinted at the front door. Waiting, more waiting. My worst nightmare was about to unfold: James and Chris, face to face. My pulse was spinning out of control. The sound of his doorknob turning felt like a vice squeezing my brain.

“Hey.” I heard James exchanging hellos with someone, then exhaled a sigh of relief. Must be a neighbor. “Do you have any candles?” The young woman asked. I listened to James rummage through an entryway closet. He clicked on a big flashlight and sprayed a white beam in my face. I threw my hands over my eyes.

“Who’s that?” she asked in an irritated tone. I watched the beam of the flashlight bounce around the hallway and over her silhouette. She was tall and thin with long hair. Model-like. Ugh.

“A co-worker.” I heard James whisper. Jealousy began to seep into my bones.

The electricity kicked back on, drenching the room in light. I looked at James standing in his doorway wearing the remnants of his white uniform, handing the girl a stack of candles. She had a porcelain, pouty face like Anne Hathaway with brown locks falling over her shoulders. Her big, brown eyes met mine. Damn. She’s prettier than I thought. The hum of kitchen appliances and the central air-conditioning charging back up filled my ears. James stepped into the doorway, blocking my view. My mind zip-lined through the possibilities of their relationship.

James returned to the living room with two flashlights and four more packs of candles in his arms. The model was gone. Finally.

I laced my arms across my chest. “That’s a lot of candles.” The only people who kept that many candles in stock were grandmas and Boy Scouts. I didn’t know what else to say because I wanted to ask, “Did you date her?” Guys don’t like jealous chicks, I reminded myself.

“I like to be prepared,” he replied, dropping the supplies on the kitchen table. His tone was cool, aloof. It gave me the feeling he was not prepared for the model’s visit while I was in the next room.

“We should go to bed,” James whispered above me. I felt his fingers touch the shoulder of my work shirt. My eyes flew open. Shit, I dozed off like an old woman! I sat up quickly from the arm of the couch, my head still cloudy from the booze. How long had I been out? The room was dark again, lit only by candles on the coffee table. My heart sprinted in my chest, replaying his words that had awoken me. After the model had left, we’d sat on the couch talking about going back to college, sipping beer after beer. My eyes bounced back and forth from a freshly lit candle on the table to James’s glowing face.

James plucked a pile of blankets and clothes from the floor. “I brought you a few things.” He stuffed a pillow into the crook at the end of the couch, then handed me a neatly folded pair of flannel boxers and a Georgia Bulldogs T-shirt. As my fingers touched his clothes, every nerve in my body felt frazzled, ready to unravel.

“You’ll be okay out here?” James placed a flashlight on the coffee table. It sounded like an invitation. I didn’t know if I was ready to RSVP. I listened to the howling wind and thought of Chris home alone.

“I’ll be okay.” I scooped the clothes into my arms.

I brushed my teeth with my finger in the hallway bathroom and changed into his clothes. I stared at my forehead in the mirror, then returned to the couch with his T-shirt hanging down to my thighs. James emerged from his bedroom doorway off the living room, shirtless. Oh, my. Hormones spread through my hips like wildfire. The waistband of his plaid boxers hung low on his hips. In the candlelight, his muscles looked carved from marble. My lower half began to throb with desire.

I tugged at the baggy T-shirt. “It doesn’t fit.” My body temperature began rising under his clothes. I pushed my long curls off my shoulders to send him another signal.

James laughed. “That’s a good thing.”

I lay down across the three cushions of the couch. James’s pecs flexed as he draped a fuzzy blanket over me. “Good night, Wheels,” he said with a smile, before blowing out the candles and disappearing into his bedroom. Wow. What a gentleman. A McNugget of the naughty girl inside me wanted him to grab my neck and plunge his tongue deep into my mouth. His restraint seemed romantic, yet perplexing. Maybe he doesn’t want me.

I looked up at James’s cathedral ceiling in the darkness, thinking about Chris and his irresponsibility. He deserved to be deserted. He was ruining my perfect credit! If I’d lived another day with him, I could have been arrested for drug possession. James was a clean-cut, future doctor with manners that could put a five-star-hotel concierge to shame. He was everything Chris was not. Gusts of wind shook the palm trees outside the window. I pulled the blanket to my chin and stared at James’s bedroom door in the dark. I was still scared.

A door creaked in the middle of the night, waking me. I looked up from the couch and saw James’s silhouette in the doorway to his bedroom. He wore only cotton boxer shorts. I bit my lower lip. A street light outside the window bathed the room in hues of gray.

“Were you asleep?” he whispered.

“No,” I lied.

James rubbed his biceps. “I can’t sleep either. It’s freezing out here. Aren’t you cold?” I’d never been in an apartment or business in Miami that wasn’t colder than an icebox. I shrugged and rubbed away the remnants of my goose bumps. I listened to the howling wind and rain, biting my lip.

“Come in here and warm up.” His voice sounded as caring as my grandma’s. My heart hammered against my chest. I sat up and gripped the edge of the couch. I looked at him in the darkness and didn’t say a word. He extended his bare arm. “Don’t worry. I won’t bite.”

My body raised slowly, weighted with conflicting thoughts. This is supposed to be happening. Just go. It was that moment when you know whatever decision you make will change your life. There would be no turning back. We’d never even kissed before. That was all we would do, right? My toes pushed into the plush carpet. His hand touched mine. My palm slipped into his, and I felt like I’d just tried on a new pair of shoes. I’d held only Chris’s hands for two years. James fingers were long and his palms soft—not pudgy and calloused like Chris’s. The heat of his palm warmed my cold hand. As I stepped into his bedroom, the doorknob clicked behind us. James was a door into yet another world of new discoveries. Feelings of guilt and excitement began battling in my chest. Was our unspoken break-up official? I took a deep breath and exhaled, feeling James’s T-shirt heavy on my chest.

A parking lot light outside his window gave his bedroom an eerie glow. My eyes moved from the waistline of James’s thin boxers to his flat stomach and muscular chest. A gold chain around his neck twinkled. I looked down at his baggy T-shirt and felt like I was back at the K-State Beta Theta Pi house, shacking up with Lance in his sleep hall for the first time. My ego did a back flip. A jock wanted to be with me. I was attractive. My eyes glanced around the room, quickly landing at a double mattress on the floor.

“No need to buy furniture if I’m not staying long, right?” I could hear the smile in his voice. “It’s more comfortable than the couch. I promise.” His hand pressed against the small of my back. Tiny currents surged under my skin, which must have blocked my ears from hearing the words “not staying long.” I looked over at a cardboard moving box in the corner. James had moved to Miami from Georgia in September and seemed as unsettled as me. He wasn’t leaving for Gainesville until next summer, so we had plenty of time to start a serious relationship.

He kneeled in front of the mattress, then pulled back a fluffy down comforter. His hand glided me down to the floor. He tucked me under the blanket, and I quickly turned my back to him. The heat of his skin next to mine sent my heart to the moon. Waves of lust thrust through me, as I stared at his bare wall. He’d invited me over. He’d waited on me hand and foot. He’d covered me in blankets. He really cared about me. A little courtship affected me like catnip back then. I’d be helpless against its powers for at least an hour.

James’s fingers gripped my shoulder softly, turning my body toward him. His hazel eyes sparkled in the dim light coming from his window. My heart beat loudly, filling in my ears. Every inch of me tingled in anticipation of his next move. I lay there like a mummy trying not to touch him, while my hormones did somersaults between my legs. He moved his fingertips to my left cheek and brushed it softly.

“Who was she?” I whispered, looking at his handsome face in the darkness.

“Nobody.” James pressed his lips to mine. His kisses were soft and gentle, just like him.

“No one is a nobody.” I pulled back from his embrace. “We’re all somebody.” I wondered how many times he’d said that about a girl.

“I don’t want to talk about her.” A frustrated exhale left his lips, as he pushed the weight of his body against me. “I don’t want to talk at all.” He pressed his tongue hard into my mouth, then locked his lips onto mine. His harsh words and forceful touch battled in my brain, until I let him take control. Our tongues corkscrewed again and again until James made his move to nibble my ear. My lower body tingled under his boxers, now damp from my arousal. His stomach pressed against mine, as his mouth sucked all the air from my lungs, making me light-headed. I breathed out my nose and wrapped my hands around his long torso. This is really happening. I felt like an extra on a soap opera set that finally got to stand-in with the star actor. James had chosen me, Harley Aberle, the redneck girl from Kansas. My fingertips glided from his back to his carved chest, feeling every muscle flex from his pecs to his navel. His stomach quivered as he exhaled. His reaction to my touch made me feel even more wanted.

“My turn.” James pulled his T-shirt over my head and dove for my belly button. My stomach shook like a building in an earthquake, reverberating every time his warm lips touched my skin. Kiss, lick, bite. Repeat. James kept going, and I kept groaning.

“Please,” I breathed, running my fingers through his hair. “More. Wait. Stop.” My mind battled with the pleasure, the playful pain and my insecurity. I wondered if he’d still be excited when he removed my super-padded bra. My skin felt tighter and firmer than it had in years, but my body was still shaped like a pear. I thanked my stars the electricity was out, so he couldn’t turn on the lights. The ugly parts of me were hidden.

James pressed his bare chest against mine. I felt my small breasts flatten under my bra and froze.

“Are you okay?” James kissed my forehead. “Do you want me to stop?” His lips rested on my right temple. I lay immobilized like a patient on a stretcher. My mind ping-ponged between the discomfort with my own body, the thrill of being kissed by a handsome guy and the shame of leaving Chris without an explanation. My moral compass was spinning out of control. It was wrong not to confront Chris face to face. It almost felt like cheating, and I’d never been a cheater.

I wrapped my arms around James’s shoulders and hugged him tightly. “I guess I’m okay.” My mind flashed to the night at K-State when I let a frat boy come back to my apartment after a party. I kept whispering “no,” and he kept kissing and pushing until he was inside me. Like comedian Amy Schumer says, all women have been “a little raped.” Saying “yes” (or nothing) to boys was always easier than “no.” This time seemed justifiably different; James had asked if he should stop. A man with morals! I couldn’t let James be my first decline. This was the start of something truly special. James had just serenaded me! Forget the booze—a singing man was instant panty remover. Chris had already been evicted from my heart. James had never asked about the end of Chris and me, which seemed like a good thing at the time.

My lips inched toward his, kissing soft and deep, yearning to get as close as possible to his inner self. My body ached for his next move. I hiked my leg over his, squeezing him closer. I felt his penis hard against my thigh under his boxers. My lips moved to his neck, biting softly. I inched slowly up to his ear, feeling my curls brush against his bare skin. He cradled my head and ran his fingers through my hair.

I moaned, eating up his touch. My fingertips slid down his chest to his lean stomach; he followed, gliding his palm over my rib bones. My lips trailed down his cheek to his baby-soft chin. I gently kissed, licked and bit his neck to show him my sexual aptitude … the copycat strategy. When in doubt, I just followed the guy’s lead.

James groaned and exhaled, turbo-charging my ego.

James pulled me to my knees, so we were facing each other. His hands cupped my face, and he pressed his lips softly against mine. Chills ran up and down my spine. I lost my sense of time and direction. Nothing mattered during that moment but our lips. The rain pelting his windows drowned out the sound of our lips smacking, our tongues gyrating. It felt so good to feel wanted again. My arms wrapped around his shoulders. He unsnapped my bra. Every nerve in my back constricted like a rubber band. Wow, that was fast. His fingers tugged at his boxers on my hips. My legs froze, but my thoughts were spinning like a record. We’d never been on a real date. I didn’t even know his middle name or his favorite color. It was too soon to be having sex. I could still change my mind.

“Should I stop?” James’s lip tugged on my ear.

I stared at his forehead, letting my mind reel. “Umm. Keep going.” My voice shook with trepidation. I took a deep breath out my nose. “The time is right.” I looked away toward the window. Clothes had been peeled off. I’d followed James into his bedroom; I’d taken the bait. There was no turning back. This was the first step to making our relationship legitimate. Pep talks with my little voice—that was how I justified having sex when she was telling me not to do it. Before I’d met Chris, whenever a guy would kiss me, sex followed. Making out was a runaway train heading straight to sex central, and I believed I could never stop it.

James glided me onto the mattress. I lay on my back, as he pulled off my boxers, then his. He plunged two fingers inside me and rocked back and forth. My fingers moved to his penis, following his lead. It was brick hard, long and lean … so different from Chris’s.

James straddled my hips. He grabbed a condom packet from the floor next to his makeshift bed. How convenient. He knew I would do this. I looked up at him from my naked, vulnerable position, waiting for that feeling.

James slid into me slowly, yet deeply. I arched my back and moaned. He dropped the weight of his body on top of mine and began gradually rocking his hips. Mine followed. James continued kissing my lips in his gentle way—tender and sweet—while thrusting inside me, filling my heart with love and my body with pleasure. I wrapped my arms tight around his shoulders, feeling wanted and feeling whole—the way sex always made me feel.

Afterward, James held me in his arms and kissed my forehead. When I woke up the next morning, his arms were still wrapped around me. I snuggled closer to his chest and savored every second of feeling wanted by a gorgeous, polished boy. It sure felt like I’d made the right decision.

One week after my first sleepover with James, I drove to Cutler Ridge to face Chris. Even though I’d turned into a zombie at the sight of him, the wave of relief coasted me into a happy place. It was over. My poor attempt at confrontation made me feel as if I’d been through a horrific car crash and escaped with minor injuries. My morals were bruised but not broken. Sure, I should have composed myself and explained my frustration and disappointment like an adult, but I could not go back in time. My life could have a fresh start—financially and emotionally. There were no loose ends to keep my relationship with James from progressing, but I tried to act “all business” at work. When James passed me at the bread station, I never pinched his butt. When we folded napkins, I didn’t sit in the booth next to him—I’d sit across from him. Sure, I always used the POSitouch computer near James’s station even though my station was on the veranda—and delivered his desserts and folded half his stack of napkins. I had to show my love as only a working waitress could. I began hanging out at Loggerhead with James, Alicia and other co-workers until 2 a.m. every night. When the bar closed, James would finally ask, “Where are you sleeping tonight?” and I’d always look down at my beer and reply with a smile, “I don’t know yet.” After the third night running my fingers up and down his muscular chest, I placed my chin on his shoulder and sighed, “I could get used to this.” He squeezed my shoulder and kissed my forehead. Even when James told guys at work that we’d slept together, I didn’t get mad. Guys don’t like girls who bitch and nag. Complaining would only chase him away. I told myself that his bragging was a compliment.

I moved into a bright, airy apartment in an old Spanish-style building in Coconut Grove. It had a charming courtyard filled with Coconut palms and Banyan trees that towered above the bay windows of my second-floor bedroom. A little slice of tropical heaven. My new place was less than a mile from work and even closer to James’s apartment. When I wasn’t daydreaming about James playing guitar on my couch, I pondered transferring to University of Florida for fall semester. I was planning my life around him, and we hadn’t even been together as long as a two-week pay period. Alicia from Columbia became my part-time roommate, paying me $200 per month to keep a futon in the living room. I’d never lived alone before and didn’t feel tough enough to start then; I’d grown up watching way too much Miami Vice.

A wave of new hires arrived at Cheesecake just before Thanksgiving, and there were enough hot chicks to fill a Pussycat Dolls’ roster. As soon as James and I began training the hotties, his invitations to sleep over dropped off. I told myself he was just tired from work. He didn’t look at the new girls any differently than the other servers, busboys and line cooks. Hell, I stared at their curvy butts and perky breasts too. I soon found myself clearing the dirty plates on James’s tables, running his appetizers, delivering his cappuccinos and cheesecakes—pretty much anything to show him I still cared. Boundaries were for border patrol, I thought. If I would have been any farther up his ass, I could have kissed his bellybutton.

“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” I asked James during pre-shift in the back hallway. It was mid-November, and we’d been sleeping together for three weeks. Eternity! He shrugged his shoulders and kept his eyes fixed on the napkin stack in his lap. “It’s my first holiday away from my family, and I don’t have plans yet,” I replied to my own question. I’d been planning—what I’d wear and what I’d say to his family once he invited me to spend the holidays at their winter home in swanky Coral Gables. James’s family had split their time between Florida and Georgia for years. His parents were going to retire to Miami someday, so he wanted to be a doctor in South Florida. I admired that he wanted to stay close to his family. His roots in my new city attracted me to him even more. With a guy like James, I had the chance of being part of family again without getting on an airplane. We were sexually involved, which, in my book, meant we were serious, and serious meant time to meet his parents.

“Not sure,” James replied flatly, staring down at a stack of napkins.

“Want to go to Loggerhead after work?” I chirped to James while he counted tips next to the server kiosk. Three days had passed, and he still hadn’t invited me over for Thanksgiving dinner. I slid my access card into the computer and tapped in two slices of White Chocolate Raspberry Truffle cheesecake for table sixteen.

“No, thanks.” James pressed dollar bills against the granite counter. He never took his eyes off the stack of money. A lump formed in my throat.

“Are you tired?” I looked up at his svelte face, then down to his white oxford, wrinkled and stained from the long dinner shift.

James folded the stack of bills and stuffed it into his white apron. “I have plans.” He scurried back to the office. I collapsed into a nearby booth and stared at the tower of napkins on the table. Thoughts spewed from my brain faster than orders from the bar’s printer: I was smothering him. Give him space, Harley. His plans didn’t involve other girls. We were in a relationship.

The next morning, the sexy swing in James’s step was gone. He arrived at work with wrinkled white jeans from the previous shift; black bags weighed down his beautiful eyes. His wet, tousled hair had lost its perfect part and feathery bangs. I kept my eyes on a check presenter, as he brushed past me in the bus stand and grabbed a cup of chicken-artichoke soup. While I filled water mugs in the main bus stand, I noticed Ashley, one of the cute new hires, wildly stuffing straws in Bloody Marys. Ashley had just dropped out of University of Florida. She liked to talk about Gainesville life with James, who was eager to become a Gator. She also loved partying until dawn and smoking marijuana. I’d always steered clear of her. Dropouts were bad news, and I wanted to be surrounded by focused, responsible people like me—people like James.

Ashley slid the highball glasses onto a cork tray. “That party was off the hook.” She was chatting up Krista, the bartender with porcelain skin and black-painted fingernails. Ashley’s ponytail was cockeyed, her eyes bloodshot. A crooked, striped tie fell between her big boobs. She continued gabbing about Fat Cat nightclub. “They” didn’t leave the club until eight in the morning and “they” had to be at work for the brunch shift by nine thirty.

The blender in my head started churning a recipe for drama. My fists squeezed the full mugs of water in both hands until my knuckles turned white.

“Behind you!” I charged out of the bar area toward my station. My lips forced a smile at every table while “Hey Jealousy” by the Gin Blossoms played over and over in my head; I tried to distract myself with my customers’ needs—who didn’t have bread, who needed a coffee refill, etc. Ashley and James—the party-all-night duo—were always close enough to me to smell my perfume, punching orders and delivering cheesecakes. My obligatory smile remained. I felt like someone was stealing my brand new car in front of my face, and I could do nothing about it. Only lame girlfriends whined about the friends their men hung around. I always wanted to be the cool chick that never got jealous; I thought that was a big reason why guys end up falling in love with a girl.

I grabbed a pot of coffee and marched over to James’s table nineteen. I smiled and refilled all six mugs while his customers thanked me. It was a peace offering. We were just finishing the appetizer course of a new relationship. We hadn’t even had “the talk” yet. If I played it cool, we could make it through the rough patch. Scrubbing the dining room floor with a toothbrush would have been easier than telling James I didn’t approve of his choices in friends or nightclubs.

“Do you want to come see my new apartment?” I asked James, slurping the last of my high-octane smoothie at Fat Tuesday. A little crowd in the bleachers of my psyche was still cheering because James had agreed to get a drink with me after work. My eyelashes batted at him, as I sat on the barstool in my white work jeans and post-shift tank top. I’d daydreamed about us spending half the week sleeping at my place and the other half at his.

James stared into his plastic cup. “Not tonight.”

“We can go to your place then.” I pulled the scrunchie out of my long, curly hair. Looking back, I can hear the lead singer of Frente! calling out to me. I wasn’t sure how I’d bent what he said into what I believed he meant. I didn’t really know anything.

“Have you seen James?” I asked Dan, the ponytailed bartender, a few nights later. We stood outside Cheesecake’s back office, holding cash register drawers in our arms, waiting to turn in our banks to the closing manager. James had quietly serviced his tables in the back corner of the veranda all night, while I’d been stuck with the bar station on the other side of the restaurant. It was almost impossible for me to tend to James’s tables for him. Three shifts had passed since James had called me Wheels and delivered a single plate to my station. I felt like the Funky Bunch without Marky Mark.

“He left with Ashley twenty minutes ago,” Dan replied with the black box of cash tucked neatly under his arm.

My jaws clamped, grinding my teeth. Resentment poured over my white-clothed body. I wanted to shove her pretty head, gigantic boobs and skinny legs in a bus tub. Ashley’s body was way better than mine, but her priorities were whacked: She smoked weed. She had no plans to go back to college. Someday, I’d be as refined as a bottle of French Chardonnay but she’d still be a strawberry wine cooler.

James stumbled into the back hallway of CocoWalk looking like he’d been doing keg stands for six hours. He dropped his backpack on the spare milk crate next to his—the milk crate he used to save for me. I stomped into Cheesecake’s ornate dining room in my freshly pressed whites, thick ponytail bouncing in my wake. Every forty-eight hours, the cycle repeated: go to work, see James, get brushed off, drink, sleep, work, hear about James’s partying with the lead pussycat. Alicia assured me James and Ashley were only party pals, but it didn’t matter. He’d left our table. My new life with James was crumbling before the foundation had finished drying.

“I don’t know what went wrong,” I whispered, my head hanging over a cup of soup. I looked down at an artichoke heart and sliced it with my spoon. “He’s a far better match for me than Chris.” I glanced over at Linda, standing across from me in the back hallway behind Cheesecake Factory wearing her whites and a polka-dot tie. She twirled a straw in her mug of Diet Coke. The word “confrontation” was still as foreign to me as churros, so I’d asked her to do some snooping. Linda was the oldest daughter of a police captain in Tampa, who ran their house like a cadet academy. She’d fully embraced the secret investigation project. I pressed my back against the scuffed white wall to take the weight off my aching legs.

Linda rested her mug on the concrete floor, then draped a white napkin over a milk crate neatly. “You shot craps, Wheels.” She sat down on the makeshift seat. “You slept with a guy who’s leaving for med school, and you did it before you’d moved out of the apartment you shared with your boyfriend.” She took a precise sip of her soda. “That’s borderline cheating, and cheaters never get respect.” I looked down the hall to make sure no one was listening. Plates banged and voices shouted from the kitchen.

I grabbed a milk crate with both hands and flipped it upside down. Her words felt like spears of asparagus pelting my face. Or maybe just rotten eggs. “It was over with Chris.” I dropped onto my crate and sunk my head in my hands. “James knew that. James and I have lots in common. He won’t be leaving for months, so we have plenty of time to figure out if we’re right for each other.” We’d been “dating” only weeks, but I believed James was the right guy for me because he was the polar opposite of Chris, and we were sexually involved. My dating pendulum could swing farther than Tiger Woods with a nine iron.

“His idea of the right girl is the one he’s fucking right now,” Linda said. She never pulled any punches. “The guy is twenty-two years old and has eight months of freedom before med school, Harley. A serious relationship is the last thing on his mind.” I glanced down at my white sneakers, feeling dirty and alone. James had tossed my heart into the trash like a bag of expired lettuce. James, his guitar and his diploma fit neatly into my world. I placed the half-full cup of chicken-artichoke soup in an empty bus tub on the concrete floor. She’d nailed me.

I sighed deeply. “But we slept together five times.” I leaned back against the wall and banged my head in frustration. “I woke up with his arms around me. He kissed me in the morning. He invited me back again and again.” I couldn’t imagine sex being meaningless to someone. Sex wasn’t just physical to me. A bond formed. The guy had to feel that emotion too. When it came to understanding how men were wired, I was still wearing training wheels.

“It was a fling. You gotta move on.” She straightened the crease on her apron without raising her eyes to mine. My shoulders caved. Her brutal honesty made me feel like a freshly sliced fillet on a fishmonger’s table. She was always insightful, and accurate.

I reached for my mug of water, feeling the shame roll down my long face. “I must be terrible in bed.” I’d spent days wondering what would happen if we ever had sex with the lights on. I thought of Ashley’s big breasts and slammed my eyes shut.

“He wouldn’t have kept screwing you if it sucked,” she replied, leaning forward on her milk crate. “Look on the bright side. It wasn’t a one-night stand.”

I couldn’t look on the bright side; her use of the word “screwing you” made my ears ring. His song started playing in my head. The lead singer of Frente! could have been talking about James and me. I was the fool. I’d fallen for it all. I couldn’t see right through him. He’d clocked my card. Five times! Sex was all he’d ever wanted. But sex had jumpstarted almost every long-term relationship I’d ever had. James shouldn’t have been any different. I returned to banging my head against the wall.

Linda readjusted the headband in her brown, wavy hair. “You’re not in Kansas anymore. You need to watch out. Marriage is the farthest thing from these guys’ minds. College guys think with their dicks. And dicks are trouble.” She raised her soda to her lips. Her hazel eyes stayed fixed on my face. We sat in silence listening to plates bang in the kitchen. I felt as dirty and used as oil in a deep fryer.

She shoved a finger at my face. “And cut back on the alcohol. It’s bad for your legs.”

“Huh?” I asked, puzzled. “What does it do to your legs?”

Linda rolled her eyes and leaned closer to me. “It makes them spread.”

The heat of embarrassment flushed my cheeks. I tugged on the straw in my water mug. “Thanks for making me feel like shit.” I took a long drink, soaking in her comments. I stood up from the milk crate and straightened my blue-flowered tie. Her sharp words were still seeping through my skin. It was my first real dose of dating reality as a Miamian.

“I’m always here to help,” she said, primping her hair.

Our laughter rippled through the empty hallway. Maybe I’d lost James, but I’d found a great new friend in Linda. My life wasn’t a falling stack of dirty dishes. I was living in Miami on my own, wearing shorts and tank tops in November. A handsome guy found me desirable—even if for only a couple weeks. I’d learned a valuable lesson about ending a relationship and giving myself time to heal before jumping into another man’s bed. With a few more pep talks from Linda, I could grow some dating balls and build the kind of confidence that would help me see through guys with one-track minds—the perfect weapon for a labor of love.

ROBERT

“LAID”

James

REWIND: Robert tugged me toward the shore, his blonde hair glowing under the moonlight. “Trust me. It’s worth it.” His smooth hands gripped mine. The thrill of his touch surged up and down my arms, as a gentle breeze swayed the palm trees. “You haven’t lived until you’ve been here.” Words flew from his mouth. I smiled and bounced behind him, feeling grains of sand pouring into my sandals. This can’t be happening. My heart pounded. I looked down at our laced hands and prayed my palm wouldn’t get sweaty. A few yards ahead, the Key Biscayne lighthouse sprayed a fuzzy beam into the starry sky.

Robert lifted his muscular arm in the air. “You see those tiny red lights? That’s Stiltsville.” His skin was a deep, golden tan from countless hours spent boating and rowing. Golden ringlets bounced around his head, as he described the 1930s community that lived in overwater shacks one mile offshore. He looked like he’d just left the set of a Nautica photo shoot in his yellow golf shirt, white dress shorts and boat shoes. It was the same Ivy-league look that had attracted me to James, and seemed so foreign to a girl who grew up wearing camouflage. I nodded my head and tried to keep my jaw from dropping whenever I looked at him. The moon reflected a glistening strip of white on the water’s surface. The horizon was bright and dark at the same time, as only a Miami beach can be under the light of a full moon.

We flipped off our shoes, and wet sand squished under my toes. I rolled the cuffs of my Gap jeans above my ankles and squinted at the horizon. My thoughts raced with my pulse. It was supposed to be a typical Thursday night off. Five hours and three drinks later, I’m standing with a gorgeous guy at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, wearing a sleeveless top and jeans … in December. I had found my parka-free paradise, and it was filled with hot men and beautiful beaches. The lighthouse’s rotating beam of light flashed over the calm, endless bay.

“What’s that blobby thing?” I pointed to an iridescent, pinkish-blue bubble floating a few inches off the beach.

“Jellyfish. Portuguese Man O’Wars.” Robert clicked his tongue. “They’re regulars here. Watch out for the tentacles.” He raised his arms two feet apart to demonstrate the length. My eyes danced around Robert’s face. Robert had grown up in Miami and knew more about the city than any of my co-workers.

My head bobbed, as I arched my back. “I used to go night fishing with my dad. I can hang.” I needed to sound as cool as possible. The matchmaking cards were stacked against me. When Robert wasn’t waiting tables, he modeled for a small agency on South Beach: men’s suits, underwear … the real shit. I couldn’t believe such an Adonis had just swooped into my life a few hours before. I’d crossed over into Robert’s world with a fearless move: buying him a drink. Staring into the cloudy bottom of my third White Russian, I couldn’t think of a more empowering way to show my interest. A few cocktails made me feel confident enough to approach guys rather than wait anxiously for one to approach me. It was the kind of confidence I’d never displayed with Chris or James—the kind of confidence that gets a man’s attention. With attention comes intention, and I was too young to understand that.

Robert’s teeth sparkled in the light of the moon. “Glad you know your way around the water. Most girls don’t.” His hand grabbed mine for the third time. Tiny currents bolted through my arms and chest, as he tugged me toward a nearby jetty. I scuttled right behind him like a Chihuahua trying to hump his leg.

“How did you ever find this place?” I trailed him past a thatch of palms. A secluded wall of boulders jetted out from a sandy shoreline. The wet rocks sparkled in the moonlight.

“Driving around one night in high school with my friends,” Robert said. “Trying to find trouble.” He turned to me, and we exchanged smiles. “Kind of like tonight.” He winked. I grinned, my hair blowing in the wind. Buying a stranger a drink wasn’t standard operating procedure for a small-town girl, but I was no longer a country bumpkin. Besides, the world of food and beverage was my green zone. I felt totally at home, twirling drink straws on a barstool. As a kid, my favorite place to spend Sunday afternoons was at the American Legion with my dad and his hunting buddies. I was in my element.

I tossed the hair off my shoulders. “I’m not trouble.” Busboys and line cooks had been bathing me in compliments. Every body part I’d written off as hopeless—the curvy hips, thunder thighs, small breasts—Latin guys praised. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed Midwesterners were rare collectibles in Miami. No one seemed to notice my scars. My confidence was growing faster than Barry Bond’s biceps. My step finally had some swagger.

Robert pulled his body effortlessly onto the rocks, then reached down to me with both hands. I raised my arms to him, lifting my black top and exposing my flat belly. I sucked in my growling stomach and thanked the stars I’d skipped dinner. The fashion statement in Miami was always less is more—less fabric and more skin—which had motivated me to drop another five pounds. I felt sexy for the first time in, well, forever. The moonlight and vodka probably helped. I watched Robert bounce from rock to rock like Agent Mulder chasing paranormal bad guys in The X-Files. What a stud. MacArthur Causeway’s neon pillars looked like light sabers in the distance.

“What’s that?” I pointed at the tallest tower, covered in purple lights. Skyscrapers splashed shades of lavender and pink onto the bay—back when the only high rises in downtown Miami were banks and a couple Brickell condo towers.

“That’s the CenTrust building.” Robert rattled on about its lights changing color according to holidays, sporting events and festivals. “Gloria Estefan just shot a music video on the roof. Now I bet it’ll become a historical landmark.” He jeered and turned his back. I took the opportunity to discreetly smooth the creases in my jeans, then tousled my long, wavy hair.

Perched on the mammoth rock, I looked up at Robert’s face, the square chin, high cheekbones and glittery eyes. Robert’s green eyes were like tractor beams, and I couldn’t fight the pull. You’d expect to find a guy like him on a deserted island, swimming in a blue lagoon. Instead, he was taking off his work apron at the service bar of Dan Marino’s Bar & Grill, steps from the front doors of The Cheesecake Factory. My mind kept hitting the replay button on the entire evening. My eyes anchored to his full lips, focusing on every word rolling off his tongue. The guy had the kind of face that could grace Ocean Drive magazine, and I’m talking the Roberto Cavali ads, not party pics, people. And he was standing on a rock in the middle of the night with a girl named after a motorcycle who used to run the drive-thru at McDonald’s. I crossed my legs at the ankles and tried to look demure. A cool breeze blew locks of curls around my face.

Robert glided from rock to rock like Baryshnikov, his toned calf muscles flexing. The calm lapping of water against the rocks filled my ears. When Robert reached the last rock in the jetty, he turned and waved his arms like a maître’d ushering me to a table. “You need to see Miami from here.” He stamped his foot. I stepped toward him gingerly, watching my sandals touch each wet rock. Robert rattled off the names of every lit building and bridge on the mainland. We stared out into the inky water, listening to the occasional car whiz by on the causeway. A pink glow began to form on the horizon.

“Do you have any beer in your trunk?” He waved his arms. “I need a drink.”

I looked off into the horizon. “No.” I tucked my bottom lip under my teeth. I didn’t want him to know I was underage.

“I’ve seen the best sunrises in my life right here.” He swished his leather shoe against the wet stone again. “And I always had a cold beer in my hand.” His profile looked like a painting in the moonlight. We stood in silence for a moment, then he scooped my hands swiftly into his. “If we can’t drink, then we should swim!” He tugged my hand back along the rocky ridge toward the shore. I laughed and tossed my bangs away from my tanned face. I felt like a kid exploring a new playground … with a very hot teacher.

“What is Vizcaya like?” I watched him lead me back to the shore. “I want to go there someday.” I still had not visited the famous Spanish palace overlooking Biscayne Bay.

“It’s like traveling to Italy without getting on a plane.” His arms flew around his torso, moving as quickly as his lips. “I’ll take you sometime.”

My cheeks hurt from smiling. That feeling of being wanted washed over me like a tidal wave. He wasn’t holding back on planning our future like James. He’d technically just invited me on a date—to a place like Italy! His boundless energy excited me. At the bar, Robert had grabbed a handful of swizzle-stick swords and built a tiny shed on the counter. He’d twirled the red straw in his gin and tonic like a majorette leading a band. We shared a passion for all things outdoors and aquatic. We were both servers. We were both on hiatus from college. Little did I know, finding a guy who’s at the same place in life is a good thing when you’re thirty and gainfully employed—not while you’re an underage college dropout.

“Does it ever wear off?” I asked, rolling up my jeans above the knees. “You know, the excitement of this?” It was the first week of December, and I was hanging out on an island with a hot guy about to go swimming in the ocean. People back home would be scraping ice off their windshields in a few hours. Having spent two years at Brown, a private university in Rhone Island, Robert hated cold weather too. He was on the varsity crew team at college. The only crew I knew back then was J.Crew.

“Never. You’ll never want to leave.” Robert raised both arms to the rising sun like a preacher at the altar, then waded into the water. “And the best thing is that you can be yourself in Miami.” He glided his hands across the water’s surface. “No one will judge you here. Your spirit is free to fly.” The sky turned pink, and I looked down at my body in the glow of morning sun. His words soaked into my skin. No one will judge you. Robert’s sermon supercharged me that winter. I could do anything and be anyone. My spirit was finally free. I slipped off my sandals and followed him in.

“Why does it itch so much?” I looked down at the murky water splashing against my calves. It felt like tiny pins were entering my every pore—a different sting than swimming in salt water.

“Ah, those are the no-see-ums,” he replied, waist deep in the water. “You’ll get used to it.” He proceeded to describe how the bane of beaches—microscopic sand fleas—came out each night to feed.

I fought back a yawn. “What time is it?” Shades of orange and pink flowed across the sky.

Robert shrugged his shoulders. “Who cares? We’ll sleep when we’re dead.”

I stood knee-deep in the water, nodding, letting his words seep into my brain. It was a mantra I’d remember for the rest of my life. The water sloshed against Robert’s clothed chest. He extended his hands to me like an impatient parent. “Come on. It feels amazing out here.”

His face turned rosy in the rising sun. I stepped slowly toward him until the thighs of my jeans soaked up water. Before I could take the next hesitant step, he whipped around to face me.

“I’m hungry.” Robert patted his stomach. “Let’s go to Denny’s.” He barreled toward the beach. My eyebrows scrunched. Robert could switch gears faster than Mario Andretti. He ran toward my car, laughing, and I scurried behind him, letting my mind race. Breakfast before bed? I need to join a gym.

Our first “date” could have ended after breakfast. Then again, INXS could have ended “Mediate” after the second verse.

We tiptoed into my apartment. “We have to shower or we’ll itch for days.” Robert’s whisper had a dire sense of urgency. We undressed in the darkness of my tiny bathroom. I hurried into the shower, turning my back to him to hide my kidney scars. Throw a little water on my crotch, and I thought it looked like a Gremlin. “Turn around,” he barked. “It’s hardly noticeable.” He rubbed the loofa on my flat stomach. My forehead gashes? The model man didn’t even notice. My heart filled with love as he washed sand, salt and my insecurities down the drain. I immediately felt bonded to him with super glue. Robert didn’t care about my flaws. I always thought my physical scars would keep men from falling in love with me. I was still too immature to realize the power of being comfortable in my own skin.

He rubbed his hair dry with my towel. “Cool if I crash here?”

I grabbed another towel and wrapped it quickly around my torso. “Well, uh, my roommate is here. I don’t know if she’d be cool with it.”

He tucked my towel around his waist like a skirt. “She’ll never even know I was here.” Yeah, right.

As the morning sun peeked through my blinds, Robert crawled into my bed. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.” He stroked my face. We hadn’t even exchanged phone numbers or last names. I wondered if he was thinking with his dick. My head kept saying, “We should wait,” but my lips didn’t move. Robert had seen my scars and he still wanted to sleep with me. Just like James, there was no turning back. Saying “no” to boys scared them away. I’d learned my lesson in the eighth grade when a boy I liked had climbed in my bedroom window one night and quickly began unzipping my pants. I’d told him I wasn’t ready. He huffed and crawled back out the window, leaving me alone in the dark. He never spoke to me again. In high school, once I’d started giving boys what they’d wanted, they’d always stuck around. And I wanted Robert to stick around.

Every night with Robert started and finished just like the first. Dating him was like listening to Green Day for ten hours straight: exhilarating, yet exhausting. His only speed? Warp speed. He’d work a double-shift and want to go dancing until three on South Beach. He could drink beer until eight o’clock in the morning, then insist we eat egg-white omelets at his favorite diner before bed. The only meal we ever ate at a restaurant was breakfast—how’s that for a sign that your relationship is unconventional? Robert didn’t have an off button. He never ran out of batteries. I could barely function on less than seven hours of sleep; Robert could run a marathon on less than four. I pressed through the yawning spells. I was discovering so much about my new home—the skyline, the beaches, the bridges, the hip bars, the best breakfast spots—from spending hours with Robert while the rest of Miami slept. Living in the dark with Robert was always a party—a far cry from listening to Grateful Dead in a dank basement with Chris. At dawn, we’d always strip off our salty-wet clothes on my bathroom floor and shower in the morning light. A few hours later, Robert would jump out of bed and hop around my apartment like a kid on Christmas morning. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was part-vampire like Corey Haim’s hot brother from The Lost Boys.

Once Robert was inside my bed, he had my heart. I loved him immediately. Having sex and feeling love were symbiotically chained in my heart. I’d never “screwed” a guy. We made love. I simply ignored the lessons I’d learned from my brief relationship with James. I always had this need to feel wanted by a man; his flesh pressed against mine gave me a sense of security, even if it was a false one.

No man as handsome as Robert had ever bought me a drink or asked for my number. Come to think of it, he didn’t either. I was always the one making the effort. From the moment we started dating, I began exerting extra energy into all aspects of life. I rollerbladed faster and farther. I switched to non-fat milk in my White Russians. I applied my make-up like a patient artist instead of a Nascar driver taking a time-trial lap. No matter how high the Latinos boosted my ego or how frequently I exercised, I felt compelled to do whatever it took to make Robert stay interested in me. I had stiff competition. Lots of beautiful women in Miami were hell-bent on landing a beautiful man like Robert. My efforts were paying off. He’d surprise me at work, hiding near Cheesecake’s payphones before sneaking a kiss. I bought what he sold. I would have followed him to Jonestown and drank his Kool-Aid. When he lit up a cigarette and offered me the half-empty pack of Marlborough Lights, I hesitantly pulled out a cancer stick and took a couple puffs—then batted away the visions of Chris’s coughing fits. When Robert passed me a joint behind Loggerhead, I plucked the doobie from his fingers and took a long drag. Chris would have lost his Doritos! I needed Robert to believe I was 100 percent cool and zero percent country. I bought a Motorola pager—life before cell phones!—so he could reach me 24/7. I felt really important.

When Robert disappeared for a few days, I didn’t complain. He worked two jobs. My mind could think of nothing but pleasing Robert. Every time he walked into The Cheesecake Factory after his shift or I walked into Dan Marino’s after mine, the sight of his face sent me into a mental high of relationship possibilities: enrolling in college together at Florida International University, driving along I-95 and pointing up to the Calvin Klein billboard to say, “The blonde in the middle is my boyfriend.” Within a week of sleeping together, he’d invited me to go camping near Lake Okeechobee the week before Christmas. Robert already considered me a part of his future too.

The song “Laid” by British rock band James always seemed to follow us from the bar to my bedroom. Even though we’d listened to tons of music at bars and on beaches, “Laid” is the only song that immediately takes me back to the pub-crawls and all-nighters with Robert. And it’s totally embarrassing. Why couldn’t his song be “Interstate Love Song” by Stone Temple Pilots? We used to listen to it together. Nope. I’m stuck with a song by a guy named James, who chants about beds on fire, neighbors complaining about the noise and a girl who only has orgasms when on top. The music controls the memories, and I’m cool with that.

My phone rang on a Sunday morning. No surprise there. My mom called me every Sunday at 9 a.m. sharp after she got home from church—right before my brunch shift. To this day, we chat every weekend about what’s happened in our lives since our last conversation. I dropped my white oxford on the ironing board and grabbed the receiver.

“Thank God I found you.” Robert’s voice charged through the line. His breaths trembled between every word. “I need your help.” My hand gripped the receiver. My throat got tight. Help?

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” I shrieked, standing in the middle of my apartment, wearing only panties and a bra. Fear and shock rippled through me, making my head spin.

“Alicia isn’t there, is she…is she there?”

“No,” I replied, my mind dashing. “Why?”

“Good. I don’t want her to know. You can’t tell her I called.”

I felt as if I’d been parachuted into a soap opera love triangle. This is some fucked up shit.

“What in the hell is going on?” My voice wobbled. “You’re scaring me.” He’d been trying to get her to “bless” our relationship for weeks. (Yeah, if your roommate thinks your guy’s not right for you, that’s a sign.) The night I’d met Robert, Alicia had said, “Too cute. He’s gay.” I rolled my eyes. She was just jealous that I was dating a model. Two weeks into the relationship, her tune had changed to, “Hot guys are trouble.”

“What does she have to do with anything?” My voice cracked. Gorgeous Latinas like Alicia were always requesting Robert’s station at Dan Marino’s. I pictured the two of them having beers at Loggerhead while I was still closing my station at the restaurant. Maybe they went out back to smoke some weed. The first joint I’d shared with Robert in a parking lot was immediately followed by sex.

“I don’t know. I don’t know…” Robert’s chaotic voice trailed off. The hum of the silent phone line crowded my racing brain. I looked over at Alicia’s empty futon. My tongue felt like a rock. “I just don’t want her to know.”

The fear plunged deeper into the pit of my stomach. “Know what?” The silent line hummed so long, I could only hear my heart pounding.

“Robert, are you there?” I pressed the receiver so close my earlobe throbbed. My arms began to tingle, as the wave of adrenaline pumped into my muscles.

“Shhhh…wait,” he whispered. “I think someone is follow—” His last words were cut off by the beep of my call waiting. I growled. Not now, Mom!

“What did you say?” I gasped. “My phone cut out at ‘follow.’ Call waiting.”

“Who could be calling you right now?” His voice shrilled at the pitch of a fighting tomcat. “Who knows you’re home?” I looked down at my tanned body and lacy panties. Happy thoughts of my first winter without thermal underwear were replaced by fear. I felt like my new life had been tossed into a scene from Sleepwalkers.

“It’s my mom,” I replied, pacing. “What is going on? Where are you?”

“I don’t know where I am!” Every word was draped in panic. “Someone is following me. Please come get me. I need you.” The sound of Robert’s shaking breaths filled the line.

“I’m right here,” I replied calmly. “Take a deep breath.” Visions of kidnappings and ransom notes poured into my head. Maybe some extortionist thought he was Val Kilmer. Robert was mistaken for an actor all the time. My boyfriend needed me like no one had ever before. And he hadn’t cheated on me with my roommate. I had to be strong.

“What do you see around you?” I asked with the confidence of an intern on America’s Most Wanted. “I need you to tell me details of your surroundings, so I can figure out where you are. Street signs, house numbers, papers. Anything.”

“I’m in someone’s apartment.” He raced through the words. “I think I’m on South Beach. I can’t find my keys or my wallet. Can you please just come get me? I have no idea where my car is.”

I grabbed a paper and pen to take notes. “Can you tell me the last thing you remember seeing or doing before you went into the apartment?”

“I did an eight ball at Liquid,” he muttered. “I don’t remember who I was with. I haven’t been to sleep yet. What day is it?”

“You did a what?” I sounded as sheepish as an 80-year-old grandma who’d just seen her first computer. “An eight ball?” The vision of the black ball on a pool table rolled through my mind. If I’d spent the last twenty years living under a rock, my knowledge about illegal drugs and men would have been pretty much equaled what I’d learned growing up in southeast Kansas.

“You know. Blow. Cocaine?” Robert paused. “Oh, you don’t. You are too cute.” My heart did a jackknife. My ear began tingling against the humming receiver. Shock slammed through my chest. Robert switched gears. “My head is going to explode. I don’t ever want to feel like this again. Why didn’t I just go to your place last night?”

“How did this happen?” I whispered, my head reeling. Numbness began to roll down from my shoulders into my limbs. My whole body shuddered. It was seventy-five degrees outside and my windows were open. I needed a blanket, and I no longer owned one. I thought of Jami Gertz holding a rolled dollar bill to her nose in Less Than Zero. I’d let Robert into my heart, my bed, my entire life. My eyes burned. I gnawed at my thumbnail.

“Babe, this is Miami Beach.” Robert’s tone was smug. “It comes with the territory. It’s not a big deal.”

The hum of the phone line filled my ears. My lips trembled. “I guess…I…I didn’t know.” My mouth hung open from the shock. The ugly underbelly of big city life had been exposed. Coke was way beyond my discomfort zone with marijuana.

“You’re so good for me.” Robert’s voice boomed in my ears. “I won’t do it again if you don’t want me to.” I squeezed the phone cord, my heart sputtering. His compliment clouded my mixed emotions.

“Oh, shit…” Robert’s words turned to a whisper. “Someone is at the door.”

Hairs shot up on the back of my neck. “Get out of there. Run!” I would have bet a night’s worth of tips he was either going to end up in jail or the hospital.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Robert’s voice jumped with every breath. Papers rattled and footsteps trampled through the phone line. I pushed the receiver closer to my ear, pacing in my living room. I envisioned Robert darting through the apartment into another room. Then silence.

“Oh, it’s just my friend Fabian and his girlfriend,” he said. “Good morning, you two.” I heard him chirp through the receiver. “Everything’s cool. I’ll call you later, Babe. Love you.” The phone clicked.

My mind began a tailspin. My boyfriend just told me he did coke and he loved me all in the same phone call. I threw on my work shirt and raced up the buttons. Holy crap! Why me? Drugs were for losers. I’d never even seen a joint until I’d dated Chris, much less smoked anything.

I stepped in front of my bathroom mirror and stared at my tan face—the strong jawline, high cheekbones and jagged forehead scar. Robert loves me. All of me. I ran a pick through my curly hair, letting our whacked out conversation sink in. All I wanted to do from that moment was help Robert. This beautiful, troubled man loved me, and he’d said it first. Guys didn’t drop the “L” word unless they meant it. He needed me. We’d slept together at least a dozen times. I had to be there for him.

My thoughts ricocheted from walking on the beach with Robert to fishing ponds with my dad. Dad had been a binge beer drinker since his early twenties and often chose a barstool at the American Legion over a seat in the bleachers at my high school softball games. For years, the relationship seemed natural to my mom, who had grown up with parents who shared a six-pack of Coors every night after work. But during middle school, Mom started begging Dad to join Alcoholics Anonymous (AA). Mom, my brother and I had never forced an intervention; we’d started new lives with mom getting remarried and both kids growing up and leaving for college. Then I’d moved halfway across the country and had limited interactions with Dad to a phone call once a month.

I should have tried harder with my dad. I should have helped him beat his addiction.

If I stood by Robert, I could make at least one wrong right.

I grabbed the phone book and scanned the yellow pages. New Jack City had taught me everything I needed to know about cocaine: It was addictive. It killed. It made grown men dry hump stuffed rabbits. I needed to be prepared for the worst. I circled all the crisis clinics, addiction centers and hot lines. I plotted my plan while The Cranberries chanted about zombies from my stereo. We’d drive to his house together. We’d sit down on the couch; he’d tell his mother, who happened to be a nurse, about his drug use. I’d hold his hand. I’d help him pack his suitcase. The three of us would drive to the treatment center. I’d visit him every day. I would be the most positive influence of all.

Robert trotted into my station at Cheesecake. He milled around a cluster of Areca palms while I stood at table thirty-nine, scribbling a Cuban couple’s order on my notepad. Robert’s eyes sagged, but his handsome smile and usual swagger were still intact. My heart sank when I saw him. His big curls of golden hair were ratty and dull. His golf shirt was wrinkled. Oh, my messed up Robert. Hours had passed since the cocaine call. I grabbed his hands and led him to the payphone stall by the bathrooms, feeling the weight of his addiction on my back.

Robert pecked me on the lips, then squeezed my shoulders with both hands. “I don’t know what’s happened to me.” His blue-green eyes darted around my face.

I looked down at the restaurant’s terra cotta floor. “It wasn’t the first time, was it?” The hum of the busy dining room buzzed in my ears. My eyes moved back to Robert’s pretty face. His blood-shot eyes watered. He dropped his head like a defeated athlete. My tongue felt like an inner tube. I struggled to find words.

My hands flew to his and squeezed with determination. “I’m going to help you. I have a plan.” I’d confided in Micah, a gay server at Cheesecake, who had snorted cocaine several times at Studio 54 when he’d lived in New York. He’d described the symptoms of addiction—high energy, insomnia, confidence and paranoia—which I’d grown to love as Robert’s personality.

Robert’s eyes ricocheted from my face to the dining room entrance behind me. His body jerked from side to side. He looked like a wild animal caught in a cage. “You’ll help me keep away from bad influences?” He gripped my fingers tighter. “You’ll keep me out of the clubs?”

I nodded, rubbing his knuckles. It meant steering clear of Jessica, his long-time friend, who lived walking distance from CocoWalk. She had long, red hair and bewitching green eyes and did lots of drugs. Robert had told me he used to crash on her couch before he’d started sleeping in my bed.

Robert ran his hands through his curls. “It’s my addictive personality. I just can’t do anything once. I just keep tempting myself.” He began pacing, looking down at the octagon tiles.

I wrapped my arms around his waist. “Don’t worry. I’m here to help.” He dropped his head onto my shoulder and squeezed me tight, like a child hugs a parent. His vulnerability made me feel strong and needed, helping me press through the fear of dating a guy who described himself as “addictive.” I thought of my father and all the times my mom had asked him to go to AA. He’d refused to get help. He didn’t think he had a drinking problem. “I will be here for you.” My voice shook. “I promise.” I kept my face tucked into Robert’s chest. I wouldn’t run away from him like I’d done with Chris. I wouldn’t desert him like Dad. We would confront his drug problem head-on.

Robert pulled away from me, his face twinkling like a Christmas tree. “Then we have something to celebrate.” His somber tone flashed to bright. “Last night is never going to happen again.” He gripped my shoulders. “We should drink to that.”

The day of our camping trip, I woke up with a smile on my face. My bedroom was cozy-warm and filled with sunshine. It was mid-December. I love you, Miami. My first winter in the tropics and my first getaway with Robert had finally arrived. The thrill of new experiences gave me promise that we could make it through the rough patches—even if they were as rough as Charlie Sheen on a binge.

I met Robert at his house in Kendall in the afternoon. The townhouse looked like a bland, temporary housing unit with off-white walls, tan carpet and very little furniture. His mother stood in the living room in her pristine white nurse’s uniform, stirring a spoon in a cup of coffee. She smiled and extender her hand. She was tall and thick, but had the same blonde, curly hair, square chin and piercing eyes as Robert. She said her goodbyes and swiftly darted out the front door.

Robert handed me a tiny, square box. “It’s a little early Christmas present.” My heart galloped as I pulled the bear-shaped, silver earrings from a cotton cushion. They looked like he’d bought them at Claire’s, but I slipped them on as eagerly as diamond studs.

Our weekend getaway to Blue Cypress Lake near Orlando commenced with a moonlight canoe ride through a dark cypress swamp. Our paddles knocked on alligators’ backs as we glided deeper into the forest of palmettos, pine trees and cypresses. My job was holding two big flashlights in my hands like an air traffic controller, throwing hazy beams on the banks and into the murky water to keep us on course. I wore a flannel shirt, a safari hat and Gap jeans with a Swiss Army knife in my pocket—just outdoorsy enough to make Indiana Jones proud.

When we arrived at the isolated campsite, Robert’s friends built a ghetto campfire in front of a rickety cabin with bug screens for walls—then pulled out a baggie of weed. My heart began thumping in rhythm with the crickets chirping in the dark woods. I sat Indian-style by the fire and held my palms toward the flames, trying to look cool. Robert plopped down next to me and squeezed my shoulders. I cracked a smile and watched Robert’s friends passing a freshly rolled joint around the flaming metal bucket. Robert’s head bounced from me to the doobie, his face glowing from the fire. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the joint get closer to Robert. My stomach and head churned. He’ll take a pass, I kept telling myself. It felt like the whole world was standing still when that joint was between Robert’s fingers. He turned to me. I turned to him. Our eyes locked. Then, he shrugged his shoulders and lifted the joint to his lips. The shock gripped my throat. I felt like I’d swallowed a balloon. Is this the real Robert? Is this the kind of guy I belong with? My body shifted slowly back toward the fire, weighed down with disappointment and disgust. Smoking pot seemed so useless to me. There was no benefit—unless you enjoy feeling like a zombie. I’d given pot a chance, and all it had given me was the urge to motorboat a chocolate Bundt cake. Robert coughed and offered me the joint. Smoke drifted above his head. I plucked it from his hand and passed it to his buddy faster than a stick of dynamite.

Robert nudged me with his right shoulder and sneered. “Come on! Don’t be a party pooper. We’re on vacation.” I smiled bashfully and pulled my knees to my chest.

When we crawled into Robert’s sleeping bag that night, I turned my back to him and listened to the crickets.

We didn’t speak for four days. I didn’t want to see, hear or smell that man; he didn’t want my help getting sober. I remembered the words my mom had muttered: You can’t help an addict until he’s ready to be helped.

Robert never popped into Cheesecake to give me a kiss. After a few shifts of waiting—waiting on customers while waiting for Robert to bounce into the dining room and apologize, I began to miss him. I missed his golden locks, his endless bursts of energy, our late-night rendezvous. I took out my frustration on the restaurant’s POSitouch register, pounding the order keys. Finally, I paged him from the restaurant’s payphone. No call back.

After a late weekend shift, I got the nerve to walk upstairs to Dan Marino’s. Robert wasn’t schmoozing his customers in the Miami Dolphin-blue booths like usual. The bartender said Robert had not shown up at work for three days. I felt like a barstool had hit me in the gut. Where are you, my screwed up man? He was missing. I marched to every bar in CocoWalk and Commodore Plaza. “Have you seen this guy?” I asked bouncers and bartenders, shoving a picture of Robert in their faces like the psycho cop looking for John Connor in Terminator 2. No one had seen Robert in days.

I spent the next two days pacing my apartment, burning tracks in the living room carpet. Should I call the police? File a missing person’s report? Had I learned nothing from America’s Most Wanted? I asked everyone I knew in the biz to keep an eye out for Robert. “Page me if you see him, anywhere and anytime.” My desperation turned from helplessness to denial to resentment by day six. The crushing feeling in my heart had been plastered over with anger; I’d told him I’d be there for him. He’d told me I was good for him. He’d taken me camping. He’d bought me earrings, even if they were cheap. He’d slept in my bed. He’d tried to spoon me all night in a sleeping bag. I’d dedicated more time and energy to his addiction than my father’s, and I’d known Robert less than one month.

Looking down at a stack of napkins on the empty veranda at Cheesecake, I practiced my Robert speech. Each precise crease my hand pressed into the white cloths revealed another layer of his disrespect. He was throwing his life away. He’d deserted me when I’d promised to help him. He was less than a zero.

“I just can’t let you go on like this,” a fellow server named Mark said in his gruff, nasally tone. He collapsed into the booth seat across from me letting his long legs dangle in the aisle. Mark had been hired about four weeks after the restaurant had opened, at the same time as Ashley the party girl. He’d lived in Wisconsin as a closet homosexual until age thirty, then moved to Miami to liberate himself. I paused mid-fold and looked over at his 200-pound frame filling the booth. He was blonde and hairy with a crooked nose from multiple sports injuries—not an ounce of femininity.

He palmed the stone tabletop with his thick fingers. “I saw your boyfriend.”

My eyes practically shot from their sockets. Adrenaline bolted through me, and I lunged across the table at Mark. “Where? When? What the hell happened? Is he okay?” The questions fired from my mouth like bullets. Mark smirked and laced his fingers around the back of his head. “You’re being an asshole!” I pulled my check presenter from my apron and threw it across the table, smacking him square in the chest. Receipts fell like confetti onto the tiled floor.

Mark loosened his tie, coolly. “I’m not sure I should tell you.”

“Stop it with the stupid games,” I said, my voice hissing. My eyes scanned the empty tables and two entrances to the veranda to make sure no one was listening to us.

Mark stared down at his beefy fingers and began gnawing on a jagged cuticle. “I saw him at Jessica’s house a couple nights ago.” There was a pregnant pause. My eyes darted from his eyes to his lips to his broken nose. My leg began to quiver. “We shared an eight ball.” He looked at my face, then out the window across the aisle. “Then we played a little game I like to call ‘three’s company.’ He’s quite the catcher.” He grinned and raised his index finger playfully to his thick lips. The words rolled nonchalantly off his tongue as if he were recounting a dinner order for table nineteen.

My mouth hung wide open in the air, as my hands flew to my ruddy cheeks. I was a living, breathing version of “The Scream” painting. Holy shit cows! I couldn’t stop the mental picture from forming. I saw my beautiful boyfriend bent over the arm of some couch, his face in Jessica’s crotch—while Mark pumped him from behind. My eyelids snapped shut. Vomit stirred in my stomach. I flew from the table into the bathroom around the corner, hearing Mark’s voice trail off through the glass veranda door: “Now you know why I didn’t tell you sooner.”

I stood above the wall of fancy copper sinks, splashing water on my tan face. The violation made me feel like raw meat exposed on hot pavement … under the blazing sun … for a day … being stepped on with dirty feet … until rotting bacteria turned me green and purple. We’d never used a condom once. On the first night, he’d said, “I know I’m clean, are you?” The question made me feel as uncomfortable as a pelvic exam. I felt guilty for even asking him to use protection. I was on the pill, which seemed safe enough. I would never drive a car without a seat belt, so why did I have sex without a condom? My brain was missing a safety gauge. Linda’s advice started echoing in my head: Cut back on the alcohol. It makes your legs spread. In high school, my parents’ idea of talking to me about the birds and the bees was sending me to Catechism. We were Catholic. We weren’t supposed to have sex before marriage, and taking birth control and drinking alcohol were sins. I darted into the last stall and kneeled in front of the toilet in my white uniform. My fingers laced over the cool toilet seat. A restaurant bathroom? Close enough to a confessional booth for me. Hello, God. Are you there? It’s me again, I prayed.

I returned to the row of sinks and mirrors and gripped the granite countertop with both hands. I looked deep into the reflection of my blue eyes, feeling drops of clarity seep into my bones. It was like staring into a swimming pool that hadn’t been touched all night. Our relationship was a horrible chain of events that would scar me for life as wife worthy. What man would marry a girl with my sexual history? I’d hit on a stranger in a bar, who happened to be a model, who happened to talk me into having unprotected sex, who happened to smoke cigarettes and weed, who happened to snort cocaine, who happened to fancy an occasional dick in the ass. Not quite the “broadening of my cultural horizons” I’d had in mind.

“Why me?” I whispered to myself in the mirror. The shock numbed my love for Robert, but it couldn’t kill it instantly. He’d battled the demons I’d grown up around. Only a girl with my history could see beyond his beauty and accept his faults. My greatest fear had been losing him to an overdose or a Victoria’s Secret model—not to a burly rugby player. My own health was never a consideration. Never mind that dating a guy who ranked higher than me on the ten-point scale only fueled my insecurity. We were doomed from the start.

I pulled paper towels from the dispenser and wiped my eyes. My stomach spun like a blender. What kind of microbial parting gift was growing inside me? I’d dodged a half-dozen pregnancy bullets in high school and even a STD scare in college. Mainstream awareness of AIDS and HIV was in full swing, thanks to Magic Johnson and Pedro Zamora from MTV’s The Real World: San Francisco. Birth-control pills wouldn’t save me this time. Neither would ruby-red slippers or my Harley “wheels.” My good luck had finally run out.

Fear and disgrace kept me confined to my apartment and the restaurant for at least a week. I sulked from table to table and avoided the bus stations where co-workers gossiped. Sex is going to kill me. I didn’t want to die young. I wanted to be the first woman in my family to graduate from college. I didn’t want to be the butt of jokes either—the girl whose boyfriend dumped her for a guy. Lou Diamond Phillips had taken enough of a beating for us all when his wife left him for Melissa Etheridge.

I finally visited the holy temple that could end my angst: Planned Parenthood. The nurse’s aide ran tests for every sexually transmitted disease possible. Then, I waited for the results, biting my nails down to the quick. I listened to my James CD (the band, not the ex), and the lyrics spooked me like never before: the part about a hand in the till, dressing in women’s clothes, messing with gender roles. Why was the real Robert so hard for me to see?

The resentment and embarrassment morphed into a ball of anger within days. Robert miraculously resurfaced once the threesome secret was revealed. Alicia told me she’d seen Robert in his work uniform, trotting upstairs to Dan Marino’s. I needed closure. I needed to confront Robert to officially end us, which had never happened with Chris or James. So, I did what seemed totally rational: I slammed two Jell-O shots and a White Russian at Fat Tuesday—the perfect recipe to prepare for a confrontation—before marching upstairs to Dan Marino’s.

Robert was counting tips at the bus station, looking hot in his turquoise blue work shirt and khaki shorts. I wore a striped blue T-shirt with my work jeans and sneakers. My curly hair was bushy and wild—just right for a fight. The entire scene moved in slow motion. I took two steps toward him, and my legs felt like boat anchors under my white jeans. His head turned toward me. Crap, I’m not ready yet! I dunked behind the island bar and grabbed a stool.

“I’ll have a double White Russian with cream,” I shouted to the bartender, my knees twitching under the bar. Oasis’s song “Wonderwall” drifted from the overhead speakers. Was I really the one who was gonna save him? I snarled at the irony. I’d wanted to save Robert. Me, the girl who’d slept with her baby blanket until fourth grade, thought she could save a promiscuous drug addict. My priorities in life always mutated into whatever seemed best for the guy in my bed—not for me. I needed to save myself for once.

“Hey, you.” Robert’s voice rang in my ears. I looked up from my murky drink to find his sculptured face inches from mine. I stared at his beautiful eyes and tanned cheeks. My hands began to tremor. I stabbed my ice cubes with a skinny straw.

“How could you?” My voice shook. His sexy, citrusy smell filled my lungs. I stared at him in his uniform, feeling the alcohol find its comfortable home in my bloodstream. My mind sped through all the statements I’d rehearsed in my head. There was so much to say. He’d put my life at risk. He’d told me he loved me. That was a strong word—one that nobody in my family tossed around often. “How could you do this? How could you?” My mouth continued hitting the replay button. Robert look stunned. His jaw opened, but he didn’t say a word. His green eyes darted around my face.

I jumped off the barstool and scurried past Robert before he could spew a rebuttal. By the time my hands threw open the double doors, tears were streaming down my face.

The engine of my Pontiac roared as I flew out of the CocoWalk parking garage. My tires squealed onto Tigertail Avenue. I cared about nothing but getting as far away from Robert as possible. Out of nowhere, police car lights flashed in my rearview mirror. Holy shit! My foot pumped the brakes. My heart hammered against my rib cage. My eyes darted crazily around the street. How many drinks did I have? Three? Shit! I’m going to get a DUI—surprisingly, the first in my family. No one would be bragging about my title. Pull it together, Wheels. I took a deep breath. I couldn’t buckle under pressure. I drove slowly down the street, buying myself time to think while the cop bleeped his sirens at me. I grabbed a handful of pennies from my center console and stuffed them into my mouth—an old how-to-get-out-of-a-DUI trick I’d learned back home. I turned my radio to a classic jazz station. My car crept into an hourly parking lot. By the time the police officer reached my window, the pennies were gone and mascara tears streaked my cheeks. I launched into my explanation, wailing about just breaking up with my boyfriend after a long shift at work, how I was stupid to let my emotions get the most of me while driving. Thank God I was still wearing half my uniform. I said I was sorry. I rubbed my cheeks to wipe away tears.

“Just a minute, ma’am.” The officer’s voice barked. He walked back to his patrol car with my license and registration. The hair on my neck stood up. I could almost feel the handcuffs snapping onto my wrists. I helplessly watched the officer in my side-view mirror, biting my thumbnail. He had short, black hair and a goatee. I guessed he was Cuban and in his thirties. Crying to cops had gotten me out of three speeding tickets in high school and college, and I prayed it would work again. My driving record, unlike my dating history, was spotless.

He grabbed a metal clipboard from his dash. My pulse pounded while my mind raced. I cannot get arrested. Who would possibly bail me out? He began walking back to my car. My entire body was shaking.

The officer leaned down to my window and squared his shoulders. “Miss, I think I should escort you home.” His voice was stern, but his brown eyes filled with kindness. The crippling fear loosened its grip as he handed me my license and registration.

My car crawled slower than a float parade the entire eight blocks home. My eyes bounced from the odometer to the rearview mirror. The bright lights of his black and white patrol car trailed close behind me. I’m fucked. He’s going to arrest me, I thought. I pictured myself in orange scrubs, my hands gripping the jail cell bars, surrounded by prostitutes and car-jackers. Tears trickled down my cheeks. I sucked a few more pennies.

When we reached my apartment building, I pulled onto the grass in front of my sidewalk where all the tenants parked. His car inched up next to mine, and I gripped my steering wheel tighter. My nerve endings prickled, awaiting the cop’s next move; I felt like I’d been shocked with a cow poker. I watched him under the light of the street lamp, turning off his engine. He stepped out of the car; I sheepishly opened my car door, its weight had tripled in less than ten minutes. He marched toward the trunk of my car. His movements were sharp and stiff like an Army sergeant’s. I tucked my bangs behind my ears and faked a few sniffles. I walked back to my bumper and glanced up at him. I could smell the vodka on my breath and looked down at the pavement. My knees shook in fear.

I rubbed my damp cheeks with both palms. “Thank you for being so kind.” My voice quivered. I looked down at my white uniform, which probably helped me get out of the breathalyzer test.

“You seem like a really nice girl,” he said, adjusting the chirping walkie-talkie on his shoulder. “Keep your chin up. Not all guys are jerks.” His dark gray uniform looked black in the night.

“Thanks,” I replied softly. “I really hope so. I guess I just have really bad luck with men.” I shrugged my shoulders. My keys jingled in my hand.

The officer glanced up at the dim streetlight, then back to me. “I have something I want to ask you.” Fear of the unknown squeezed my throat. My lungs fought for air. Oh, shit. Here it comes: Have you been drinking? He kicked a few rocks under his black boots. “Would you be interested in having dinner with me some time?”

My jaw locked. I’d been trying to give an Emmy-winning performance to get out of a ticket, and he just wanted to get in my pants. I waited for someone to jump out of the bushes and scream, “Smile! You’re on Candid Camera!”

“I’m really sorry.” I looked down at my white sneakers. “I can’t really even think about dating anyone else right now.” My body began shivering again. The guy was at least ten years older than me. Gross.

He stepped closer to me. His eyes moved from my chest to my eyes. I felt his x-ray vision imagining what I looked like naked. I took one step back, fearing he might change his mind and reach for those handcuffs. I was officially creeped out, and scared shitless.

“I figured as much.” He readjusted the black club on his belt. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” The CB radio in his patrol car clicked and beeped. I listened to his dispatcher’s voice echo as he drove off into the night.

A sigh the size of Lake Okeechobee left my lungs. I stepped into the courtyard of my apartment building, and I looked up at the moon shining through the branches of an overgrown Banyan tree. The wake-up call rang in my head so loud my ears throbbed. No more unprotected sex with strangers. No more dating guys who used drugs. No more broken-wing syndrome. No more drinking and driving. I’d been given four passes by a higher power. Fate worked in the strangest ways.

I crawled into my bed and counted my lucky stars—all before midnight.

Robert never called or came to the restaurant to apologize. My test results came back negative, which numbed the pain and the shame. His ménage-à-trois marathons remained the talk of every pre-shift napkin folding for weeks, thanks to Mark’s constant diarrhea of the mouth. I avoided Dan Marino’s until Mark told me Robert had stopped showing up to work. Robert was fired, gone, missing—I’ll never know. He disappeared from my life, disappeared into the night.

MARCO

“CLOSER”

Nine Inch Nails

REWIND: I stood in the dim hallway, fumbling for my keys in the bottomless black hole of my purse. It was one of those warm, January nights when the ability to wear a sundress made me feel invincible. The three peanut butter and jelly shots didn’t hurt either.

Marco grabbed a fistful of my curls from behind. “Hurry up.” The words breathed raspy from his thick lips, as he nibbled my neck. Goose bumps rippled down my arms.

I moaned and exhaled, drinking in his touch outside the front door to my apartment. “You just wait.” I threw him a sassy look, then continued digging through my purse. His teeth fondled my earlobe, making my whole body quiver with pleasure.

I poked my key at the dead bolt, giggling. “Stop it! I need to concentrate.” The scene made me feel even more light-headed than when we’d left the nautical-themed bar.

“You’re smashed.” Marco’s lips tickled my neck. The smell of fancy beer on his breath filled my nose, as my key finally slid into the lock.

I shoved open the door. “You don’t know me.” I whipped around and stood in the doorway, pointing my keys at him like a gun. The alcohol coursed through my bloodstream, making my confidence rise. My eyes moved from his head to his feet.

Marco crossed his arms. “Well?” His deep-set eyes pleaded with impatience. His brown, curly hair and olive skin looked even darker in my hallway. My face flashed an evil grin, watching him wait to be invited in for the first time.

I grabbed his front belt loop and tugged him into my apartment. His brown eyes widened, and his muscles bulged through his T-shirt and jeans. Marco always wore white cotton tees and blue jeans, both über-tight—a Fonzie-meets-Asian-teenager look. And I found his fashion incredibly attractive (in 1995). I had on a breezy, rayon-cotton sundress with a baby-blue floral print, which made my blue eyes and tanned skin pop. It was short and suggestive … perfect for the kind of night we would have.

I tossed my purse and keys onto the counter, then slid one hand around Marco’s neck. I pulled his T-shirt until his lips landed on mine. His lips were full and soft, the kind you could get lost in. A wave of desire tumbled through my body. The salty taste of Jamaican beer lingered on his breath. We’d just finished a liquid dinner at the Coconut Grove Loggerhead: six Red Stripes and six shots. Classy.

Marco wrapped his toned arms tighter around my waist. “What happened to the sweet girl from Kansas?” We stood in the middle of my living room in the dark; the streetlights outside my bay windows gave the entire apartment a gray glow.

I twirled my fingers through his curls. “Oh, she’ll be back soon. She’s still at work, delivering your Piña Coladas again, you slacker.” I kissed him playfully, letting my long curls brush against his face. Marco had started waiting tables at The Cheesecake Factory two weeks before—precisely when my shape-shifting began. A substitute-teaching gig had fallen through for the New Year, so Marco went back to working at restaurants. He always smiled in the face of restaurant chaos; I assumed the stress of juggling four tables paled in comparison to coaching bilingual third graders all day. Marco had graduated from University of Miami with a degree in biology and wanted to be a middle school teacher. I admired him for getting his degree and not losing sight of his dreams.

He laughed. “I’m not that bad.” Marco’s service skills were as pitiful as Pauly Shore’s acting. His frozen drinks often “died” on the service bar while he played paddy cake with the little girl at table three. “You know, I was a star server at Friday’s,” he declared, brushing my hair off my shoulders. Ah, Friday’s. The land of candy cane-striped golf shirts and suspenders riddled with button flair. The corporate chain that was no longer cool, thanks to Cheesecake. I hushed my competitive thoughts as his fingers glided down my arms. My insides began churning; I was teetering on the edge of drunk and horny. Stay in control, Harley. His biceps flexed, and I watched the veins in his smooth arms bulge. Marco spent most mornings surfing off Miami Beach and had the hard body to prove it. I looked at his chiseled nose and cheekbones. His olive skin was always deeply tanned, thanks to his father’s Sicilian heritage and daily trips to the beach. A guy who was both sweet and sexy? I thought I’d won the boyfriend Powerball.

“Friday’s isn’t Cheesecake,” I said, tugging him toward my papasan couch. The darkness helped boost my confidence even higher. He was all mine … Marco the hot surfer, but pathetic waiter. He never wrote down an order. He forgot to starch his apron. “I still have no idea how you passed the final.” I continued pulling him deeper into my living room. I’d trained him on the floor, and his laissez-faire attitude baffled me. We worked for the hottest restaurant chain on the East Coast, and he acted like we were serving milkshakes at Johnny Rocket’s.

Marco rubbed his thumbs on my hands. “I know when to apply myself and when to slack off.” His big eyes locked mine. “All great teachers do.” I stopped and stared at his handsome face in the dark. My brain hurt trying to analyze his affirmation.

“You’re lucky you are so fine.” My fingernails glided down his T-shirt. With both hands, I pushed him onto my papasan couch. Marco fell into the cushiony pod, laughing. I staggered over to him, grinning like a kid about to jump into the ocean. “I never get tired of picking up your slack.” The words slurred off my tongue. Marco had flipped my attraction switch the first time he’d called me “Hon.” When I’d refilled his empty bread baskets the first time, he’d brushed his thumb across my chin and said, “Thanks, Hon. You’re a doll.” I’d felt like the only girl in the restaurant. I began scurrying around his station, delivering his orphaned drinks, desserts and espressos. The urge to nurture took over my brain, just as with James. I’d raised thirty baby chickens, two rabbits, a guinea pig and one raccoon as a kid. I could handle Marco’s station and mine, no problema. A secret shopper would never tarnish my service record with a bad score, but him? I wasn’t so sure.

I stood over Marco, twirling my hair and drinking him in. I could teach him a thing or two about anticipation.

“Where did you learn all of this?” Marco asked, buried in my papasan. He stretched his muscular arms to both sides like a sacrificial animal.

I shrugged, then lifted my short skirt to straddle him. “I’m just doing what comes naturally.” I could smell the lie, and the beer, on my breath. Yeah, what comes naturally after six drinks. It felt like I was wearing a Halloween costume: fearless and fake at the same time. I smiled through my nervousness. “Like they say, don’t judge a book by its cover.” I sat on his lap and anchored both of my hands on his biceps. Marco liked exotic, sensual women. Every ex-girlfriend Marco had ever mentioned was South American, a.k.a Miss Universe land. Latinas and me—we had about as much in common as Vanilla Ice and Ice Cube.

Marco pulled up to kiss me, and I pushed my body weight against him. “I didn’t know Midwestern girls were like this.” His tongue was practically hanging out of his mouth. The dark, quiet room felt like it was closing in around me. Ummm, we’re not. Ms. Land of Oz? I was as exotic as a leather sofa from Jennifer Convertibles. I didn’t know what a Brazilian wax was, and I was too embarrassed to ask the South American waitresses at work. If it weren’t for my Columbian roommate’s divine undergarment intervention, I would have still been wearing granny panties. But put a few drinks in me, and I could transform into the tropical sex kitten Marco would find irresistible.

I ran my fingers down the chest of his T-shirt and leaned to his ear. “Miami changes people. You know that.” Five months of cultural immersion had finally begun working its magic. The old Harley was practically a stranger and good riddance. I was determined to attract the kind of multi-cultural man that would spook my parents, and I would undergo the massive makeover necessary to nab him. I was so tired of people saying, “Wow. I’ve never met anyone from Kansas before.” Then they’d ask if I’d grown up on a farm, drove a tractor, seen a tornado, worn red slippers, owned a Harley … no, no, of course, hell nooooo, fuck no! Pegging me a country bumpkin was no longer fair. I could say chicken, pork and rice in Spanish. I drank Jamaican beer. I wore thong panties.

“I like you like this.” Marco planted a passionate wet kiss on my lips. My heart lurched into my throat, feeling his tongue dance with mine. He pulled away, leaving me breathless.

“Would you like anything to drink?” I asked sweetly from my perch atop him. It seemed like the right question to fill the uncomfortable silence.

“Not if it requires you leaving me.” Marco locked his arms tighter around my waist. A big grin spread across my face. It felt so nice to be wanted again—that false sense of feeling wanted when I was too naïve to know the difference between lust and love.

His thick hands palmed my butt. I felt my thin sundress rise up my thighs. He squeezed both of my butt cheeks and growled. My bottom lip quivered. I squealed like a teenybopper and my hands flew to my face. I felt my checks flush. Be cool, Harley. I reached around my back and grabbed his muscular hands.

“Naughty boy,” I said with a purr before grabbing his arms and pressing them against the couch again. “Are all Latin men as handsy as you?” Marco was half-Cuban, half-Italian and 100 percent macho. He was a cultural melting pot—the perfect guy to help dip my toes in the Latino dating pool. Cubans made up about fifty-nine percent of the Miami population back then, so I’d embraced the odds that I’d end up with a Cuban boyfriend sooner or later. At work, Cuban guys whistled louder when a pretty lady bent over to pick up a napkin than they did when Dan Marino threw a touchdown pass. I found this refreshingly reassuring, post-Robert.

Marco panted, his chest trembling under his shirt. “Absolutely.” His eyes hopped around my face. I leaned my weight into him, kissing his cheeks softly, then his lips. The alcohol kept surging through my bloodstream, helping me play the role of aggressor. “We should do this more often on our day off,” Marco whispered between kisses. He pulled my hips closer to his. “I’ll have you over to my place next time.” I caressed his face, my ego rejoicing. There was no way in hell Marco would ever switch teams like Robert. Whenever co-worker Andrew—think Ewan McGregor in Trainspotting with an addiction to rhinestone belts instead of heroin—sashayed past Marco singing ABBA, Marco scrunched his nose and shook his body from head to toe.

I pressed his shoulders deeper into my green couch cushion, then kissed him with force. His tongue chased mine, bouncing around his mouth. He smelled of beer and cigarettes, and only a tipsy college girl would find that physically attractive. Without leaving his lips, I guided him off the couch into my adjoining bedroom. Excitement and nervousness surged through my body. Like most fiercely independent twenty-year-olds, I thought I’d finally figured out who I was—a totally different person than I was just three months before.

Shadows of craggy Banyan trees outside the windows covered my bed. I pulled away from Marco with a grin on my face, stumbling through the dark and squealing as I bounced off every piece of furniture like a pinball.

“I meant to do that.” I turned my back toward him in the dimly lit room. My hands tugged the mini blinds shut, sending the room into darkness. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes; the room began to spin. I am just being myself, my new self. Shedding my Midwest inhibitions. Taking control of my sex life. Miami in the mid-1990s was a fondue fountain of sexual energy. Just add chocolate and alcohol. Boys and girls from northern states were springing “out of the closet” and moving to Miami to explore their new selves, and found hot bodies in every flavor of the rainbow. Extreme exposure to sexual energy had affected me too. I couldn’t go a day without seeing a man’s shiny chest on the street or a woman’s huge breasts popping out of her bikini at the gas station. Watching people walk around in the oppressive heat was like watching a game of strip poker. It was a special place to be young and hormonal.

Marco stepped behind me and lifted my hair off my neck. He plunged his teeth playfully into my shoulder, making me moan. I raised my hand to his head and ran my fingernails through his thick, brown curls, before turning to face him. My fingers moved slowly over his face in the darkness like a blind person reading brail.

I pushed Marco away and laughed. The little voice in my head began scolding my naughty nemesis for deserting my morals—then my blood alcohol level drowned out the voice. I sauntered over to the new JVC stereo on my dresser and tapped the “play” button. My fingers tingled. My heart pounded. I’d already preloaded disc one. Premeditated sex. Another Miami first. The electric pulse of the drumbeat filled my bedroom. I turned and slinked back to Marco. His chest thumped to the bass line of Nine Inch Nails’s “Closer.” My lips crept slowly onto his, then I pushed him onto my double bed. I stared at his eyes watching me in the darkness, then concentrated on unbuckling my sandals and not taking a header into my bookcase. I pulled his sneakers off and threw them over my shoulder, then slipped my spaghetti-strap dress over my head. My tanned body stood over him at the foot of my bed. I ran my fingers through my hair, keeping my eyes locked on Marco. It seemed like the kind of thing a Latina would do before sex. Marco’s eyes bounced from my teal satin bra to my matching lace panties. Worries over my scars and tiny boobs were miles away. The devilishly handsome Robert had helped me feel more confident about my body; I could at least thank the cokehead for that. Marco leaned up and started to pull his T-shirt over his head.

I wagged my head and index finger. “Uh-uh.” I pounced, straddling him like a tiger about to devour her prey. The room began to spin. He began squirming and grabbing at my legs. My body wobbled over him. I must have looked like a drunken spring breaker trying to ride an electric bull.

“Oh, my God!” Marco’s eyes bulged in the darkness. I pushed my knees against his sides to steady myself. I pinned both of his hands behind his head with one arm like a prisoner in shackles, then slipped his black leather belt off his jeans. The music blasted through the apartment: raw, pulsing words about violating, desecrating, penetrating, complicating. It urged me to get away from myself, become somebody else—that song embodied the new me.

He looked at the belt in my hands, then back to my eyes. “What’s your safeword?”

I cocked my head. “A safety word?” I tossed his belt to the floor while my other hand kept his arms pinned above his head. Like dial 911?

“You’re in charge, you tell me,” he whispered, raising his head to kiss me. “Am I your Sub tonight?” He cackled and bit my shoulder, making me squeal again.

Is this what having sex with a schoolteacher is like? All code words? My head felt cloudy and confused. I didn’t understand what he was talking about, but I wanted him to think I was sexy and cool. The music pulsed in my ears.

I giggled, hovering over him. “You’ve always been my favorite sub.” I licked his earlobe between words. “I want to be the teacher’s pet.” Foreplay with a substitute teacher. Another first for me.

“Help me!” Marco cried out with Trent Reznor in the chorus.

I released his wrists from my playful grip. “So, you wanna be helped?”

His thick curls bounced as he shook his head. I pulled off his T-shirt, revealing the kind of carved six-pack you’d find on an Olympic athlete.

“Oh. My. Lord.” My hands shot to my mouth. Too eager, Harley. Too Kansas. Be cool.

Marco smiled and patted his washboard stomach. “Not too bad, eh?” He looked down at himself.

I nodded, mouth hanging open. My acrylic nails glided from his bare chest down his abdomen. What a bod. And he wants me. His body heat warmed my legs, and the lower half of my body began throbbing to the music. My tongue flew from his chest down his stomach to his button fly. I frantically lapped away at the creases in his tight stomach muscles. A little sliver of self inside me whispered, “This isn’t you. It’s the alcohol. Don’t spread your legs.” I shooed it back into the deepest corner of my cloudy head. When my lips rested on his bellybutton, his abdominals quivered. I loved the sense of power my touch had over him. I unbuttoned his fly and watched him slip off his pants faster than a horny teenager. He leaned back on my bed, wearing only boxers. My fingers gripped his legs … his hairless legs. My entire body froze in the darkness.

My fingers tingled, resting lifelessly on his silky-smooth thighs. I felt like an old woman groping a thirteen-year-old boy. The music pulsed from my head to my stomach. Visions of Mark humping Robert flashed through my head. Gaydar. Red alert! Marco wasn’t a boy, but maybe he liked to touch boys! My mouth got dry, my throat tight. I collapsed beside him on my bed.

Marco rolled onto his side. “You think it’s weird, huh?” He played with my hair. “That’s a surprise, considering the side you’ve shown me tonight.” I stared up at the spinning ceiling. My throbbing head kept saying, Please, God. Don’t let me puke. He rubbed his smooth chest. I pictured him standing in front of a classroom in his oxford and tie, and my heart fluttered again.

“Uh, I dunno.” I scooted my back against him into the spoon position. We lay in the darkness, not saying a word. The alcohol was going to make me say something I’d regret. It always did. I kissed his biceps to fill the uncomfortable silence. I’d never seen any guy shave his body before moving to Miami. But major manscaping was pretty common in sweltering Skin City—whether guys hung out at 10th and Ocean on South Beach or Gold’s Gym in Coral Gables. It still freaked me out a little bit. Only four weeks had passed since Robert had taken it in the butt. And he didn’t shave his legs!

Marco tugged me around to face him again. “It’s better for surfing.” He pulled my hand to his smooth chest. “My body sticks to the board. The hair gets in the way.” He paused. “I’m Cuban-Italian. I have no choice.” I looked at his sexy silhouette lying on my bed and pictured him turning into Michael J. Fox in Teen Wolf.

My chin rested on his chest. “I’ll get used to it.” I pushed my cheek against his right pec. My bedroom began to spin like a Ferris wheel. I forced my eyes to lock on a bookshelf. I’d puked on a college boy—in his bed—my senior year of high school. It was a Hallmark moment I didn’t want to relive. “You’re dating a gringa from Kansas, and you’ve adjusted just fine,” I slurred, feeling cool for using a Spanish word. My vocabulary had risen from zero to twenty words in three months. I wanted to be chatting up the busboys in Spanish before summer. I also wanted to throw up.

“Ummm, yeah,” he replied, staring at the ceiling. “I’m always up to try something different.” My chin bobbed up and down with his every breath. I let his words sink in, then rushed to the kitchen and chugged a glass of water.

I sauntered back to my bed. “Different is good, right?” I stood over him, looking down at his dark eyes.

“I like different.” He tugged at my hand, smiling. The music stopped. I scurried over to my stereo and hit “rewind.”

Marco leaned on his elbows. “Are you going to let me do any work tonight?” The electronic pulse of the music bounced around us. Taking the lead, being in control. At the time, it seemed like a clever way to land a new boyfriend.

I slipped off his boxers. “Do I ever?”

Marco shook his head. “Could you at least hand me my jeans?” I tossed his Levi’s from the foot of the bed and watched him fish a condom from his wallet. My mind rejoiced. Robert had scared me straight about unprotected sex.

I slithered up and down Marco’s tanned body to the beat. He pinned down my shoulders and did the same. His lips moved to my inner thigh. I moaned, then grabbed his bare ass and smacked it. I’d never watched porn, but had overheard a lot of rough sex talk during pre-shift at work. It always involved spanking, biting and riding. My inner dominatrix had been unleashed—without the help of Wikipedia. I sunk my teeth into Marco’s side. He growled and barked at me. What’s up with the barking? Is there another type of doggie style I don’t know about? It was the closest thing to S&M I’ve ever experienced—even though I didn’t know what any of that BDSM stuff even was—and I felt like the biggest fraud since Milli Vanilli. But hey, I was taking risks. Trying new things. Closing doors and opening others. Marco seemed safe for experimentation. I lost myself in the moment, in the song. And now whenever I hear “Closer” I feel like a moron for being such a fake the first time we had sex. I felt so right at the time.

“I’m speechless,” he said afterward, fanned across my bed like snow angel. “I like your wild side.” He pulled my naked body closer and kissed my forehead. My sheets were damp from all the sweat. I felt like I’d just run a 5K.

I curled up alongside his sculpted, wet body. “There’s more to me than meets the eye.” To win over this guy’s heart, I’d start with his body. It seemed so logical back then. Sex was still my gateway to a man’s attention and his love.

And that was the beginning of Marco and me.

“Shula’s had a great run, but it’s time to pass the torch,” Marco said to one of the bus boys in the main bus stand. I pictured his hot body under his wrinkled apron as he threw his hands in the air. Two days had passed since our sexcapade. Like most straight guys at work, Marco loved to talk football. I liked to play along.

I stuffed two plates in a bus tub. “If it wasn’t for Zach Thomas and Jason Taylor, Shula would have been canned two years ago.” My older brother and I had shared a Dallas Cowboys-themed bedroom until fourth grade, and it didn’t take me long to trade in my Barbies for a pigskin. I loved watching a guy’s eyes widen when I talked football. It was my secret weapon. I continued spouting off statistics about Thomas’s sacks like an Al Michaels’s protégé.

“This girl is unreal,” Marco said to the busboy, then winked at me. I blushed and grabbed four water mugs from a rack. Touch down, Harley Aberle.

“Did you see the rack on that lady at thirty-one?” I asked, pushing the glass rack back under the counter. “She could smuggle a whole cheesecake between those things.”

“Bullshit!” Marco darted over to survey her cleavage. When Marco wasn’t touting Dan Marino’s latest comeback, he was talking about tits with his co-workers. I always thought talking sports and boobs and drinking beer were keys to making guys fall for me. I was like a guy with a vagina. Marco was eating it up. Having a boyfriend was as essential to my being as sunscreen on South Beach. After nearly two years with Chris, I’d gotten dumped by James and Robert—and hooked up with another co-worker, Armando (the techno dancer with moves like Justin Timberlake), while drowning in self-pity on New Year’s Eve—all in less than sixty days. Living without a boyfriend for four weeks felt like someone had cut off my left arm. And I’m left-handed.

Super Bowl XXIX came to Miami in late January. I couldn’t afford tickets, of course, so I bought us two passes to the NFL Experience at Joe Robbie Stadium. Marco and I scurried around the stadium playing games like two grade schoolers at the county fair. The relationship was sweet, playful and a little dangerous—like cotton candy-flavored vodka. We’d spend afternoons hanging out at his apartment or mine on the rare occasion we weren’t both scheduled to work. He invited me to spend the night at his place—then made me scrambled eggs, sausage and toast for breakfast. Cheesy scrambled eggs, made with Kraft singles and Jimmy Dean sausage—the fast lane to a Midwest girl’s heart. Marco was definitely falling in love with me, even if he didn’t say the word. I bought him a Miami Dolphin-colored Nerf football so we could play catch in the street. Our game was progressing smoothly.

Then I went out of bounds.

I took a vacation.

My co-workers—Alicia, Christina and Brent—had been planning a road trip to Mardi Gras in New Orleans for almost two months and invited me to join them. The biggest block party on American soil? I didn’t blink. The legal drinking age in Louisiana was still eighteen at the time, so I could relax and not worry about getting carded. If our society would just treat alcohol like a civilized beverage and not an illegal weapon regulated by the same governmental office as guns and tobacco, maybe young adults wouldn’t be so motivated to get drunk.

“You’ve gotta come with us,” I said to Marco, tugging his apron at work. I wanted to share my first Mardi Gras experience with my playmate boyfriend.

He stroked my arms softly with both hands. “There’s no way I can get that much time off, Sweetheart.” Marco didn’t hide his affection at work like James did. We never held hands at the restaurant, but he always touched my arms or lower back at the right moment, discreetly. We also shared smoothies (same straw) and salads (same bowl, same fork) before our shifts—the telltale sign we were serious.

I looked into his brown eyes, lips drooping on my pouty face. “But it won’t be as fun without you there.” Once involved with a guy, I wanted to spend every free minute with him. I didn’t know how to have my own life. “Don’t you even want to try?” I asked, straightening his Jerry Garcia tie. The idea of leaving Marco for five days made my stomach squirm. I never worried about the longevity of my relationships before moving to Miami. Since age fourteen, every first date had led to a relationship that lasted as long as an apartment lease. The goal of a date was to get the boy to only want to date me—not to analyze him and determine if he was worthy of my love. (I always liked achieving goals, even if they were the wrong ones.) Marco hadn’t called me his girlfriend yet, and I feared spending time apart might make him believe he didn’t need me in his life.

He nodded. “I’ve worked here four weeks. I don’t have any strings to pull, Hon.” We stood in silence, looking at each other. His big eyes pierced mine, warming my heart. “Don’t worry. You’ll have a blast.” Marco always had this soft, sincere tone to his voice that reminded me of my father back when Dad had the strength to overpower his inner demons.

“I thought you were going to tell me to be good,” I replied, rubbing his thick biceps through his work shirt.

He patted my shoulders like a football coach. “You’re a big girl. You won’t let those girls get you into trouble.” I got the hint on his emphasis of the word “those.” Alicia and Marco were like oil and water. She hissed at him every chance she got. He was half Cuban by blood and half slacker by choice. Neither half seemed good enough for her naïve friend from Kansas.

We drove Brent’s mom’s minivan fourteen hours straight to New Orleans, switching drivers along the way. Before college, my idea of a vacation involved a twelve-pack of hot dogs, a can of bug spray and a twenty-minute car ride to Spring River. My family didn’t have the money to fly to Disney World or even rent a cabin in the Ozarks. My co-workers were my new family, and they were showing me the real world.

“That’ll put hair on your chest, eh?” Alicia asked, watching me sip my first Hand Grenade at Tropical Isle’s weathered-wood bar. I sucked the sweet melon cocktail through a straw until brain freeze set in. It was Alicia’s third trip to Mardi Gras, and she knew the best bars for drinks, the best clubs for jazz, the best diners for Cajun food and the best street vantage points for each float parade.

I slammed the plastic, hand grenade-shaped cup onto the counter. “Thank you, sir, can I have another?” Purple and green beads bounced around my neck, tangled in my hair. I could handle my liquor, just like they could. Drinking daily felt natural. It was in my blood. My grandpa was born in Germany and my grandma in Ireland, so the line of alcoholics in my family probably went back four to five generations. Since leaving Chris, I’d spent one-third of my tips on booze each week. I’d dived head first into the restaurant lifestyle and hadn’t come close to hitting bottom.

“Dorothy’s gotta learn how to pace herself!” Alicia pulled a $20 bill from her jeans pocket. “We’ve got four days of partying ahead of us.” Pace myself? I rolled my eyes and kept sucking the potent, fruity concoction through my straw. New Orleans was a one-stop shop for my three favorite things—delicious food, stiff drinks and live music. I felt like a crack addict who’d just been dropped off in Skid Row with a $100 bill. We devoured spicy shrimp po’ boys at Mother’s on Poydras Street. We downed fruity Hurricanes on the brick patio at Pat O’Brien’s, then danced in the street alongside a roaming, five-piece band. We ate king cake for breakfast, paired with frozen Strawberry Daiquiris. I experienced the euphoria of a late morning buzz for the first time. My taste buds rode the heavenly high straight through to the gigantic parade floats and flying strings of beads. I never got the courage to show my breasts for beads, but Alicia flashed her huge boobs to get huge beads, and slipped every other string around my neck. I was definitely not in Kansas anymore.

Alicia called The Cheesecake Factory to check the upcoming two-week schedule. It was Sunday afternoon, and Mardi Gras revelers were dancing in the street below our hotel room window. Our server manager posted a new fourteen-day schedule every other Sunday, and even though we’d requested time off for our entire trip, we wanted to be certain there were no issues. We sat on the floral-print sleeper sofa in our cheap hotel living room, watching Alicia’s eyes bulge with the in-room phone receiver pressed to her ear.

“We’re all scheduled on Monday?” Her face contorted as she wrapped the phone cord between her acrylic nails.

My jaw dropped. Monday was twenty-four hours away.

“You gotta make me understand what happened here, Richard.” Alicia launched into her “Jenny from the Block” routine with bobbing head and nasty tone. She’d grown up in New York, and made sure everyone knew it. When her tanned face turned red, Brent grabbed the receiver and tried smooth talking our boss like a used car salesman. Alicia rolled her eyes. We huddled around the phone in Brent’s hand, listening to our boss explain how he didn’t have enough bodies to cover all the shifts we’d requested, so he’d scheduled us all on Monday, because that would be the easiest shift to cover.

My body was paralyzed by fear and helplessness. My eyes darted from my duffle bag on the bedroom floor to the dead bolt on the front door. Fourteen hours of interstate highways and turnpikes stood between the Dade County line and us. Brent kindly asked to be placed on hold for a moment.

Alicia fumbled for a cigarette lighter in her jeans pocket. “Screw him!” The words spit from her full lips. “How the fuck can he be so disrespectful to some of his best servers? We’ve been there since day one.” Her wavy, black hair whipped around the shoulders of her New York Knicks jersey.

Christina collapsed onto the queen bed in the adjoining room, where she’d slept with some guy she’d just met who was wearing a T-shirt that said, “This isn’t a Bald it’s a Solar Panel for a Sex Machine.” (Like Insult Generator says, if her vagina had had a password, it would have been password.) “What an ass wipe!” Christina stared up at the popcorn ceiling. “He can’t be doing this to us.” She reached for a pack of Marlboro Lights on the nightstand.

Alicia exhaled a perfect ring of smoke. “He can kiss my ass.” She shoved her lit cigarette toward the door. “I’ll go bartend on South Beach and make twice the money.” Christina cheered from the next room, cigarette dangling from her mouth. Even Brent nodded and flipped off the phone. He was five years older than me and had a college degree; that made him the most responsible person in the group. It felt as if I was watching fifth graders on a playground standing up to the class bully.

“Maybe you guys don’t care about getting fired,” I snapped the words, standing in the center of the tiny living area, “but I do.” I crossed my arms over my new Mardi Gras T-shirt. I wore a checkered flannel shirt wrapped around the waist of my intentionally ripped Gap jeans and black Army boots (a ‘90s fashion statement I’d prefer to forget).

“There are plenty of good jobs in Miami, Dorothy.” Alicia pointed her French-manicured nails at my nose. “You haven’t lived there long enough to realize it.”

“I’m not losing this job!” I spun in a half circle to look each of them square in the eye. Beads jingled around my neck. My voice echoed in my head. “We can drive home now and be there in time for work tomorrow.” My heart hammered in my chest. The room was silent.

Alicia took a long drag and exhaled. “We’re not driving home now.” She twisted her stub in the ashtray on the coffee table. “It’s not even Mardi Gras yet.” Her shoulders squared. She fixed her eyes on me. She loved to argue. My hands began to shake. I’d never been in a fight before.

“I’ll find my own way home tonight if I have to!” I boot-stomped over and grabbed my duffle bag. “Maybe losing a good job doesn’t mean much to you guys, but it means a lot to me.” Having a five-month stint on my résumé seemed like the scarlet letter, irresponsible and unreliable: two things I’ve never been. And the loss of my job would strip me of the only security blanket in my independent life: money.

“Maybe you should talk to him then,” Alicia hissed.

“Fine.” I plucked the phone from Brent’s chest. I had a good relationship with our supervisor. He’d recently promoted me to server trainer.

“Harley, I like you,” he said firmly, after listening to my plea. “You’ve been a great employee, but if you can’t cover your open shifts, I will fire you all. You leave me no choice.” My voice trembled as I asked him if he could give me a list of every person not scheduled to work on Monday. I jotted down every name and phone number on a hotel notepad. My fingers shook in cadence with my breaths. Then I kindly asked if I could speak to whoever was currently at work. One by one, I spoke to seven people on the list of ten. Brent left Alicia’s side on the couch and joined in my cause. We pleaded our grave situation to each co-worker. Thirty-five minutes, $200 cash and four I.O.U. shift-trades later, the crisis had been averted. But the big save didn’t make me feel like doing cartwheels.

I looked down at Christina and Alicia fanned out across the couch in our messy hotel room with cigarettes dangling from their mouths. How did I get so far off track? This wasn’t part of my original game plan when I’d moved to Florida. I’d planned to build my life around five steps: take one year off, get my residency, save money, pay down debt and go back to college. Instead, I was standing in the middle of a cheap hotel room in New Orleans with no money in my pocket and a three-day-long buzz, surrounded by people who lived to party. The Cheesecake Factory was an opportunity of a lifetime for me. The only corporate job within an hour of my house back home was for Wal-Mart. While riding the wave of their carefree lifestyle, the only real decisions I’d made were draft or bottle, dine-in or to-go. My credit card debt had ballooned to $750 and my checking account had dwindled to $100. I’d squandered most of my tips on beer, shots and smoked marlin dip at Flaningan’s Loggerhead. I’d started wearing acrylic nails like Alicia’s, an expensive luxury. Trent Reznor’s words should have been echoing in my head: My whole existence? Yep. It was flawed.

To celebrate our victory, we group-hugged in the middle of our hotel room, the floor littered with clothes and beer bottles. My mind was already driving home, far from the revelers dancing in the streets outside our window. Were these the friends who would be wearing caps and gowns with me at college graduation? Nope. We were reading off two different menus.

I returned to work with a newfound purpose—and a rock in my stomach. In the heat of a drunken and desperate moment at Mardi Gras, I’d kissed a slurring Ole Miss student. I’d lost my co-workers and didn’t know how to get back to our hotel. I needed $10 for cab fare, and he wasn’t about to give it up for free. Trust me. I tried. While the kiss was innocent, the anticipation of facing Marco again was agonizing. I could never lie to someone I cared about. One look into my eyes, and he’d see my infidelity.

Marco coasted right past me on his way to the bakery. “Hey, kiddo,” he called out over his shoulder. His eyes never met mine. The sweetness in his voice was gone, along with the “Honey.” The rock moved from my stomach to my throat. I’d been thinking for days about how much I missed him, how I wanted to erase all the bad things that had happened in New Orleans and start my life over. I juggled my tables’ orders and tried to help deliver his drinks. He was one step ahead of me every time.

At the end of our shift, I spotted Marco near the main bus station talking to Gabriela, one of the new servers. She was Brazilian with a body like Beyoncé and a brown mole on the tip of her nose. She had green cat eyes and thick, brown hair that tumbled down her back. She loved to dance salsa just like Marco. Their brown eyes bounced around each other’s faces. Her cheeks plumped when he talked to her. She lifted a spoon from her cup of soup to his lips, and my mind screamed: No! Not the telltale sign! Was he already playing “Sub” teacher with her? Did she have a safeword? They were definitely an item. I’d already been traded in for a new model.

Linda plopped down on her milk crate in Cheesecake’s back hallway. “They’ve been making goo-goo eyes at each other since you left town.” Pumping her for intel was as close to confrontation with Marco as I could get. “They’ve been going to raves. Rolling like crazy.” She rolled her eyes and tapped her foot.

“Rolling what?” I asked with a puzzled face.

“Ahh, Wheels.” She shook her head in disbelief of my ignorance. She began to explain. My jaw fell when the word “drug” left her mouth.

I stamped my sneaker on the concrete. “God, dammit. Not again!” My chin dropped to my chest. Why is life in the big city so damn complex? Rave was a brand of hairspray, not a dance party for druggies. Rolling was what Chris did to make homemade joints. Linda explained how co-workers (even James!) took hits of a drug called Ecstasy at “raves” or “rolling parties.” People took the pills, then pawed each other like cats for hours, every sensation magnified twenty times. I couldn’t believe Marco had fallen prey to the party drug scene—just like Robert and James. Marco was a schoolteacher, a mentor to small children. My squeaky-clean picture of him began to shatter. Ecstasy sounded as bad as cocaine.

“X will screw up a person’s nervous system for life,” Linda said, perched on her milk crate with ankles crossed. “Those two have rolled at least three times this week.” I sighed deeply and looked down at the floral-print tie on my flat chest. Gabriela hated football. She loved shopping. She and Marco had little in common. But she did have some big cans …

I buried my elbows deeper in my knees and covered my ears with my hands. My relationship with Marco was officially over—cut short by factors beyond my control. There was no need for verbal closure; I didn’t want to date a druggie. Never, ever again. I needed to spend more time getting to know a guy before sleeping with him. I’d gone from eight hours with Robert to two weeks with Marco, which was an improvement, but still not long enough. Meet guy, have sex, become a couple, be shocked when he does drugs and cheats … the end. My love life, abbreviated. And it was duplicating more times than the syllables in Hawaiian.

Every day at work, I was forced to watch Marco and Gabriela pet each other. I learned more about their budding romance through pre-shift gossip sessions. They’d dressed up in black leather and went to S&M night at a seedy club on South Beach. He’d played the sub, and I finally realized what that actually meant. Holy nipple pinchers, Batman! Gabriela knew how to surf, and he’d already taken her twice. She’d helped him wax his board—and his chest! Resentment and denial were tangled in my mind and made a strong tag team. I didn’t want to date him, but I didn’t want to watch him snuggle with the girl he’d dumped me for.

Coconut Grove Playhouse hosted a senior citizen’s discount day once a month. Two Greyhound busloads of Boca Raton snowbirds poured into the restaurant as soon as we opened the doors. Every table was filled with blue-haired old ladies with gaudy jewelry and huge handbags. I marched back into my beehive of a station, quadruple-sat, still fuming over my first Gabriela glance of the day. She was wearing Marco’s Jerry Garcia tie! I rushed over to service bar with sixteen drink orders—decaf coffees with low-fat milk (not cream), hot teas—the kind of high-maintenance shit that would piss off any server. Every hot teakettle was already in use. Four coffee machines were brewing new batches after being wiped out in the first five minutes of the shift. I huffed and shoved the last three creamer cups in my apron like a soldier storing ammunition. It was February and seventy degrees outside. The mere idea of drinking coffee infuriated me. “Take your coffee and your big hair,” I hissed under my breath far from my station, “and go back to New York and shovel snow.” I painted on a sweet smile as every little old lady at my tables ordered egg white omelets with no oil and no butter, each with a different type of toast and side dish.

“I ordered my omelet with pumpernickel bread,” one of the ladies said, as I placed the large, oval plate in front of her. She tapped her acrylic nail on the lip of the plate. “This is wheat.”

I laced my hands in front of my apron. “I’m sorry, but we don’t serve pumpernickel bread.” I could hear the frustration in my sharp tone. Cheesecake’s whole-wheat baguette had oats baked on top, and no matter how many times I explained what it was, senior citizen guests insisted the restaurant served rye or pumpernickel.

She snarled at me. “I can’t eat this.” Her bony fingers pushed the plate into the center of the table, bumping her coffee mug and nearly knocking it over.

I plucked two dirty side plates off the table. “I’ll bring you some sourdough.” I marched back to the line, head throbbing. My neck felt stiff and hot.

“Fresh side of sourdough toast, pleeeezzee,” I said to the expediter. The warming lamps in the kitchen service window made my head feel like a pressure cooker. I stood up against the wall of mirrors by the kitchen with dirty side plates in hand, and looked out into the restaurant. At the bakery counter, Gabriela and Marco were giggling, squirting whip cream out of the canister on top of two lattes in a slow, suggestive way. Get a fucking room, people! I stomped over to the main bus stand. Standing over the stainless-steel trash shoot, I smashed the side plates together like marching band symbols.

I glared at the dirty plates in my hands. “Does anyone in this place have respect?” My voice boomed like a sportscaster’s. The line of servers at the bread station turned and stared. The whole shitty situation had reached a boiling point. I wanted to skewer Gabriela and serve her to the blue hairs with a side of “fuck you.”

I growled and banged the plates harder against the trash bin. Lettuce caked to the plates flew over my head, as a loud clank rang out in my ears. A blanket of silence covered the restaurant. I looked down at my hands. The jagged pieces of ceramic felt like rocks between my fingers. My head turned toward the line. Cooks and servers on both sides of the kitchen window were staring at me. My cheeks felt on fire. I dropped the last two broken chunks into the half-full trash bin, hearing another huge thud before throwing open the swing door and storming into the back hallway.

At the end of my shift, I sat in a booth by myself, stacking napkins and chewing my nails. Our manager Richard marched over to my table. “I need to have a word with you.”

I followed him into the empty veranda, my arms cinched around me like a straight jacket. He shut the heavy glass door behind us. Nausea whipped through my stomach as he grabbed a wicker chair. We sat down at a table with a view of the street. I wanted to jump out the window.

He leaned back and ran his fingers through his short, brown hair. Even though the restaurant had been closed an hour, his dress shirt was still buttoned and his tie knotted snuggly around his neck. “I don’t know what has happened to you.” Every syllable shot out of his mouth like rounds from a pellet gun. “You were one of my star employees.” He paused, lacing his hands on the stone tabletop. “Then there was the Mardi Gras trip and the scramble to cover your shifts.” His eyes were anchored on my face. My wicker chair creaked. My throat felt like sandpaper. I hadn’t felt that embarrassed since a boy depantsed me in eighth grade study hall.

Richard’s head shook from side to side. “And now this.” His eyes bulged. “You throw plates. You yell. You storm out of the dining room. You are not the Harley I hired.”

I looked down at my hands cupped in my lap. My breaths trembled as tears swelled in the corners of my eyes. Say something, Harley. I watched my fingers shake. My vocal cords were tangled by the shame. He is right.

Richard leaned over the table. “I don’t know what is happening in your personal life.” He furrowed his eyebrows. “And I don’t care. We’re adults, and this is a business. You’re here to do a job and do it exceptionally well.”

“I am…I’m sorry.” The words stumbled from my quivering lips.

“I like you,” he said in his ever-hurried pace. “I think you’re a good kid with a bright future. Six months ago, you were a different person. You had a plan. You were following your dreams. I don’t want to see you mess up your life.” His green eyes pierced mine. “Some people can’t handle the lifestyle of working in a restaurant. Don’t let yourself become one of them.” His eyes scanned the glass doors where Marco, Gabriela and Alicia were folding napkins in the other room.

I wiped the tears from my cheeks. I’d been surrounding myself with people who brought out the worst in me—a side I’d never seen before.

“I know.” My shoulders caved, and my necktie fell onto the tabletop. “This isn’t like me.” My epiphany during the Mardi Gras trip flashed through my mind. I’d made bad choices. My good intentions always disappeared after dark. My determination had drowned in a Bourbon Street Hand Grenade. I was one broken plate away from being fired from the best job I’d ever had—all because of a slacker who shaved his chest. I’d ignored Linda’s advice and had fallen for another horny co-worker. I should have listened more closely to the lyrics of “Closer.” Someone, something was getting me closer to God. I’d taken the long route to self-realization, getting closer to my inner devil first. I definitely needed a higher power to intervene.

Richard stared me in the eye. “I’m giving you one more chance.” I looked at his hard face. Rays of sunshine poured from the French windows behind him, lighting his silhouette. He looked like Moses reading the Ten Commandments. “But that’s it.” He slid a white sheet of paper across the table for me to sign. “This is a disciplinary form. Please review and sign.” My gut felt like I’d eaten two Shepherd’s Pies. I’d officially been written up for bad behavior. I was even more ashamed than the time I’d gotten arrested in high school for skinny-dipping in the public pool after hours.

My hand shook as I signed and dated the scarlet letter for my employee file. “Thank you.” I rubbed my cheeks to blend in the trail of tears. “I will get back on track. I promise.” I opened the veranda’s glass door and stepped into the empty dining room. Fellow servers in white uniforms with loosened ties counted tips and folded napkins in the booths just outside the door. Everyone looked up from the stone tables when the door shut behind me. I turned and scuttled to the service bar. So much for my new family. I felt like an orphan fleeing from a very fucked-up foster home. There was only one person in the restaurant who could set a new course for the transplant who’d gone far off track.

Me.

MATTHEW

“SANTA MONICA”

Everclear

REWIND: I buried my nose deeper in the book, searching for answers. Tiny, turquoise waves patted against the shore of the empty, barrier island beach. The fiery sun baked my black string bikini and my backside, as I lay sprawled out in reverse spread-eagle on a towel. My hideous position was one Saint Andrew’s Cross short of a S&M club stage show, and I was none the wiser.

A sharp, scraping sound blasted into my ears. I flipped onto my back, and my eyes flew to the water’s edge. Adrenaline surged through my veins. My mouth dropped faster than a dress on prom night. This is it. This is how I’m going out.

“Incoming!” the shirtless man screamed from a Hobie Cat sailboat. His fiberglass bow dug into the shoreline a few feet from my toes, as his arms tugged wildly at the sail’s ropes. My heart beat violently, as I scurried up the beach backwards on all fours like a human sand crab. The tip of the boat continued to barrel toward me. I dropped to the ground and began rolling wildly like a grade schooler at a “stop, drop and roll” fire drill. The warm sand felt like needles grinding against my bare skin when every pore was dripping with sweat and fear. The boat slammed to a stop a few inches from my beach towel.

“What the hell are you doing?” My head shot toward him. I rose to my knees. My heart thrashed as my eyes darted from his boat to my body, caked with sand. “You could have crushed me!”

His head shook. “I’m so sorry about this.” He spoke with a serious, yet artificial tone like an emergency room doctor on a soap opera. “My jib broke. I thought I could turn away sooner.” His stomach muscles fluttered as his voice boomed. He wore only sea-green board shorts and a Miami Hurricanes baseball cap. “You were reading. You looked so calm. I didn’t want to disturb you.” He raised a callused hand, wiping his sweaty brow. I thought of his view from the boat—my legs spread wide open and my bikini bottoms stuck between my cheeks. Because I was reading? Bullshit.

I grabbed my crumpled towel from the ground. “Well, I’ve officially been disturbed.” My eyes were as icy as my voice. I wiped the sand off my arms and legs, then wrapped the towel around my exposed body.

“I’m Matthew.” He extended his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, regardless of the circumstances.” A sliver of a smile parted his thin lips. He had strawberry-blonde hair and a cleft chin.

I looked up at his dark, auburn eyes, feeling my breathing begin to slow to a normal pace. We both broke out in laughter, his arm still hanging in the air between us. I wagged my head and wiped my dirty hands on the beach towel before accepting his handshake. He gripped my gritty palm tightly. I felt a tingle of excitement in my chest, then my eyes glanced to the ocean, picturing myself in that moment. The warm smile on my face turned plastic. My ponytail was cockeyed. Straggly hairs whipped around my sand-covered shoulders. I had a big zit on my forehead. My body smelled of tanning oil, salt, sweat and dirt. I was a hot mess.

“And I am sincerely sorry. Really.” Matthew’s eyes peeked out from under his cap. His voice was stern again.

“Harley,” I replied coolly, pulling away from his handshake. “That’s my name.” Was his boat maneuver intentional grounding? Hopefully. The events that led to our meeting suddenly seemed hopelessly romantic. Loneliness had been eating away at my soul. After my encounters with Coke Boy and Professor Ecstasy, I yearned for a normal guy to walk into my life—not nearly run me down with his boat. This man knew how to make an entrance.

Matthew reached down and grabbed my book from the sand. “Deepak Chopra.” He shook granules from the pages, smiling. “That’s pretty deep.” Beads of sweat trickled down his ripped stomach. I inhaled deeply, trying to stay cool.

“That’s what I was hoping for.” I grabbed the book from his hands. “It’s very uplifting. Very spiritual.”

My fingers squeezed the hardback, as I pushed my toes deeper into the sand. My spiritual guide, Jorge, who doubled as my hairstylist, had given me that book. Jorge had challenged me to rid my life of toxic relationships in less than thirty days, yet it took him two years to convince me to stop perming my hair. “I like the positivity of his beliefs.” I ran my fingers over the gritty book cover. My bad choices included the proud addition of a one-night stand on my twenty-first birthday with a fellow Cheesecake waiter who owned a Harley (fate!), wore a bike-chain bracelet and strutted around the dining room singing Splack Pack’s “Scrub Da Ground.” A real class act. After being dumped for a druggie with a Sir-Mix-a-Lot-video butt—and almost losing my job—I’d put a rear-naked choke on my last ounce of self-respect. Tap out. Howdy, rock bottom. I desperately needed to find inner peace, and Chopra’s affirmations were working serious magic on my mojo. I deserved better than one-night stands, and guys with 12-step programs.

“I know.” Matthew slid his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “I’ve read it three times.” I cocked my head. The afternoon sun cast a fiery glow around his muscular, lean body. His deep eyes almost matched the color of his hair. I melted.

“How often do you come here?” Matthew asked. Australian Pine branches rocked in the wind above us.

I pressed my toes deeper into the warm sand. “Every day.” The blazing sun baked my shoulders as I inhaled deeply, the familiar scent of fresh, salty-sweet air filling my chest. “I love how peaceful it is here. Well, how peaceful it usually is.” I smirked at him. I spent most afternoons in spring of 1995 on Virginia Key’s beach reading Chopra, soaking up sun and solitude, while tiny waves patted the shoreline a few feet away. A halo of optimism always floated over me in the blue skies of Biscayne Bay. The island felt like my own secluded, holistic retreat. Who needed Prozac? I had access to 250 days of sunshine per year, a motivational book and the will to heal my broken self. When it came to dating, my moral compass felt like it had been run over by a rickshaw, and spending time alone at the edge of the ocean was my recipe for finding strength, for rediscovering myself.

Our conversation flowed as smoothly as Rum Runners on a summer night in Islamorada. I tried not to think about my zitty face or crooked ponytail. “Do you have plans this evening?” Matthew asked, as the late afternoon sun began to sink into the horizon.

Three hours later, we were sitting at an open-air dive bar near the Coconut Grove Playhouse.

“It’s been an interesting eight months,” I said between sips. My legs were crossed at the knee. A new pair of button-fly Levi’s fit snuggly over my hips. “Funny how life is never as easy as you think it will be.” My teal spandex tank top clung to my flat stomach, as I arched my back and talked confidently about my rough road on the Miami dating circuit. “It’s all for the best. I’m in a good place.” I looked up from my hands laced around the beer mug. Matthew sat across from me in his golf shirt, listening intently like a campus counselor. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead.

“You want to go inside?” I asked, feeling my tank sticking to my damp back.

“No way.” He reached for the pitcher of Heineken between us and refilled my glass. “I love this weather.”

I nodded, grinning. “Me too.” My mind drifted to Chris and how much he hated the heat. It wasn’t a typical day in Miami unless your chest was sweaty and your hair flat—a small price to pay to never endure a blizzard. I sipped my beer and waited for him to say something.

I rapped my knuckles on the table. “You don’t talk much.”

His eyes smoldered and locked onto mine. “I like to listen to you talk.”

My cheeks flushed. “But I want to listen to you to talk.” I cocked my head.

Before sunset, I’d actually gathered a boatload of information about Matthew: He was gainfully employed with a real career (Navy SEAL), liked to go fishing in the Keys and listened to Jimmy Buffet songs (bonus!), didn’t appreciate the high-rolling, party city Miami had become (ditto) and had a penchant for drawing award-winning sketches of water birds (jackpot!). Matthew was pushing all my buttons, but there was a catch.

He lived in San Diego.

The first normal guy I’d met with a dollop of potential, and he was almost as geographically undesirable as a Frenchman. At first, the disappointing news felt like a piece of coral reef resting on my chest. Then I remembered my pen pal from New York back in fifth grade. We’d kept our friendship thriving for two years and had never met in person.

“Last call!” the bartender yelled from behind the worn-wood bar. I looked into Matthew’s dark eyes, then glanced down at my Bulova watch. We’d been talking for five hours. It felt like fifty minutes.

“It can’t possibly be closing time.” Matthew threw back his head. “We’re not leaving yet.” His bravado made my ego do a headspin. A big smile spread across my face. I stared into my half-full mug, waiting for his next move, as his eyes burned a hole in my cheek. I ran my index finger around the rim of the glass.

“Come with me.” Matthew’s voice rippled through my ears. My eyes moved from my beer to his serious face. I took a sip to fill the uncomfortable space. Part of me wanted to say “no.” No more sex on the first night. His hand moved across the table and grabbed mine. “I’m not ready to say goodbye,” he whispered. My eyes darted from his face to the handle on my mug. His flight to California was departing at 7 a.m. Was this the beginning, or the beginning of the end? My little voice told me to say my goodbyes and walk home. He reached for my hand; his touch sucked the air from my lungs. I looked up to his pooling, gorgeous eyes.

“I…I can’t.” I looked down in a blush. “It’s not a good idea.”

He leaned into me. “Just for a few more hours.” The humid air around us jumped five degrees. “I just want to talk.” His words chimed in my head. My chest began throbbing. I grabbed my beer and chugged longer and harder than a Lambda Lambda Lambda pledge, stalling, battling my inner demon who never wanted to say “no” to anybody.

We walked down Main Highway in the dark, past the towering Banyan trees and coral-rock gates of the private schools. I jabbered on about work to calm my nerves. Matthew reached for my hand and electric currents flew up my arms. He led me to a tile-roof bungalow nestled in a tiny jungle a few blocks from the Grove. “Luke won’t mind. Don’t worry,” Matthew whispered, talking about his best friend who lived there.

We sat on a couch in the den with the lights off, caressing each other’s hands. Matthew talked about the emotional strain of military service, the thrill of international ops and his amore for art. I told him about my passion for writing, my love of South Florida’s weather and my plans for college. As we sat in the dark baring our souls, he pressed his firm lips to mine, sending shock waves through my body. His kiss had a lightness that made me feel five inches off the ground. He promised to write and call. Never once did he try to get into my jeans. He just asked me questions, then kissed me softly between answers. Matthew held me in his muscular arms until sunrise. I couldn’t help but think: This guy is worth the distance.

Within a week of meeting Matthew, I began trading my lunch shifts in the busy stations near the bakery for early-closing stations on the veranda. Getting “cut” after the lunch rush gave me just enough time to meet the postman at my mailbox and retrieve Matthew’s latest gift. Dating B.E. (before email) built up more anticipation than a True Blood season finale does today. Every five days, a white envelope arrived with a military return address. Matthew was often at sea on missions, so the only way we could communicate regularly was pen to paper, envelope to mailbox. Standing in the stairwell, I’d rip the envelope open like an over-eager kindergartener at her first big birthday party. Letters were always three pages, always double-sided, never more, never less. The papers felt as glamorous as a bouquet of calla lilies between my fingers. My eyes danced across every hand-written sentence, words aligned perfectly with the thin, blue lines. A typewriter would have been hard-pressed to reproduce Matthew’s precise penmanship. I always sat on the corner of my bed reading his poetic prose with wide eyes and flushed cheeks, as Florida sunshine spilled into my bedroom. Reading his love letters filled my heart with more passion and excitement than any relationship before, and we’d barely gotten to first base. I knew I could learn a thing or two from a disciplinarian like Matthew, i.e. easing slowly into a relationship. His compliments rose from every page and caressed my ego: The beaches of San Diego constantly reminded him of the day we met. He said he was so glad he’d “glided” (whatever!) his friend’s catamaran to the sandy shore near the blonde in the bikini. The Pacific Ocean could never be as blue as my eyes. He knew there was something different about me. Only I could distract him from thinking about his next mission. He couldn’t stop daydreaming about when he’d see my face again. I felt the blood rush to my cheeks, as I read every sentence twice over. He wrote only about us, about me. He didn’t understand how he could spend a day talking to a girl he’d just met and never run out of things to say. He wrote about his dream of teaching high school art classes when his tour of duty was complete. He couldn’t wait to teach me how to surf. Take that, Marco! With one letter, he even included a cardboard tube with two pencil drawings: one of a pelican and one of a Black-winged Kite. Miami had been his home for his first twenty years, before he’d become a Navy SEAL. He belonged in South Florida; meeting me had made him realize this. His words floated around my apartment, making everything bright and sunny until the next batch of mail arrived. I created a shrine of Matthew’s letters on my bookshelf alongside The Sailors’ Handbook, a gift Matthew had given me on the doorstep of his friend’s house. My life was a Harlequin novel, or practically every Chris Isaak video ever produced. Matthew was my ocean. The possibilities were endless.

No man had ever bared his emotional side to me—not an ex-boyfriend and definitely not my dad or my grandpa, who were both hobbits in the expressing feelings department. My dad was my guidepost for how men treated women. We were an afterthought. We were the utility of a household. Conversations centered on food and money. Mom worked, cooked, cleaned and paid the bills. Dad was off doing what men did—drinking and hunting with his buddies. As a twenty-one-year-old woman growing up without the Internet, I couldn’t Google search “daddy issues” and figure out what hidden motive was driving my relationships. I needed the love of a man to feel whole. Matthew was custom built for an attention-starved girl like me—a girl who saw a slice of Prince Charming in every fruitcake that walked, served, drank or sailed his way into my life.

For every letter Matthew sent me, I wrote a reply, just as long and loving as his. I sat on my bed, scribbling away on a pad of paper while Everything but the Girl’s “Missing” blasted through my apartment. Tapping my foot and my pen to the beat, I missed him more than a desert misses rain. I told him everything happened for a reason. I told him I believed in fate. My deep longing for Matthew had my inner artist working overtime, and I hadn’t written any poetry since Lance. With every letter, I included a new poem written while sitting on Virginia Key in the exact spot where Matthew had nearly bulldozed me with a sailboat. “Someone” is still my favorite:

Is that someone out there really true?

The one who knows exactly how you feel,

When you hurt inside?

The one who makes you smile for no reason,

And wants to be there,

When you need him most?

Does fate take two strangers,

Who have fought the same battles and join them,

So they can learn from each other?

Is there someone who shares your hopes, ambitions and dreams,

Because you’ve traveled the same path,

And met at a crossroad?

My long-distance romance with Matthew awoke so many long-lost parts of me—not just the writer. Instead of wasting away mornings sleeping off hangovers, I watched the sunrise while rollerblading up and down Key Biscayne’s boardwalk. Matthew’s words danced in my head while Toad the Wet Sprocket’s “Fly from Heaven” blasted from my Sony Walkman. Then I’d change into my bikini and read Chopra on the beach. My body had never been so toned or tan, my head never so clear. I spent afternoons by my kitchen window, painting bright, geometric patterns onto empty Robert Mondavi Woodbridge wine bottles pulled from Cheesecake’s recycling bin. I’d stopped painting after high school and hadn’t worked out since K-State. I liked the way Matthew brought out the best in me without even being in the same time zone.

Living without family or a boyfriend within driving distance was a first for me. Finally, I felt like I could be alone, at least physically. After the Mardi Gras debacle, my work environment had become as cold and isolating as life at an Antarctic research station. Alicia continued to tongue-lash me for being naïve, waving her red acrylic nails in my face. The novelty of having a sister-like Latina looking out for the Kansas transplant began to wear off. I’d gained enough street smarts to make my own choices. Throwing back bottles of Amstel Light at Loggerhead lost its glitz. After years of under-age drinking, I had no interest in hanging out in bars, downing pitchers of beer legally—especially when my man was on the West Coast preparing to defend our country. The bad energy that surrounded my fiscally irresponsible, drug-using co-workers was toxic to the new me. Nearly losing my job and then finding Matthew—talk about über wake-up call. My priorities needed an extreme makeover. Saving money for college tuition was priority one. Making a bicoastal relationship work was a close second. Renewing my boss’s respect ranked third. That left plenty of room for writing poetry, reading, painting and rollerblading—things that made me smile. I stopped talking to Alicia and the party crew at work and declined all their barhopping invitations. I didn’t touch beer or hard liquor for weeks, just the occasional glass of Sauvignon Blanc when I’d forgotten to grab some empty bottles at work for an art project. The new routine felt so empowering and mature for a girl like me who’d learned how to do a keg stand before I could legally drive.

The distance between Matthew and me strengthened our connection more than any of my past physical relationships. Sure, there was the frustration that came with opening a mail slot and finding only a pizza delivery flyer. But I knew how I’d feel when one of his love letters did arrive. It was the thrilling era of pre-cell phone and pre-Internet dating, falling in love with a military man who was often at sea, assigned to a secret mission he couldn’t discuss. The raw sense of anticipation was always wrapped in a ball of complete helplessness. Do wives of Desert Storm soldiers feel the same way? I figured so. I needed to be strong for him. He’d earned my love and my trust, and had the writer’s cramp to prove it.

Matthew repeatedly apologized for not being able to share every detail of his life with me. He called from port whenever possible, twice over the four-week period we’d been apart. We’d talk (unclassified information only) until my neck hurt from holding the phone receiver, but it seemed like mere minutes. We then plotted our own secret mission.

I boarded my first cross-country flight at Miami International Airport, bursting with more excitement than a dozen Puerto Rican girls at a Menudo concert. I’d only traveled west of Kansas once in my life—to watch K-State play in the 1993 Copper Bowl in Tucson, Arizona. I’d never had the money, or motivation, to buy an airline ticket and jet off to Los Angeles. But I’d scored a free round-trip voucher on American after getting bumped on a flight home for Christmas, and a long weekend in San Diego with Matthew was the perfect excuse to cash it in. He’d secured permission from his superiors to go “off base” one weekend in April and suggested we meet in Los Angeles because there was “more to see.” The entire flight, my mind was a barrage of excitement and anxiety. What if he tells me he loves me? What if his kiss feels different? What if he acts like a tool, and I’m stuck with him for two days? I thumbed aimlessly through the Sky Mall magazine and inhaled my tiny bag of peanuts. Fate was officially in the captain’s seat.

When I stepped into the bustling terminal at LAX, my eyes locked onto Matthew immediately. (Boy, do I miss the days of airline travel before 9/11 when you could meet your loved ones at the gate.) He stood at ease in the middle of the crowded walkway, his hands cupped below the waist. He wore a Chambray shirt and khaki dress shorts that showed off his lean, muscular frame. A sweet smirk was poised on his face, and his eyes were nearly hidden under an army-green baseball cap. My heartbeat drummed faster than Sheila E. My sandals felt like ten-pound weights as I raced toward him, my linen backpack bouncing on my elbow. My arms flew around his broad shoulders, my legs around his waist. I looked like Spiderman clinging to a wall. His warm cheek pressed against mine. His strong arms squeezed me tight, and I felt all the tension in my body melt away.

“It is so good to see you,” he said softly, twirling me in the air. The edges of my floral skirt danced around my tanned thighs.

I looked into his auburn eyes, then nuzzled his chest. “I missed you so much.” I exhaled. My cheeks hurt from smiling. We still had our mojo.

“I think I’ll have a glass of wine,” I said, as we sat in a booth at The Cheesecake Factory Woodland Hills thumbing through the book-thick menus. I couldn’t wait to share the exotic foods and décor of my workplace with Matthew, who’d never eaten at a CCF. My eyes bounced from the wine list to Matthew’s head buried in the book. “Maybe I should try something new.” My voice was soaked with happiness. Matthew was five years older than me, so I wanted to show him how mature and refined a twenty-one-year-old waitress could be. Sometimes I wondered if it was the spiritual healing that made me lose my taste for beer, vodka and Kahlúa, or the fact that I associated all booze except wine with a past I didn’t want to relive.

Matthew aimlessly flipped the laminated pages. “I have no idea what to order.”

“I can order for us,” I said. “You should get the Chardonnay. It’s from Santa Barbara.” I had no idea how far we were from Southern California wine country, but it was the closest I’d ever been to a vineyard.

“I shouldn’t have a drink if I’m driving,” Matthew replied firmly. I looked up from my menu, remembering the night I’d almost gotten arrested for drunk driving. Four beers never stopped my dad from getting behind the wheel, let alone one. My chest filled with pride, getting cozy with the realization that Matthew was a straight-laced, responsible man—the marrying type.

A thin waiter sashayed over in his all-white uniform wearing lip gloss and a pink necktie with purple flowers. Probably sweet, meticulous and fun like all the gay waiters at CCF CocoWalk. We’ll get great service, I thought while ordering a glass of the Santa Barbara Chardonnay.

My eyes moved to Matthew as the waiter bounced away. “Did you see his wine key? It has an ivory handle. Very impressive.”

Matthew shot me a puzzling look. “A wine key?”

Oh, he doesn’t know.

“Sorry.” I closed my menu. “A wine key is what servers call corkscrews.” It was the first time since moving to Miami that I was dating someone who didn’t work in a restaurant. I liked the way teaching Matthew about wine made me feel.

Matthew didn’t look up from his menu. “I don’t know why they call it a key.” He turned another page. “What are you unlocking?” I smoothed out the wrinkles in my flowery skirt, pondering a question I’d never been asked.

“A prisoner in a bottle,” I said. “A living, breathing thing.” His eyes met mine. Pangs of desire rushed through my body, crash-landing in my hungry stomach. I grabbed my menu and started thumbing again, even though the contents of every page were super-glued in my memory. “The wine’s been trapped under that cork for a year or more.” My long curls bounced around my shoulders. I felt my face light up with the sparkle of enlightening conversation.

Matthew’s lips curled. “You’re just like you are in your letters.” He paused. “Sweet, introspective, poetic.” I felt my heartbeat zigzag with every word. I looked up from my menu, blushing.

“We have to get the Avocado Egg rolls,” I said, changing the subject. “They’re served with a tangy tamarind sauce on the side.” I tried to make “tamarind” roll off my tongue like a seasoned epicure.

“I’m in your hands.” Matthew closed his menu, grinning. “Well, until we leave this booth, then the tables will be turned.” His voice was playful and flirtatious. This was a side I’d never seen. My eyes flew from the menu to his chiseled face. The hungry look in his eyes sliced through me. My pulse fluttered; my cheeks turned red. We stared at each other in silence, then I went to work, planning our meal.

After lunch, Matthew drove us to Topanga Canyon. His blue Cutlass Sierra cruised through the city’s busy intersections and residential neighborhoods before the road narrowed to a winding climb up the mountain. He glanced over at me every few minutes with narrow, hazy eyes. It was that horny look guys often give after dinner when they’re hungry for something else. I blushed and turned to the window, watching lush pine trees whiz by. His right hand bounced between the steering wheel and my left knee. My cheeks were still hurting from the wide smile on my face. We were finally together again. I discreetly checked my teeth for food in the car visor mirror. He pulled off the road on a wide shoulder with unobstructed views of the valley flanked by the Sierras.

Matthew guided me out of the car. We walked silently to the edge of the mountain ridge and stared at the beautiful vista. My mouth dropped.

“I can’t believe I’ve gone twenty-one years without seeing a mountain.” My eyes fluttered from mountaintop to tree to high-rise buildings in the canyon below. Scenes of my life in Kansas flashed through my mind: soy bean fields, the crumbling grain elevator towering over the town, the frozen foods for dinner, the evenings spent watching primetime TV, my dad sitting on an American Legion barstool wearing camouflage. I wish I could tell you that America is the jelly doughnut of the world and rural Kansas is that juicy, delightful center you can’t wait to bite into, but I can’t. It’s bland. It’s boring. That might attract a Cracker Barrel, but it just wasn’t for me. I felt strong and alive like Joan of Arc after a battlefield victory. I’d beat the odds. The world was my oyster.

Matthew’s hand stroked my long, curly hair. “And if we drive just five miles farther that way, we reach the Pacific Ocean.” I leaned into him and rested my head against his chest. Wind kicked up dust around our feet.

“My world has always been flat,” I said, looking down into the valley. “I thought there was no place in this country more beautiful than Florida. Until now.” I’d always dreamed of living near the ocean and had followed Chris east. Had I moved to the wrong coast? As a young girl, I was always willing to steer my life in any new direction for a man.

Matthew stepped behind me. “There is no place like California.” He wrapped his arms around my waist and tucked his chin to my ear. “You can surf in the morning, and snow ski in the afternoon. The people are real. It will never get fake like Miami.” I stood quietly listening to the wind whistle, squeezing Matthew’s hands so he wouldn’t read my mind. Maybe he’d never want to move back to South Florida. Fate was throwing me another curve ball. But I could swing it. Taking another year off from college to get my state residency in California wouldn’t put me that far behind schedule. I leaned back against his chest and drifted into another daydream.

We checked into the Good Nite Inn, a block of tan-painted cinder blocks not far from a freeway. His lodging choice didn’t phase me. Where I grew up, Holiday Inns were fancy.

Our room felt cold and sterile, more hospital than hospitable. A king-sized bed seemed to occupy the entire room once we were alone behind closed doors for the first time. I barely noticed the tiny, wooden desk or the bowl-shaped chair near the window. I felt like a comedian under a flood light with an audience of blank faces staring up at me, waiting for my act to begin. Two infatuated adults on their first weekend getaway standing over one gigantic bed. We both knew what was about to happen, and I had no idea how we could possibly make our first time romantic. There was no CD player. No candles. No bubble bath. Just him and me. And two duffle bags.

Reality sunk in like a brick in a bathtub, as Matthew slipped the lanky brass chain through the door lock. My heartbeat lunged into my throat. He marched over to the window, commanding posture always on display, and tugged the white ropes on the window drapes, sending the room into darkness. Thoughts flooded my mind.

This guy could make me disappear. He is almost a stranger.

I couldn’t fight back the evil thoughts. What kind of statistic was I going to become? How long before housekeeping would find my body? I pulled the wooden chair from the desk and sat down. I willed positive affirmations into my brain: Matthew is normal. I am safe. No freak would spend hours writing love letters, right? My guardian angel always had my back. I picked at my fingernail polish, then rested my chin in my hands.

“What’s wrong?” Matthew asked, resting his ball cap atop a stack of neatly stacked clothes next to his army-green duffle.

“Oh, uh, I don’t know.” I stared at the carpet floor, stalling. “I guess, uh, it’s just that, um, I think I’m overwhelmed.” I rocked my knees from side to side. “You. Me. Us. Finally together after all this time.” The true reality of our relationship was unraveling in my head. We’d basically had a whirlwind romance over six weeks with less than a day of face-to-face communication. All the emotions had been vividly expressed with only a pen. It was a love cultivated under geographical circumstances where his poetic words were a string of unspoken sentences. I’d never really took a step outside my head until that moment to realize how strange it felt to be in the physical presence of a man I’d grown to love purely on paper. I wanted to pinch him to make sure he was real. I wanted to hear him say the beautiful words he wrote in all the letters.

“I know how you feel.” Matthew reached for my hand. He tugged me up from the chair and hugged me firmly. “Fate works in mysterious ways.” He pulled away and guided me to the edge of the bed. We sat down side by side.

I stared at our reflections in the mirror above the desk. “Do you need at least three thousand miles between us to open your heart?” Matthew had waited until we got into his car in the airport-parking garage to kiss me. We’d kissed and hugged several times at the top of the mountain. But it felt like there was a barrier between us, though as thin as a bed sheet. Twice I’d told him how much I’d missed him. His response? The dreaded, “Me too.” I was Juliet standing on a balcony, and my Romeo had dissed me. I’d convinced myself the whole situation would be awkward for anyone. I’d distracted both of us with small talk about my unsettling work environment with Marco, Gabriela and the Mardi Gras posse, as well as our weekend tourist agenda. I always had this knack for justifying the weird behavior of men. I could never call bullshit.

I felt his eyes staring at the right side of my face. “It’s not that I don’t have feelings for you.” His voice was rigid. “I just need time to analyze my thoughts, screw my head on straight.” He touched my face with the back of his palm. The warmth of his touch flushed through my entire body. I raised my hand and palmed his fingers, then turned my head toward him. His eyes darkened.

“I don’t expect you to understand this.” I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “I’ve witnessed some terrible acts in my life.” His jaws locked. “People can be savages. The world can be cruel. Life is precious and love even more so.” There was a pregnant pause. My chest ached with empathy, just sitting there, helpless, watching the man I loved share his pain. He cleared his throat twice and rubbed his palms on his knees. “Something bad could happen to me any day in my line of work. I’ve learned to put up walls. My emotions can’t run wild in my head or something really bad will happen. I need to be focused to stay safe.” His eyes were heavy and dark; his tone swayed from bitter to tender, tugging my heartstrings. Tears swelled in the corner of my eyes.

I leaned in and kissed him softly on the forehead, holding my lips against his skin until I felt my tears retreat and the tension between us release. Oh, Matthew. My very own prisoner in a bottle. My love could hold the key to unlock all his troubles; I really hoped so. I had no idea what secret-ops military life entailed, but if it was anything like Full Metal Jacket, I couldn’t imagine the psychological baggage he’d be forced to carry for the rest of his life.

He grabbed my hands and squeezed tightly. “It doesn’t mean I don’t have strong feelings for you.” His serious, hazel eyes sliced through my fear. I exhaled deeply, raising both hands to cup his chin. Strong feelings for me. A wave of comfort drifted through my mind as soon as those words left his lips. Every relationship, every choice I’d made in life was driven by my belief in fate. I’ve always embraced the idea that everything happens for a reason. Too bad I’d yet to learn the second part of that mantra—and sometimes the reason is that you’re stupid and make bad decisions. I believed it didn’t really matter that he’d locked us in a cheap motel room instead of taking me to his house. Or that he couldn’t talk to me about his life. My world was as it should be. We could overcome any obstacle. We were meant to be. He’d faced the terror of military combat. I needed to buck up. The silence between our conversations didn’t need to be stuffed like a decorative throw pillow. We’d said so much in our letters already, and his written words were like nicotine to my inner daydreamer. I’d perfected my signature as Harley Smith. Our children’s names had already been picked out.

My hands dropped into my lap. “We’ve just said so much without speaking.” I shrugged my shoulders, staring down at my knees. “It would be nice to hear you tell me how you feel, you know.” There really wasn’t anything else to say but those three little words I’d dreamed of hearing within two weeks of meeting every guy I’ve ever dated. I wanted to hear the love—not just feel it. I’ve always been a junkie for positive reinforcement.

“You know how special I think you are,” Matthew said in his usual firm, almost calculated way. “And pretty.” He laced his arms around my waist and rested his jaw on the crown of my head. My shoulders caved, and my cheeks gleamed with pride. I felt cherished and wanted. Words from his letters began flooding my head:

You are my guardian angel. I feel you watching over me during the most dangerous times. When you’re farthest away, you are closer to me than you’ll ever realize. The missions always come to an end. My feelings for you never will.

“My job makes it hard for me to express my feelings verbally,” Matthew continued, brushing my curls off my shoulders. “I need to write to you.” I could feel the hurt in his sober tone. The realization that writing and drawing were his only outlets for self-expression made me love him even more.

Matthew sat next to me on the edge of the bed in silence, his back straight, his arms still wrapped around me. His conflicted feelings seemed to seep from his skin to mine as he squeezed. He breathed deeply into my hair. Heartache pried at my chest. It was going to be some time before he opened up to me, but I needed to be there for him. My worst days were getting kicked off the high school cheerleading squad for drinking and being cheated on by a coked-up bisexual. Matthew had been through far worse than I could possibly imagine.

I pulled back to look him in the eye. “I will always be there for you, whenever you need someone to talk with or write to—no matter where you are or what you’re going through.” My voice trembled, fighting off the urge to cry. “I promise.” I felt strong and totally helpless at the same time.

We reclined slowly onto the bed, exchanging kisses, gazes and soft touches until we both knew the time was right. A fleeting tenderness lingered in and out of Matthew’s kisses; he ran his fingertip gently along my arm to my cream-colored top. Every muscle in my body ached for him. His hand fumbled with my bra latch under my shirt. I could feel his hesitation, as he kissed me firmly, then softly, then firmly again, as if he wasn’t quite sure which felt more natural. His stiff body seemed on edge, constantly alert. He couldn’t lose himself in me. I ran my fingers through his hair and pushed my tongue deeper into his mouth. I felt like a priceless bronzed statue he was protecting from the evils that existed in our everyday lives. He pulled off his shirt, exposing a jagged scar across his right pec and one from a bullet hole on his lower-left abdomen. Tears began to build in my eyes again, and I choked them back.

“It’s okay,” I whispered, caressing the thick scar tissue on his chest. “I have scars too.” He stared into my eyes. I felt a tear trickle down my cheek; he wiped it away with his thumb, his eyes never leaving mine. I listened to our breath, feeling his wall begin to crumble—even if only for a moment.

Then, Matthew lifted my flowery skirt and pressed me against the mattress.

Afterward, we lay naked on the bed side by side in the dark. I leaned over and kissed his shoulder. “I love you.” I gazed into his dark eyes. Then I told him it was okay if he couldn’t tell me he loved me yet. Where was Dr. Phil when I needed him? Twenty miles away, waiting for his first call from Oprah.

Matthew surprised me with a visit to the Los Angeles Zoo. It was a sunny, spring morning—the morning after our first time making love. The air was dry and crisp. So refreshing compared to muggy Miami, I thought. My sudden distain for South Florida weather intrigued me. We strolled through every exhibit, arms locked around each other’s waists. I made googly eyes at him all morning, tipsy from the thrill of a cross-country rendezvous. I wore an almost-too-short sundress and chunky heels; Matthew sported a golf shirt, camouflage pants and white sneakers. We looked as mismatched as RuPaul and Rupert Murdoch, but I didn’t mind. With Matthew, I got my first glimpse of zebras, elephants, giraffes and camels. Discovery seemed to be a common theme in our newfound love, and I liked how cultured and smart exploration made me feel.

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 floor 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.

John grabbed my hand.

I leaned into his ear. “What’s he saying?”

“It’s a song about a sexy woman who drives him crazy.” John’s warm breath on my earlobe sent chills up my spine. “I thought it seemed like a good choice for our first dance.” It was our first real date, though we’d skipped dinner and the movie and went straight to the club for Latin dance night.

“Oh.” I looked away with a blush.

John pressed my palm flatly into his tiny hand. “Just follow my lead.” We stood eye-to-eye with our shoulders squared; John was just 5-foot-6 and probably weighed 155 pounds—baggy clothes and Dr. Martens boots included. His butt was smaller than mine, which was reason enough not to go out with him, but there was something intriguing about dating a guy that didn’t require standing on my tiptoes to kiss him. Prince is only 5-foot-2! I reminded myself.

Our noses nearly touched. “Like this.” John glided our hands to shoulder level, elbows bent at a ninety-degree angle. I felt like Jennifer Grey being led by Patrick Swayze for the first time in Dirty Dancing. John slid one hand down my rib cage. My chest thumped to the beat of the music, the thrill of a new experience intoxicating me. I instinctively placed my left arm around his neck as he moved his arm around my waist. His soft neck was cleanly shaven and smelled spicy in an exotic way … very John. I inhaled, savoring his scent.

“Make me look like a regular,” I whispered over his shoulder. “Help me blend in.” I’m a white girl living in a Latina world.

John pulled back and looked me in the eye. “Hey. I like it that you’re different.”

I whirled my eyes, feeling my blonde curls glowing like a neon sign.

John pressed his hand against the small of my back, bringing our hips close together. Suddenly, he launched our bodies into cadence with a lively rhythm I didn’t know existed. We rocked back and forth to the music, moving in large circles. The baggy legs of my jumpsuit ballooned around me as we picked up speed, gliding on the dance floor in unison with the rest of the moving crowd. From head to toe, his body movements flowed like fine silk, draping every beat. Like most Cuban-American guys I’d met, sexiness oozed from every inch of John—the groomed goatee, full lips, perfect nose, dark-brown eyes and light skin. He was so hot, his accessory choices couldn’t even turn me off—the plastic comb in his back pocket, the thick, gold chain around his neck and the matching ring on his pinky finger.

Beads of sweat glistened on my chest and forehead. “How am I doing so far?” My thoughts hopped from concentrating on not stepping on his toes to wishing another gringa or two would appear from the shadows, making me feel less like an outsider.

John smiled. “Bien. Muy bien.” We stayed locked together on the dance floor bouncing to the fast-paced music, until my damp blouse stuck to my back. I closed my eyes and savored the thrill of a Latin vibe.

I laced my fingers tighter with his. “I’ve lived here way longer than you, and you’re the one taking me new places.” Our eyes met. “All I’ve done is give you a tour of the dry storage closet.” We both started giggling. John and I had met his first day on the job at The Cheesecake Factory, of course, the epicenter of my social universe. Don’t shit where you eat? I didn’t know how to start a relationship anywhere but at work. It felt so comfortable, easy, right. After Matthew told me about his top-secret wife, I’d waited tables sixty hours each week, throwing myself into the service of strangers. Work was my coping mechanism. I didn’t yet have the energy to put my heart out there again, and picking up extra shifts meant less time to think about how Matthew’s marriage had shaken me to the core. John was patient, persistent, sweet and at the right place at the right time—my job—which was my lifeline to the world.

John bounced to the beat. “I haven’t had this much fun since Los Angeles.” He laughed, brushing my long, curly bangs behind my ears. John had just moved to Miami from Los Angeles, where Cubans were a Hispanic minority—very different from Miami. He was born and raised in a middle-class LA suburb. He had fond memories of the LA Zoo and sweeping valleys of Southern California. I tried to find our common ground without over-sharing what had happened between Matthew and me.

“I haven’t had this much fun since Kansas,” I replied, grinning. My response shocked me. K-State sorority dance routines and frat parties had become distant memories in less than a year. Even though I’d had so many new experiences in Miami, I didn’t realize how much I’d missed dancing until John taught me how to merengue.

At the end of the song, he twirled me around like a jewelry-box ballerina, tucking his bottom lip behind his teeth. He shook his head while his eyes scanned me from toe to head.

My eyelids fluttered, shooing away his unspoken compliment. “I’m glad this is our secret.” My hand squeezed his. We’d been talking at work for a couple of weeks, but I’d kept it professional and discreet.

“They’re going to find out sooner or later because we’ll be doing this many more times,” John said with a playful purr. “Who cares?”

I let his words sink in as we danced. Did I really care? John wasn’t like the other busboys. John never stood in the main bus stand talking with grand animation about the ladies’ boobs at table twenty-two. And he never called out “Oye, Mami!” when I walked into CocoWalk’s back hallway before each shift wearing my white tank top. During tip-out, he never pinched my butt or hugged me for uncomfortably long moments like the 5-foot-1 busboy Pedro, who was married with four children. John’s first words to me were “Excuse me, Miss,” as he’d carried a tray of clean coffee cups past me. He’d grabbed stacks of dirty plates from my arms during shifts until his kindness was such a turn-on that I’d eagerly accepted his invitation to take me dancing.

John pulled back and wrapped both arms around my waist. My eyes flew to his. I felt like the Space Shuttle Discovery was about to launch from the pit of my stomach. He pulled my body closer, and my lips locked onto his like a magnet. His kiss was soft, yet forceful. His mouth tasted like Big Red gum, which my father had always chewed, and I’d detested until that moment. John’s palms cupped my jawbones. He began to stroke my cheeks as his tongue moved with mine, first slowly and gently. The energy from his fingertips shot into my torso. The sensory overload from the music, cinnamon and passion barreled through me. Lost in that moment, I wouldn’t have cared if he got demoted to dishwasher. My hands fell to my sides, as he continued to caress my face. The kiss was as magical as my daydream lip-locks with Lorenzo Lamas from Falcon Crest.

When I thought he was ready to pull away for air, John simply breathed deeply through his nose and pushed his lips harder against mine. The boy had moves as sexy as Fabio before he sold out to I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. John’s facial hair tickled my chin and upper lip. I’d never kissed a man with facial hair, but the roughness added a sensation to his passionate kisses that had my hips shaking like Shakira’s.

With that dance floor kiss, John had me addicted to his touch. I’m still not sure how kissing a Latino didn’t make the list in 100 Things to Do Before You Die. The name of the merengue song playing that night? I have no idea. Most merengue songs, with their pulsing cadence of horns, sound so similar to me. But I do know that hearing the first verse of “Suavemente” which was released in 1998, always steamrolls my brain straight to the memory of that night on the dance floor with John. Years later, I translated the lyrics to “Suavemente” online and discovered just how fitting that song was for our relationship: John was asking me to kiss him softly. He wanted to feel my lips, kissing him one more time. The exhilarating sensuality of a Latin lover’s steamy besos fed the deep desires of a needy girl with an icy father. My high school make-out sessions with gringos were fast and furious, marked by wild, rogue tongues and fleeting lips (except you, Lance). I’d always wanted more kisses, more hugs, more attention—then came John. His lips were practically cemented to mine, and it made me feel warm and wanted. He never pulled away first. My mom and dad only shared the pecking-bird kisses in front of my brother and me. I never really saw them cuddle each other, and they didn’t really cuddle with us either. John fed my affection-starved side.

I experienced so many firsts with John. My first full-blooded Latin lover transformed me into a completely different woman. I craved empanadas and plantains. Despite my distain for coffee, I sipped on cortaditos before night shifts with John. I even invited him to my apartment for a home-cooked meal. Cooking for someone special—cooking for anyone—was something I’d really never done in my life. Growing up, my mom had cooked for us every day, including a full breakfast of bacon, scrambled eggs and toast most mornings. Rather than help Mom in the kitchen, I’d watched Dynasty or played Atari with my brother, so my stovetop prowess didn’t extend beyond a box of Hamburger Helper. Yet I felt compelled to prepare a meal for a twenty-four-year-old Latino who lived at home and had a simmering pot of arroz con pollo waiting for him every night when he got off work.

John arrived at my front door right on schedule for our first dinner date—another way I could tell he wasn’t a native Miamian—and greeted me with his usual, “Hey, Sweetheart,” followed by a warm, endless kiss, replete with both hands cradling my jaw bones. My knees got shaky. Every nerve in my body felt scrambled, as his tongue chased mine and his fingers trailed down my arms. The smell of marinara sauce and gooey cheese filled the air.

John glanced down at the hem of my short, blue sundress. “Don’t you look cute.” My grin grew faster than Chia Pet. I looked down at my bare feet on the carpet, feeling my cheeks flush. I pushed my spaghetti strap back onto my shoulder and scurried back into the kitchen.

“Smells delicious, Baby.” John rubbed my bare shoulders. I kissed him on the cheek, then grabbed an oven mitt from my top drawer. Hoping to impress a far more cultured man than myself at the dinner table, I’d found inspiration in a brick of Italian Velveeta with a baked spaghetti recipe on the cardboard box. What can I say? I was twenty-one, and the most exotic meals my mom cooked were roasted squirrel and fried spoonbill.

John circled me in the kitchen, sneaking kisses and touching my hair, cheeks, shoulders, and arms while I bounced from duty to duty: grabbing silverware from the drawer, setting plates on the table, lighting candles. Whether in private or public, I could barely take a breath without John petting, hugging, squeezing or kissing me—except at work, of course. John showed me he cared with his touch, not with an ink pen like Matthew. I felt like a newborn baby ushered into the center of his affectionate world. And I wanted more.

He took my hand and led me over to my glass-top dining table in the kitchen, then pulled out my high-back chair. As I served a mound of baked spaghetti on his plate with two forks, he poured some Riunite D’Oro (today known as Riunite Trebbiano-Moscato) into my new black-stemmed glasses, which I’d purchased as a birthday present to myself. Riunite was the only brand I’d remembered from liquor stores back home, so I’d decided to buy the pretty, gold-tipped label for our special occasion. Little bubbles fizzed in the glasses.

Crap! I silently cursed myself for not realizing it was a sparkling wine when I’d bought it. I had no idea how any wine would taste with spaghetti. My house wine was still Sauvignon Blanc, but I’d usually slurped it down like a cocktail. The time had arrived to start appreciating the marriage of wine and food—especially with a local guy who shared my love of music. The limited food and wine pairing seminars at Cheesecake had only covered mainstream wines—Sauvignon Blanc, Riesling, Chardonnay, Merlot, and Cabernet Sauvignon—and mainstream dishes, like Chicken Piccata, Pork Chops and Filet Mignon. I must have been really confident about our relationship to guinea pig him with an untested recipe and a new wine on our first dinner date.

I raised my glass with a smile. “To new beginnings.” The bubbles tickled my tongue, and flavors of sweet peaches flooded my mouth. I looked over at John’s face flickering under the candlelight, then back to our dinner plates. It was a far cry from swigging Boone’s Farm in the front seat of Emily’s truck in high school. The only time I’d ever felt so civilized was dinner at the Chart House with James. It had been too long.

“Oohhhs” and “aahhhs” flew from his mouth after the first bite. “This is delicious, Sweetheart.” He wiped his mouth with the napkin. “I love it that you cooked something I’ve never had before.” He reached over and petted my hand. A toothy smile swept across my face. I leaned forward and kissed him. I’d successfully straddled yet another aspect of our cultural divide.

Shop talk quickly ensued, as it always did when dating restaurant co-workers: biggest tip of the shift, worst customer of the day, longest wait for a table, tally of hung-over servers that shift.

His eyebrows scrunched. “Are Marco and Pedro still bugging you?” His tone was jealous; I found it quite cute.

I twirled my pasta with a fork and spoon. “Not really.” My eyes stayed on my plate. “It just takes so much energy to ignore them, you know? I wish I was better at being a bitch but I’m not. I don’t like having enemies. I don’t like conflict.” Marco still played with Gabriela’s hair in the back hallway before work. Alicia still snarled at me in pre-shift meetings. Mark kept over-sharing the gory details of his threesomes with a couple he’d found to replace Robert and Jessica. The environment was about as comfortable as wearing corduroy jeans in July.

“It’s like the set of a soap opera there.” John rested his fork on the edge of the plate. “I’ve only been there a month, and I can barely stand it.” John had never worked in a restaurant before and didn’t realize drama was always the daily special. Because John was thin, Latin and knew how to dress, he also had to endure hungry looks from one of the servers, Rupert, who referred to John as the “sweetest strawberry shortcake on the menu.” Rupert carried a Louis Vuitton handbag, wore Versace cuff links and could have easily beat out Thom on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. John took a long sip of the wine. “They act like a bunch of teenagers. Life isn’t just about partying and getting laid. There is a real world out there.” He scoffed and stabbed his fork in the pasta. I nodded like a Southern Baptist at a sermon.

John’s sharp words instantly sprayed clarity over our work environment. When I’d arrived in Miami, I’d thought I’d meet lots of people like me: college students working hard to graduate and land real jobs. I’d made many friends from all corners of the globe who talked big dreams, but the exiled men with degrees from universities in Cuba were still emptying bus tubs, the servers who said they were going back to college had not enrolled for fall semester—except James, who’d already moved to Gainesville—and the models still hadn’t landed the big contracts with Ford. Few of my coworkers were moving onward and upward.

His nostrils flared. “Everyone there seems to have forgotten about their dreams.” He tossed one hand in the air. “Their lives are in limbo. We are sweeping floors and taking out other people’s garbage for Christ’s sake. It should be temporary. They should aspire for more in life.” His eyes fixed on mine as his voice boomed. My head kept bobbing as I spun spaghetti into a perfect ball on my spoon. It was the most motivational speech I’d heard since Richard had nearly fired me.

John wagged his head. “I just can’t take it anymore.” He reached for my hand and squeezed it hard. “I need to be doing what I was born to do.” I looked at him with caring eyes. We’d never really talked about dreams before, other than chartering a boat and sailing to the Bahamas.

“What’s your dream then?” I lifted my wine glass to my lips. Two years at a junior college in Los Angeles was the extent of his higher education, which worried me. Our relationship centered around a shared love of dancing and public displays of affection. He’d ticked two key boxes. I just wasn’t sure he was career-driven enough to become husband material. And I couldn’t be in a relationship for a month without contemplating marriage.

“I want to make a difference in peoples’ lives.” His brown eyes danced around my face. “I want to be an emergency medical technician.”

I grinned and nodded approvingly. The question was a test, and he’d nailed it. His desire to save strangers made him even more attractive.

John continued to gush about a classified ad he’d seen for a job at a 911-call center, the perfect training ground for an aspiring EMT. Wait. He’s leaving me? I stared into my half-empty wine glass. My heart sank at the thought of not seeing his smiling face in the dining area.

“So when are you going to move onto something bigger and better?” He leaned over to my chair and kissed me, then pressed his lips softly to my forehead. “You’re smart. You’re beautiful. You have determination. You can do anything you put your mind to.”

I blushed and looked down at the last spaghetti strings on my plate. I squirmed in my seat. I’ve never been comfortable receiving compliments. If I was so pretty, then why did every guy I date shit on me? When I was younger, I don’t recall my parents ever telling me I was pretty and smart and that I could do anything. Nobody seemed to believe in me, so I had to learn to believe in myself. When it came to school and work, believing was easy. My physical attractiveness was another story. I let John’s words work magic on my thoughts. Well, that and the alcohol. Bigger and better back home was working at the mall in Joplin, Missouri. Three years later, I was living in a tropical paradise, spending afternoons rollerblading on the boardwalk of Key Biscayne. How could my dreams get any bigger right now? I took another gulp of wine, letting the citrusy bubbles coat my mouth. Maybe John was right. Did waiting tables with people who spent their days sipping Mimosas at News Café do anything to advance my dream of being a writer?

I lifted my chin and turned toward him. “Graduating from college is my dream.” I swirled my glass. My state residency had been approved for the fall semester, and my checking account was finally stocked with enough cash to cover one semester’s tuition at Florida International University. My sights were set on nailing a 3.75 GPA. Once school started, there would be little time for having fun. Just thinking about the long road to my diploma made my head hurt. I slurped the spritzy wine.

“But what about your work until then?” He stroked my hand.

“Restaurants. Bars. Working for tips.” I stared at his hand rubbing mine. “That’s all I’ve ever known.” I’d never stopped to realize that working around food and booze was the only line of work I’d ever considered as a teenager. I never wanted to be a cashier at a gas station or bowling alley. I found comfort in making small talk with strangers while filling their bellies and getting them tipsy. Was working in restaurants actually my calling in life?

“Try something new,” John said, covering his mouth while he chewed. “Take a risk.”

I pushed the pasta with my fork. “I can’t make enough money writing to live here and go to school.” Besides carrying four cups of full coffee in one hand, writing was my only other talent. But my penchant for rambling and a feeble vocabulary crippled my progress. I credited my literary handicap to the fact that the only books my mom kept around the house were the Bible and an astrology ephemeris. Making $8 per hour writing obituaries for the local newspaper—as I’d done before moving to Miami—wouldn’t even cover my monthly rent of $500. I didn’t have parents down the hallway to turn to like John did. Waitressing was the pillar of my financial stability. It was my comfort zone. I didn’t want to struggle to make ends meet every month like my mom did. Returning to Kansas with my tail between my legs only to enroll at the local university was not an option. Some force had been pulling me down a different path for years. I had to follow it. I’d made the decision to leave Kansas. Staying in control of my destiny meant working my butt off and never asking my parents for money.

After dinner, John cradled me in my papasan chair. His hands never slid up my dress; I never tried to pin his shoulders down and play “sub” teacher. He petted my hair and continued to coach me to follow my dreams. When I finally agreed to research new job opportunities outside the restaurant world, he kissed me goodbye and left for the night—like a perfect gentleman.

John closed my front door behind him. “I have good news, Sweetheart.” His luscious smile grew as he dropped his backpack by my entryway closet. He rushed toward me, planting an intoxicating kiss on my lips. My whole body turned to Jell-O. John spent a good minute brushing his fingers across my cheeks and shoulders before releasing me from his soft embrace.

“What could be better than this?” I asked in a purr, grabbing his hands. I wore a blue cotton tank and khaki skirt—typical attire during the sweltering summer. We’d begun planning work shifts so that we had two nights off together each week. More than three weeks had passed since we’d started dancing together. I’d cooked him dinner twice. Things were getting downright serious.

John walked into the kitchen. “Do you have anything we can celebrate with?” I stood next to the half-wall by my front door, leaning against its counter and watching him. John opened the refrigerator and stuck his head inside while music drifted from my bedroom. Lisa Loeb warbled for him to “Stay.” How appropriate. Seeing John make himself comfortable at my apartment made my heartbeat flicker. He pulled out a bottle of Riunite D’Oro, which had become our go-to drink. Drinking sparkling wine made us feel more refined than our co-workers. We had reason to celebrate every day: We had our shit together, unlike them. One night when my glass was filled with bubbles and my spirits high, I’d asked John to stay the night. He’d responded by covering my lips and cheeks in kisses, then said, “Baby, it’s disrespectful to my mother to spend the night at my girlfriend’s place. It’s a Latin thing. A Catholic thing. I hope you understand.” I only understood the Catholic no-sex-before-marriage rule, which I’d been ignoring since dropping out of Catechism in ninth grade. John lived with his family in west Kendall, about thirty minutes south of the Grove, and he’d yet to invite me home to meet his parents. I figured that was a Latin thing too. Hell, the guy called me “Sweetheart” and cuddled me like a stuffed animal. I decided not to rock the boat.

John cracked open the screw cap bottle in the middle of my kitchen and poured his news first: He’d landed the job with the 911-call center in Kendall. He fished two wine glasses from my kitchen cabinet while jabbering on about his new responsibilities. I nodded to show interest, then stuffed my hands in the pockets of my skirt. His commute would be shorter, his hours normal and his wages higher. Training started in one week. Great, just great.

John’s teeth gleamed as he poured the wine. “I can’t wait to give my notice.” He paused, watching the wine’s frothy head subside so he could fill my glass to the rim. I stared at the tiny bubbles, as he handed me the flute. My face drooped, a mixture of happiness and sorrow. I pushed my hair off my shoulders. He crooked his neck.

“I’m sorry, Sweetie.” He pulled me into a long, soft hug. “I didn’t mean it that way. I’ll miss seeing you at work every day. This is the right move for me, though. You know that.” He stroked my cheek and reminded me that the FIU south campus was fifteen minutes from his new office.

I looked down at my bare feet. “I know. It’s just that I’ll miss you.” We stood in the kitchen doorway silently sipping our wine. I’d held back my feelings until then. Living with Matthew’s ghost had taught me about having patience in romance. I wasn’t quite sure what would happen once John knew I was falling in love. He was the one rescuing me, filling my life with security and confidence.

“Any updates on your job search?” He took my hand and led me to the papasan in my living room. John’s encouragement had fueled my search for a more strategic and positive work environment. I’d studied the newspaper classifieds every morning, circling every job that piqued my interest: an assistant manager for a tropical plant nursery, a tour guide at Fairchild Tropical Gardens and Dolphin Harbor Staff at Miami Seaquarium. (Life before Craigslist had its inconveniences.) Practically every job opening had a requirement I didn’t meet: bilingual. Knowing how to ask for cream and sugar in my coffee in Spanish would get me nowhere at a palm tree farm. I tried to suppress my inner Bindi Irwin. Those jobs didn’t get me closer to a career in journalism or public relations. Sadly, there were no advertised positions at the Miami New Times or Miami Herald.

I rested one hand on his thigh to steady myself and gulped a mouthful of wine. “I have some news too.” I smiled sheepishly. My air-conditioner hummed in the living room window as I watched his big eyes widen. Sweet, fizzy bubbles coated my tongue, calming my nerves. I arched my back. “I did get a job offer.” My tone was slow yet firm. He’s going to shit an empanada. “I’m going to be a bartender.”

John’s bushy brow caved, and the Champagne flute shot to his lips. I bolted through an explanation of my rationale. Fate had intervened during my job search. As soon as I’d started looking outside CCF, the bar manager, Mike, had called me into the back office and had asked if I wanted to join his team. Before Cheesecake, Mike had traveled around the country training bar staff for TGI Friday’s—Marco’s old stomping grounds. Mike could flip bottles better than Tom Cruise in Cocktail. And he promised to teach me his secrets. Bartending meant more seniority and more money, and it was a natural progression for a server. Working while going to college would be much easier behind the bar. One week of tips would cover a month’s rent. Would I have rather been penning stories for the Herald’s Tropical Life section? Absolutely. Making drinks was a financial means to a more lucrative end. And the two-foot-deep service bar would limit my interactions with the cast of our in-house soap opera.

I looked into John’s brown eyes for a sign of approval. He cracked a smile.

“That’s what you really want to do?” John petted my arm. He rested his wine glass on my colorful coffee table. I looked down at the bold, abstract swirls and circles I’d painted on the tabletop during my cross-country romance with Matthew. I felt his ghost creep in and grabbed my wine glass.

“No,” I replied firmly, as John played with a lock of my hair. “I want to graduate from college and work in public relations. But I need enough money to live on my own here. I need a flexible work schedule that will keep my days free for class and studying.” My eyes fixed on his. My determination blanketed the living room like an afternoon storm cloud.

John caressed my hand. “As long as it gets you closer to your dream.” His big, brown eyes gazed at me. “I know you would never get sucked into that dead-end lifestyle.”

I smiled and pecked his cheek, feeling his goatee scratch my face. John had never met Robert and didn’t know I’d already journeyed to the restaurant world’s dark side. I’d learned my lesson. My party days were over. The soap opera had entered its final season. Marco and Gabriela had broken up after a fight during one of their morning surfing sessions. Then Marco had received a forty-percent rating on a Secret Shopper report, and was fired before the ink had dried on the printer paper. Alicia was planning to move to New York. Karma was doing its bidding.

We finished off the first bottle of Riunite, my head resting on John’s shoulder. He continued to pet and kiss me like a baby kitten. My motor was purring, lubed with alcohol and love. John pulled a second bottle from the fridge.

He walked back into the living room. “Can I ask you something, Sweetheart?” He stood above me, smiling. I looked up at his perfectly groomed side burns and shiny black goatee. My eyelids batted with curiosity. “Can I stay the night with you?” My heart leapt. I grinned at his big, kind eyes. From opening car doors to pulling out chairs, his politeness never ceased to amaze me.

He pointed to his backpack by the door. “I brought my things.” He reached for my hand. “I hope that’s okay.” He said he’d told his mom he was staying at a friend’s house. I wanted to squeeze him like a teddy bear.

I grinned, cradling the wine glass in my free hand. “It’s about time.”

He looked into my eyes and charged me like a bull. His hands cupped my face as his tongue plunged passionately into my mouth. Wine sloshed from my glass onto my shoulder, but I ignored it, lost in the moment. We rocked back and forth on the couch, him kissing my lips and neck until my body ached. If sex with Marco was soft porn, then sleeping with John was going to be a Danielle Steel novel.

John plucked my wine glass from my hand and pulled me from the couch. He tugged my arms, guiding me into the darkness of my bedroom. He reached for the light switch. I quickly grabbed his hand and shook my finger playfully. I still wasn’t completely comfortable with my own body, and two glasses of five-percent alcohol bubbly wasn’t enough to loosen my inhibitions. I needed darkness to help me relax, since sex was definitely on the menu. After almost a year in Miami, I couldn’t help but wonder what having sex with a purebred Cuban would feel like—especially one who kissed like John. My curiosity had been simmering for months.

The street lamp outside my second-story windows sprayed slivers of gray light through the closed mini-blinds. John touched my shoulders, guiding me into a seated position on the edge of the bed, then stood over me and kissed my forehead before moving down to my cheeks, lips and then left shoulder. My body shook like a washer on spin cycle; I closed my eyes to savor the thrill of his gentle kisses. John slipped my cotton tank top over my head, exposing my padded bra. Ugh. The Olsen twins had bigger boobs than me, and they hadn’t even hit puberty. He’s small. I’m small, I reminded myself. My breathing relaxed. My eyes followed his in the darkness, as they moved to the center of my chest. I watched his dark silhouette rest my top softly on the foot of the bed. He pressed his lips on my shoulder blade, gliding my body back to the center of the bed.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “You look like a California girl. I can’t believe you’re mine.”

I blushed, feeling my boobs flattening like pancakes under the weight of his body.

“Those eyes. That hair. That smile.” His lips touched my eyebrows.

Relief and happiness rippled through me. I wanted to scream with delight. Finally! I grinned and wrapped my arms around his chest, hugging him tight. His body felt so light and small, I could have bench-pressed him.

“You are too good to me.” I squeezed him like a puppy’s chew toy, smiling. With John, I finally felt beautiful. I felt wanted in my own bed—not a motel room.

He kept pouring on the compliments thicker than suntan oil in August, and my body melted into the bed. I wasn’t accustomed to a guy saying such sweet things to my face, so I had no idea how to react. My vocal chords iced over like a windshield in winter. No man had been so gentle and intimate, giving compliments while looking into my eyes. The wheels in my head kept spinning, as I ran my fingers along his skin, following his lead. My torso turned into a ball of Play-doh. I watched John’s lips and hands in the dark, squeezing, tugging and rolling me into different positions. His legs and arms interlocked with mine. It looked like a game of half-naked Twister had broken out on my bed. But his soft kisses never stopped; he remained gentle and kind.

I glanced over at my stereo while John nibbled on my ear. My mind raced back to that drunken evening with Marco. There would be no sex kittens in the bedroom tonight. Sex with John would be loving, special. We’d actually make love. His lips pressed against mine, then navigated every inch of my body—my face, my ears, my neck, my shoulders, my arms, my chest, my stomach. His touch relaxed and excited me at the same time. I fanned out my long curls on the bed, trying to look as sexy as Tawny Kitaen on the hood of that Jaguar in Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again” video. Getting bedroom tips from music videos probably wasn’t a great idea.

John pulled away and stood above me, as I lay on the bed. “I want to look at you, Baby.” His silhouette glowed in the darkness. His body was small and soft, which made him feel all the more gentle. A frown shot across my face. I squirmed, uncomfortable with his bravado. My eyes darted around the room as he stared at my face and bare chest.

My arms flew to his dress shirt buttons. Having a well-mannered guy staring at my half-naked body in silence made me feel like a middle schooler getting my first physical. The rush of endorphins calmed my nerves, as I opened his shirt. What will he do when he sees my scar? He probably didn’t have scars on his body to reveal like Chris and Matthew, and he wasn’t drunk like Marco. My mind started spinning the web of self-doubt again. John had told me how much he loved my curvy hips. All the Latin guys at work did. But how long could a Cuban man be satisfied with tiny boobies? Latinas were stacked. I was stacked like a pad of paper. I distracted myself from my insecurities by unzipping his fly and tugging at his Calvin Klein boxer briefs. Rico suave.

He pushed my shoulders back onto the mattress. The tip of his tongue glided slowly from the nape of my neck to the top of my ear lobe. His lips flew to mine, and he slid his tongue so deep into my mouth, I could hear his heart beating. The intense kiss jolted me upright. I grabbed his shoulders and planted a deep, long kiss on his neck. He gently prodded me onto my back again before dropping the weight of his body onto mine. I exhaled deeply, welcoming the safe, warm feeling of having every ounce of him so close to me for the first time. He lifted my khaki mini skirt and tugged at my panties, kissing my knees and ankles along the way. I arched my back in anticipation of his tongue, which had worked wonders on every inch of my body … except that one. My breath quivered with pleasure as I closed my eyes.

John slid up my body faster than a wet Slip ‘n Slide. I felt him hard inside me, his small hips thrusting back and forth at warp speed. It felt like a gummy worm was gyrating inside me. John’s cock was skinny, short and gooey. My little man was little everywhere. He started moaning, sharp and shrill like a cat trapped in a shower. The shock froze my entire body. He didn’t even put on a condom or ask me if I was on the pill.

“Ey, Mami,” he whispered in my ear. The hairs of his goatee touched my earlobe, shooting goose bumps down my arms. His wet nose nudged my cheek like a Chihuahua begging for back scratches. “Your body drives me crazy.” I slammed my eyes shut, as his lean frame pounded against my skin. This can’t be happening. My worst fear was being in bed with a guy and hearing him say, “I want to ride you like a Harley,” but this felt just as horrific. John’s hipbones banged mine. I felt like a mechanical bull being ridden by a lemur that had just drunk a case of Red Bull.

My mind raced along with the frantic pace of his hips. He’d just called me Mom. I suddenly felt as if both of our Catholic mothers were hovering over the bed like guardian angels, wagging their fingers. Memories of the ever-polite John flashed through my head. Could two bottles of Riunite turn my Cuban prince into a horny, sleaze bag?

Before I could push the horrid maternal images from my mind, he pushed himself deeper into me. His skinny body arched, as he threw back his head and let out a long, screeching wail. John collapsed on top of my half-clothed body—all this in less time than it takes to microwave a bag of popcorn.

Welcome to the world of a Latin lover. The thought rolled through my head like movie credits—movie credits for Schindler’s List. Unprotected, primate sex was not on my list of firsts to experience with John! His skin began sticking to mine. I stared at my ceiling in silence, feeling the weight of his body grow heavier. My inner voice began scolding me. I’d made relationship progress by waiting a good month before sleeping with the guy, but then I didn’t buck up and have a serious talk about protection before we got into bed. I soooo needed to stop expecting the man to run the show. Maybe John’s manners wouldn’t have said “adiós” if I’d told him we needed to have a heart-to-heart talk about protection if he was going to stay the night. Talks about sex needed to happen before the guy was inside my apartment. At least he’s still holding me after sex. Sort of. I rationalized the situation, trapped under his sweaty body with my skirt crumpled around my waist. He didn’t hop off once he’d reached his goal like a cowboy on a rodeo horse. Every guy is entitled to one quickie after a dry spell, right? I couldn’t get the vision of my grandma kneeling at a pew during Sunday Mass out of my mind. I thanked God for my daily dose of Ortho-Novum 7/7/7. My eyes darted around his body, looking for the best escape route straight to my shower.

While John’s limp body covered me, I listened to his breath coast into a relaxed, slow pace. I stared at his thick head of black hair in the darkness. As I raised my fingers to touch his shoulder, he made a sound.

He began to snore.

I squeezed slowly out from underneath him. He yawned and rolled over. His mouth was wide open, his closed eyes, his naked body spread-eagle on my bed. Did I want to feel his lips kissing me softly one more time? No, gracias. I’d just lost my appetite for Latin men.

MICHAEL

“TROUBLED MIND”

Everything but the Girl

REWIND: I pressed the phone to my chest and stared up at the pine ceiling. My heart throbbed against the receiver, soaking up his invitation. He just asked me to have dinner with his parents. I held the phone to my ear again and listened to his breathing.

“Hello? You still there?” Michael’s sugary-sweet voice filled the phone line. He always spoke with the exuberant tone of a cruise ship social director.

I lay on my bed, twirling the phone cord. “Yes, sorry. Ummm, well, okay. Sure.” My voice sputtered. Responses to Michael’s invitations were always laced with both trepidation and elation. He asked for my permission for just about everything: Can I take you to dinner? Can I hold your hand? Can I use your bathroom? Would it be okay if I kissed you? A respectful, polite guy who didn’t have a dark side? Too good to be true. He’d been driving the bus of our relationship down a very civilized road for two months. No crash. No burn. It felt like real, adult love. I was torn.

“Are you sure-sure?” Michael asked. I squeezed the receiver in silence, listening to the phone hum. I didn’t want to sound too eager.

“Sure-sure,” I whispered. After a full year of false starts with men, I’d finally built a little wall of my own. Practicing emotional restraint would help me weed out the Steve Stiflers before we’d slept together, and I needed a defense. Horny toads flocked to me like bees to honey. I’d gone from a cokehead bisexual to a body-shaving teacher to little monkey man to Michael—a nice, stable guy in a city filled with my freaky exes. John had been out of the picture for almost three months and had already knocked up his new girlfriend—talk about dodging a bullet! Before meeting Michael, the closest I’d come to finding a new boyfriend was online chats with Basel, a poet from the Middle East, who lived in Jacksonville. I’d dated Michael for more than a month before sleeping with him, and now he wanted me to spend an evening with his mom, dad and younger brother at their home. It was the logical relationship progression that had eluded me since leaving the Midwest.

That week, the hours crept by. When Sunday finally came, I didn’t need driving directions. Michael’s home was located one block off Old Cutler Road, a few miles north of where I’d lived with Chris. I cruised along the picturesque road that snaked from Coconut Grove down to Cutler Ridge, watching the Banyan tree canopies and walled fortresses whiz past my windshield—my daily commute only twelve months before. Maybe it was a sign. Five days had passed since I’d seen Michael—120 hours to think about our mature relationship and my crumbling wall. I thought of the first time he’d made love to me, just two weeks before, and how special the night was. We’d sat together at the foot of my bed, listening to my Everything but the Girl CD—mellow, estrogen-heavy stuff. He’d held my hands, looked me in the eye and told me how much he cared for me—how he’d never felt so good about a relationship. He’d asked me if I was ready to take the next step. We’d been dating without having sex for six weeks—a Florida record for me. I’d cradled his rosy cheeks in my palms and kissed his lips softly. There was no alcohol to cloud our judgment or spread my legs. We talked about protection before our clothes were off. My boundaries were working.

“I didn’t bring a condom,” he’d said. “I don’t like to assume anything.” It seemed so sweet that he didn’t carry around a rubber in his wallet, expecting to get lucky. We’d driven to the Tom Thumb and bought two packs of gum and a box of Trojans. I’d traded romance for respect and couldn’t have been happier. It was a different kind of love than I’d ever known.

When my car turned onto his street, my eyes bulged. The family estate looked more like a compound. It took up at least one acre—something I’d never seen before within the Miami city limits. A brown, corral-style fence lined the property along the road and down a driveway as long as a Wal-Mart parking lot. Rows of oak trees flanked the paved drive, and manicured lawns fanned out and disappeared behind a sweeping, ranch-style brick house. It looked like a Kansas City mansion, not the ubiquitous Mediterranean villas dotting Coral Gables and Miami Beach. Even though I’d grown up in a house slightly bigger than their garage, my jitters melted away. I actually felt at home.

I parked my Grand Am in the circular drive behind Michael’s turquoise Honda Prelude. I let the air conditioning blast my face and chest while readjusting my khaki dress shorts. My pulsed accelerated. I checked my hair and make-up in the rear-view mirror. I needed to bring my A-game, like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman after charm school. Michael was my best catch to date, and those were serious words coming from a girl who grew up bass fishing.

Michael stepped through the double oak doors onto the front steps, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. He stood 6-foot-2 and was the biggest guy I’d ever dated, and I’m talking hunky-football big, not Dunkin’-Donuts-for-breakfast big. The first time I’d waited on Michael at Cheesecake, the hostess had sat his party of three in a booth roomy enough for six people, which would typically piss off any server. But as soon as he’d ordered an Arnold Palmer and his sky-blue eyes met mine, I wanted to know more about him. Michael was Kirk Herbstreit handsome with the body of a linebacker. He had the kind of Cheesecake Factory-savvy to order Crusted Chicken Romano with extra sauce on the side without my upsell. Every time I’d refilled his drink, he’d smiled and said, “Thank you, Harley.” I’d blushed and scurried away to the service bar. Michael had left a twenty-five-percent tip on a $75 tab—any waitress would tell you that was the first sign the man was a keeper, and he’d circled around the bus station after he’d paid, waiting to ask me out.

Smiles spread across our faces, as I walked toward Michael. His rosy cheeks glowed in the late afternoon sun. My heartbeat began sprinting. His blonde hair looked more sun-bleached than usual, making his blue eyes pop. He wore his usual khaki Dockers shorts, a blue-striped Polo and a pair of those leather loafers people wear on yachts. I tugged my Limited top from my chest to fan myself. It was a cool, dry day in October, but it suddenly felt as hot and humid as July. My body experienced global warming whenever Michael was around. His touch made me feel protected.

“Boy, did I miss you.” Michael scooped me up and spun me around in his big arms. I squealed like child on a merry-go-round, feeling the rush of emotions spiral through my body: the sweet innocence of our romance, the comfort of his touch, the joy of being reunited. His lips darted to mine for a quick kiss, then rushed away. My lips parted, yearning for more, as my feet dangled off the ground. I felt like a girl sneaking kisses in a schoolyard. Michael always showed a mix of boyish sweetness and manly passion when we were alone together.

“Really?” My hair whipped around my arms, as I nuzzled his neck. “Ah, I missed you too.” I inhaled deeply, savoring the familiar scent of his skin—crisp, clean, citrusy. Five days was the longest we’d been apart, and our alone time was usually relegated to afternoons or evenings at my apartment. It was the honeymoon phase of dating for two full-time students in South Florida, where college campuses almost outnumber shopping malls. I’d begun my first semester at Florida International University’s south campus in west Kendall; Michael was back to school for a nursing degree at Florida Atlantic University in Boca Raton, which made my apartment an ideal pit-stop before or after classes.

Michael rested me gently on the concrete step, my body gliding down his. He pulled my torso closer to his wide chest, engulfing me with one of his soft, bear hugs. I stood on the tippy toes of my chunky leather sandals, drinking in the moment. Beads of sweat began to trickle down my back, as he squeezed me tighter.

“Watch it.” I pulled my head back to look up into his blue eyes. My arms stayed wrapped around his waist. “Your parents are inside.”

“We have nothing to worry about.” He pecked my lips between grins. “My mom and dad aren’t stupid.” His big arms squeezed me again. It was so cool to date a guy whose parents accepted the reality that their son had sex. If my mom would have talked to me about sex and men’s motivations, maybe it could have saved me some unsatisfying bedpost notches.

“I’ll still keep my distance once we’re inside.” I tucked my face into his chest. “I want them to like me.” The scent of his crisp cologne filled my nose again. I closed my eyes, relishing his smell.

He breathed into my hair. “They already like you. I like you.” I pushed my face deeper into his golf shirt, squeezing him. This is what love should be like. My mind reeled from cloud nine. I wanted to spend every waking minute in Michael’s big arms. His hugs made me feel small, protected and cherished.

“So this is the house,” Michael said cheerfully, his big hand cupped over mine as he led me into a fancy, grand entryway under a crystal chandelier. The entryway spilled into a formal living room and dining room covered in gilded gold and ivory statues. It looked like Liberace had thrown up all over the place—ornate, gold-framed mirrors, gaudy candelabras, marble statues and plush, wine-colored furniture with golden claw legs. It screamed old money. Muffled barks trailed from a hallway. His Golden Retriever, Largo, trotted in and sniffed my feet. I kneeled down and raised the back of my hand to his wet nose. Michael smiled approvingly as the dog licked my hand, then moved to my face while I giggled and patted his back. I’d grown up with six hunting dogs and loved the idea of dating a fellow dog lover.

“These guys must be so happy to have you back,” I said in my doggy voice while scratching Largo’s head.

Michael towered over us. “It was my last trip for a long time.” For the past three years, Michael had been living in Tampa, working as an athletic trainer for University of South Florida’s football team. He’d decided a nursing degree would make him more attractive to Division I collegiate football programs, so he’d moved back home in August to study at FAU. Yes, I’d stumbled on a “relo”—a recently relocated, single man—who had no knowledge of my dark dating history, and I wasn’t about to screw up my chances with him. He was twenty-six years old and the most mature, career-minded guy I’d ever dated.

Michael guided me down the long hallway past three bedrooms and a long bathroom. Class pictures of Michael and his brother, from kindergarten to high school graduation, lined each side of the wallpapered hallway. He paused in his bedroom doorway, letting me walk in first. His politeness mirrored John’s, and I tried not to let it haunt me. The boy even cuddled like a Cuban, yet Michael was as vanilla white as me. I didn’t have to worry about cultural differences causing tension in our relationship, or him calling me “Mami” in bed. He didn’t speak Spanish or eat empanadas. And he wore condoms.

“See, I told you it wasn’t much,” Michael said, as we stepped into the childhood bedroom he’d recently reclaimed. A queen sleigh bed sat in the middle of the spacious room, surrounded by a matching dresser, roll-top desk and bookshelf. Sports memorabilia and old pictures papered the walls.

I poked around his space. “Are you kidding me? This place is huge. And it’s free.” His bedroom was the same size as the efficiency apartment I’d moved into near Cuban Memorial Boulevard to save money. My eyes scanned Michael’s framed high school football and golf team pictures on the walls. All I could afford to hang at my place were colored baskets and a framed poster from the Coconut Grove Arts Festival, but I’d proudly showed Michael my simple home. Living in a shoebox apartment helped me pay all my bills and still have ample time for class and study sessions.

“Yeah, it’s just that.” Michael paused, his blue eyes cutting through me. He looked away to the football trophies on his dresser. “Being here makes me feel like a kid again, but not in a good way.” I watched him walk over to a Miami Hurricanes mascot stuffed animal in the corner and kick it.

I stepped to his bookshelf. “You’re really lucky though.” I picked up a quarterback figurine and examined its hand-painted detail.

He stuffed his hands in his short pockets. “I guess you’re right.” His voice bounced each word. That man was always as happy as a cheerleader. I sat down on the edge of his bed and ran my hands across the red bedspread. It felt plush, expensive. The sound of a television blaring drifted from the other end of the house. I looked up at Michael watching me survey his surroundings. My mind dashed back to the first night we’d had sex. We were sitting Indian-style on my bed, professing our strong feelings for each other and approaching sex like adults. He’d cradled me in his arms and kissed me while we’d made love. He didn’t sprint to the finish line and grunt like a baboon. He’d even looked into my eyes! I remember sex with Michael as calm and conservative, as I figured it should between two people who truly cared for each other, and were always stone-cold sober. We were buttoned-up students who didn’t have time for drinking binges. I now call him my detox boyfriend. It’s good for your grades to date one of these boys during college.

I leaned back on his bed and stretched my tan legs, crossing them at the ankle.

“I know what you’re thinking.” His eyes smoldered, craving my touch. “I’m thinking it too.”

I crooked my head. “I’m just daydreaming.” I fell onto my elbows. “You know. Keeping my distance.” The thrill of forbidden touching washed over me. My eyes darted toward the door. I hadn’t snuck around while my boyfriend’s parents were in the other room for years.

Michael stepped toward the bed and leaned over me. My heart shot into my throat like a pinball. I closed my eyes and waited for his lips. His fingers glided down my back. My lungs sucked in air. I threw open my eyes and pulled away.

“We shouldn’t,” I whispered, breathless. Michael exhaled softly in my ear. Dating Michael made me feel like a respectable college woman, and I needed that.

His lips brushed my earlobe. “You’re probably right.” I felt like a campfire was raging in my hips and folded my hands in my lap to smother the flames. “I like it that you keep me in line.” Michael stepped back and stood over me, smiling.

Michael pulled me down the hall toward the living room, his gigantic hands laced in mine. A Florida room with vaulted ceilings opened to a kitchen-dining room larger than The Cheesecake Factory veranda. A wall of sliding glass doors led to a sparkling pool shaped like a kidney bean. Michael’s father stood up from a recliner in the sunken living room. I arched my back and smiled, then walked toward him with the confidence of an Ivy League graduate at a job interview. He scooted toward me and smiled, as his hand extended to grip mine. He stood as big and broad as Michael with a full head of thick, gray hair and the same piercing, blue eyes.

“Michael tells me you’re quite the fisherman,” his father said with a laugh, deep lines forming in his cheeks.

I shook his hand firmly, my eyes never leaving his. I knew I’d already scored Brownie points with Michael’s dad. For our first date, Michael had taken me fishing off the coast of Key Largo in his family’s twenty-eight-foot Boston Whaler. But first, we’d gone swimming at a sandbar hidden beyond a maze of red mangroves. I’d baited my own hook, which I’d thought would impress him. We’d caught four Yellow-Tailed Snappers and had cooked them for dinner at his family’s waterfront condo overlooking Sunset Cove. We’d eaten on their open-air patio under a palm tree. At sunset, he’d asked me if he could kiss me. It still ranks at the top of my list for best date of all time. And I did not put out.

I smiled bashfully. “My dad was a good teacher.” I decided not to mention the American Legion fishing derby I’d won in third grade. Fishing with Michael had reconnected me to happy memories of my father, which were few and far between. I’d learned early on that the only way to get some face time with my dad was to take up his hobbies, so I'd coon hunted and bass fished until my grandma'd bought me Barbie dolls.

After a fair amount of fish talk, I turned to the leather sectional to greet Michael’s brother, Jeff, who was sprawled out with one arm pointing a remote control toward the big screen. He was a disheveled, brown-haired version of Michael.

“Did you bring me any Chicken Madeira?” Jeff asked with a sneer.

I shot him a sassy look. “Did you bring me season tickets?” Jeff played football for the University of Miami. I’d waited on him three times with Michael, and his restaurant humor made me feel even more at home.

Over the hum of a mixer, Michael’s mother shouted her hellos from the kitchen. Michael ushered me under a doublewide doorway connecting the living room to the kitchen. His mom stood over a white-tiled island circling a hand mixer in a big metal bowl. She was tall and lean with Michael’s same button nose, rosy cheeks and big smile. I walked around the island and reached out my hand, as she wiped hers in a hand towel. Shaking hands was nostalgic after a year of double-cheek kissing strangers—the Latin way to greet someone.

“Nice to see you again,” we said in unison. I blushed as we shook hands. She looked like a mid-fifties soccer mom with her diamond stud earrings, a pink golf shirt and a flowery apron.

“Jinx.” She laughed.

I suddenly felt like we were long lost girlfriends from middle school. Her lunch order flashed through my mind: Chinese Chicken Salad, iced tea with no ice, half a slice of White Chocolate Raspberry Truffle Cheesecake—the other half put into a to-go box for Michael’s dad.

“Would you like any help?” I asked, my inner waitress working overtime.

“You’re our guest, Honey.” She turned to the sink and flipped on the faucet. “You just make yourself at home.” Her hospitality was just enough country to summon my inner Elly May Clampett from eternal exile.

“I haven’t had homemade mashed potatoes in years.” I looked into the metal bowl with wide eyes. “My mom made them all the time when we were kids. Now I only get them during Thanksgiving dinner.”

“When you’re the only woman in a house full of men, you have to make them every Sunday.” She winked.

I gripped the edge of the kitchen island, nodding. I could feel the mother-daughter bond forming between us and fought back my perma-grin. Too eager again, Harley. Stay cool. My head was dizzy with happiness. Their family ties were reeling me in, reminding me of how nice it would be to settle down with a man who had happily married parents. I could be the daughter they’d never had. I could be a part of a stable, happy family for the first time in my life.

“I’ll put you to work though, Mister.” She tossed a pair of metal tongs to Michael. He grabbed a ceramic platter off the island and walked over to a casual dining table in front of the sliding glass doors. Then she yelled “Dinner’s ready!” over the blaring television just like my mom always did.

Michael pulled out a high-back oak chair for me, then circled the table with a pitcher of iced tea, filling our glasses. The family settled comfortably into their usual seats at the table with Mom and Dad at the heads and the boys on the sides. Steaming platters and bowls fanned out along the center of the table. Michael sat down across from me and grinned. We engaged bashful looks and my mind shot back to his bedroom. I blushed and scooted in my chair. His mother handed each of us a heavy china plate from the stack in her arms while Largo circled around her feet.

I dished mashed potatoes onto my plate. “Your Saw Palmettos are beautiful.” I glanced at the trees along the fence beyond the pool. “I’ve never seen a Traveler’s Palm that big in a residential neighborhood either.”

“Michael told us you study plants.” His mom raised her fork to her mouth. “You could help me with my gardening.”

I grinned and nodded, overwhelmed with pure joy. My future mother-in-law. “FIU has a great environmental studies program.” I launched into an animated explanation of my scholastic strategy, using my fork as a prop. FIU required more science electives to graduate with a communications degree than KSU, so I’d stocked up on any class that got me closer to the exotic flora and fauna around me. In my “Ecology of South Florida” class, we learned the scientific names of hundreds of trees and birds, and took field trips to all the native ecosystems. “I love how interesting and diverse the ecosystems are down here.” I poked my fork at the potato lumps, smiling. I purposefully chewed in slow motion to avoid warp-speed shoveling—a bad habit picked up working in restaurants. I kept my elbows off the table and my back straight. I blabbed on about my father instilling his love of nature in me, but didn’t mention the times he never came home from the bar to take me mushroom hunting. The conversation with Michael’s family flowed effortlessly, just like it always did between Michael and me. His parents’ faces lit up when they talked about the condo in Key Largo and how much they loved spending time on their boat.

My eyes circled the table. “I can’t believe you all get to cruise through mangroves anytime you want.” I jabbered on about my fascination with the colony of plants and animals living symbiotically in the roots of the red mangrove tree.

“Why did you leave home?” Michael’s mother asked.

I stared down at my plate and chewed far longer than was necessary. But I’d come prepared. I navigated the anticipated question without making my psychedelic past seem too colorful. The weather was bad. The financial aid laws stunk. The opportunities were slim. I worked hard, but I would never accept a GPA below 3.5. Chris—and every mess of a guy I’d cared about since him—were buried in my closet. Forever. I took a long sip of my iced tea. My head was finally clear.

I cut my steak into tiny bites, feeling all eyes on me. “But my real passion is public relations. I want to work in media relations for the Audubon Society.”

His mom sipped her iced tea and glanced at Michael. “Looks like you’ve finally found someone busier than you.”

Michael looked across the table, his smile growing. Michael’s mom told stories about him juggling school, coaching peewee football and volunteering as a trainer at high school games. They never buried their heads in their plates. No one farted or burped. It was nothing like my childhood house, but I felt more at home with every bite. I was already looking forward to my next family dinner.

“Well.” I rested my knife gently on the edge of the plate. “We’ve been talking about my school so much, maybe we should talk about you. How was your trip?” I batted my eyelashes at Michael. He’d spent the previous weekend in Tampa helping out the coaching staff at a USF football game. Michael hadn’t told me much about his life back in Tampa—just the gruesome stories about shattered ankles and broken legs he’d helped mend.

Michael grabbed his glass and took a huge gulp. “It was okay.” His tone was flat. He looked down at his half-eaten tri-tip. “I told you it was my last trip.” His voice boomed through the kitchen, filled with guttural frustration. The piece of steak in my mouth felt like a ticking time bomb. My eyes bounced from Michael to his mother. Everyone buried their heads in their plates. Knives scratched against china. ESPN buzzed from the big screen in the next room. Okay. What the fuck just happened? His brother and dad took long sips from their glasses, then looked past Michael to the television. I chewed the meat and forced a swallow. My throat felt like I’d just downed a Flaming Doctor Pepper. My eyes whizzed to his mom. She patted her lips with a cloth napkin and looked past me to the pool. It was as if I’d asked how his grandma was, and she’d just died.

Michael hacked away at his steak as if his knife were a chainsaw. His mother started talking about the latest tropical storm forming off the coast of Africa. Jeff and his dad began reciting highlights from the morning Dolphins’ game. A lump of anxiety and confusion set up camp in my pounding chest. I’d flipped some sort of psychological switch and had no idea how to hit rewind. His mom stood up, her chair legs scraping the tile floor.

“Can I…uh…help?” I asked, voice cracking. My whole body felt numb. I looked up at Michael’s mom, searching for a lifeline. Let me help clean up this mess. Make whatever just happened disappear. It was the psychology of a waitress—a clean table wiped away any bad memories of the last meal I’d served. I felt so comfortable washing dishes with Michael in Key Largo. I needed someone to put me to work.

“No, that’s all right, Honey,” she said softly, looking down at us. “I’m sure you and Michael have a lot to talk about.” Her blue eyes turned to ice. He lifted his glass and shook the ice cubes lose. My eyes stared at his forehead, waiting for him to look at me. His head flew from left to right. He looked about as comfortable as a straight army sergeant sunbathing on South Beach at 10th and Ocean. I looked down at the remnants of beef on my plate and dropped my napkin on the table.

Michael’s face turned beet red. “You want to go outside?” I stood up from the table sheepishly and thanked his mother for what started off as a wonderful meal.

The front doors closed behind us.

“I’m so sorry.” He grabbed my hands on the front steps. “Tonight wasn’t supposed to turn out like this.” He paused and stared down at my fingers as he rubbed them. A wave of relief washed over me. I tucked my bangs behind my ears.

“It’s okay. I understand.” I wrapped my arms around his waist. I squeezed him tightly. “Juggling work and school is wearing on you.” My chin rested square on his chest. “I get it. I feel the same way.” I looked up at him, searching for reassurance. Michael’s blue eyes stared down at me. A look of conflict and frustration covered his rosy face. I dropped my arms and stepped back, feeling the steak start to churn in my stomach.

“I think…we…need…to…talk.” Michael paused between every word. He scuffed the soles of his shoes on the concrete step. I twirled my hair to keep my hands busy. My frayed emotions dangled in the warm night air. My jaws clenched. “You remember how we talked about how we weren’t going to talk about our past relationships?” His voice trembled the question. My stomach muscles began twitching with fear. Rather than recite our entire dating history before sleeping together, we’d made a pact not to ask any questions. The past was the past. And God knows, I was all for it. Any game of dating quid pro quo, I would lose.

He ran his hands through his blonde hair. “Well, I have to talk about it.” His tone was somber, fraying my nerves. “I saw my ex-girlfriend last weekend.” His emphasis on the word “saw” made my chest hurt. I wrapped my arms around my stomach and squeezed myself. He definitely didn’t pass her in a campus hallway. Michael began talking about Shari, a girl he’d dated for a year while on the USF coaching staff. He’d broken it off a few weeks before we’d met. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and stared out at the front lawn. The fact that he called her by name made my skin crawl.

His blue eyes watered. “I had no intention of doing this.” He looked down at me. Words began sputtering from his lips. He’d gone to a post-game party. She was there. His brow furrowed as his head shook. My eyes bounced from his red, sad face to the concrete under our feet. He’d slept with her. My chest got tight. I wanted to scream. All my dreams of us began to break into pieces.

My tongue felt numb. I had no idea what to say. My mind raced back to the dinner table. “Everyone inside knew about this?” My voice shrieked; my arms flew to the front door. Michael was close to his family, which I adored. But the fact that he’d revealed his infidelity to his mom and dad—and decided it would still be a great idea to have me over for dinner—made me feel like the guinea pig in a science experiment. My whole body shivered.

“How?” My voice shook. “How could she come between this?” I grabbed his big hands and pressed them to my heart. Tears pooled in my eyes. “You told me this time was different. You told me I was special.” My voice shuddered. I’d given him my body and my heart. The bond seemed unbreakable just a week before. I remembered all the times he’d said, “You’re just so cute, I have to squeeze you,” and “I have so much fun when we’re together.” I slammed my eyelids shut.

“I’m so sorry.” He ran his hands through his hair again. “I don’t know what to do. I feel terrible. I’m a complete mess. I’m torn.” He grabbed for my hands. I jerked away as if I’d just touched a hot flame. “All I know is that I’m totally in love with you, but I guess I still have feelings for her.”

My eyes widened and darted around his face. Great. Now he tells me he loves me. My chest felt like the steak Michael had hacked apart. I loved him too. Part of me wanted to kiss him. The other part wanted to slap him. I fished for my car keys in my purse.

I turned away from him. “You can’t do this to someone you love.” I exhaled deeply, looking at his long driveway. I wanted to tell him that I’d loved him from the minute he’d cleaned my fish and filleted on the boat dock. I wanted to tell him that I’d loved him even more when he’d driven to the convenience store to buy condoms. I bit my lip. “I need to go study.” I turned up my nose and marched down the front steps. I’d just entered the world of relationship uncertainty, which never seemed fathomable with Michael.

The bizarre turn of events replayed in my head all the way home. I’d worked too damn hard at not smothering him like a sleeping bag for the relationship to collapse. How can the perfect guy be flipped faster than a house on Extreme Home Makeover? Michael was handsome and kind with a bright future. He’d treated me like a queen—until he’d screwed his ex. He was sorry. He’d come clean. Didn’t that score him some forgiveness points? My mom had forgiven my dad for at least ten major screw-ups before filing for divorce. Michael was good for me. Michael had a career, manners and a wonderful family. And money. Paying bills and buying groceries would never be an issue in our house. My anger over Michael’s betrayal quickly consumed me like a Supernatural marathon on TNT. I’d already been burned by the Holy Grail of cheaters—a married man. If there would have never been a Matthew, maybe I could have forgiven Michael. A critical lesson about men had been tattooed into my brain: once a cheater, always a cheater.

My answering machine blinked three times, making me feel important after a long day of classes.

“I just wanted you to know I’m thinking about you.” Michael’s warm voice filled my tiny apartment. The machine beeped again. “Hey. It’s me again. I can’t stop thinking about you. I screwed up. I’m sorry. Okay, I should hang up now. Call me.” Beep. “Hey. I think my phone cut off, so I just wanted to make sure you got that message.”

The final beep hung in the air like a thick cloud of cigarette smoke. It was becoming my daily routine—coming home and listening to Michael’s sweet, desperate messages. I collapsed on my bed and looked up at the pine rafters. My emotions were tangled in knots. There weren’t any single guys in Miami as great as Michael. I’d dodged enough bullets to know. How can I start all over again? Being single always felt like half of myself was missing. I was peanut butter and bread, and I couldn’t live without the jelly. I grabbed my stereo remote from the nightstand and pressed “play.” Tracey Thorn’s smooth voice drifted through the room. Everything but the Girl songs always had this way of making me feel happy and sad at the same time, with their sweet, yet melancholy tone and jazzy vibe. I clicked forward to “Troubled Mind.” Was I reading more into Michael’s words than he put into them? He’d tied my knots; he needed to undo them.

I followed the usual formula to distract myself from the demise of our relationship: a thorough examination at Planned Parenthood. I’d had unprotected sex with Michael once when he’d forgotten to bring a condom—and the boy was double dipping—which was only allowed with chips and salsa. I was vested deeper than a 401K, and I needed some solace. Getting a clean bill of health made handling heartbreaks easier; so sad how focusing on my physical wellbeing helped me ignore the mental. The waiting game began.

The phone rang for five minutes straight on a Thursday afternoon in October. The summer humidity had loosened its grip on Miami, and the changing of the seasons made it easier to accept that Michael and I were probably finished.

“It’s good to hear your voice.” His words cooed through the phone line.

I kept up my guard. “What’s going to happen next time you see her again? You know it will happen.”

There was a pregnant pause. Michael didn’t launch into the canned rebuttal about how she meant nothing to him. I wondered what this Shari girl had to offer that I could not. Big boobs? I didn’t hound him with phone calls. I gave him backrubs. I didn’t complain when we only saw each other two times a week. I never whined about how our dinner dates involved iced tea and dolphin fingers instead of Chardonnay and stone crab—luxuries he could afford. I never nagged because he didn’t bring me flowers.

“I had to tell you. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Michael’s voice was sincere. I smiled in silence, squeezing the phone receiver. His honesty ripped me apart. We talked about school and work. The normalcy made my nerves relax. “When can I see you again?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, my voice distant. I stared at the Traveler’s Palm outside my window.

“I appreciate you not yelling at me for what I did.”

I twirled the phone cord in my fingers. “I’m not that kind of girl.”

“That’s why I like you so much.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” I said sternly. The line hummed while I waited.

“I guess…I guess,” he paused. “I just need more time.” His voice was soft and wispy. My blood began to boil.

“This is not a buffet.” My jaw locked. I felt like I’d just licked a bar of soap. “You can’t have both of us.” His response made me wonder if I even wanted him back. I missed his affection, but the pain was dulling with each passing day. “I have to iron my uniform. Have a good night.” I slammed the receiver in its cradle and cranked up 311’s “Down” to feed my anger.

My phone rang on a Monday afternoon. It had been twelve days since my last conversation with Michael. His voice was warm but distant. He asked how things were at school and work. We talked about midterms. It felt like having a conversation with my step dad. Our fairy tale was over, and I was mad at myself for not ending it first.

“I have something I need to talk to you about,” Michael said, the buzz of traffic filling the line of a campus pay phone. “In person. This afternoon.” The happy-go-lucky lift in his voice was gone. He sounded like a high school principal. “I can be there in an hour.”

“Can’t we just talk about it now?” I stared down at the unopened mail and a pile of homework on my coffee table. “I have a lot of studying to do before work.” My patience had worn thin. I glanced down at the lavender OB/GYN postcard atop the pile of mail. I’ve been cleared. Time to move on. My body was clean and my mind refocused. Living in relationship limbo didn’t suit me. I’d started talking to a very cute guy named David who sat behind me in ecology class and worked at a saltwater aquarium store. He didn’t live with his parents or have an ex within driving distance, which were fast-becoming dating prerequisites.

“It’s really important,” Michael pleaded. “I need to see you face to face.” I could sense the seriousness in his voice and agreed to a drive-by. A sliver of excitement sliced through me. He wants to see me. He wants me back. I can be the one who dumps him and ends this mess. I needed some music with a little venom and turned to my favorite angry musician, Alanis Morissette. My mind raced through the scenarios of why it was so important that he see me that day. It was nice to feel wanted for the first time in a week. I wanted to tuck the OB/GYN card under a magnet on my refrigerator like an A+ report card, but tossed it in the trash can so Michael wouldn’t see it.

I let the music pour through my thin walls into the hallway. I figured my neighbors could tell the state of my relationships by the volume of my stereo—not just my choice of song. When Michael knocked, I casually yelled, “Just a minute,” even though I was standing in front of my entertainment center next to the door. I tugged at my jean shorts and straightened my tank top.

Michael’s body filled my doorway. He forced a smile, dressed like he’d just walked off a ritzy golf course. His eyes were buggy and blood-shot, making me feel bad for the rejection he was about to receive. I swept my left arm through the air to usher him in. He ducked under the doorway, then stood with his back against the wall near my front door. His fingers were firmly laced together, arms resting at his waist. His biceps flexed, and I remembered how much I’d loved having his big arms around me. Whenever his blue eyes looked down to mine, he glanced away. The knots in my stomach tugged tighter. He stood there, almost impatiently, like a child sent to the corner for a “time out.” I turned off the music.

“Would you like to have a seat?” The words blurted from my mouth; my nerves were doing the talking. There were two places in my tiny apartment to sit: the cup-shaped couch and the double bed where we’d slept together four times. I didn’t know what else to say, so I stood by the entertainment center and twirled my ponytail.

“I’d rather stand.” He glanced over to the bed. The room was eerily quiet. The hardwood floors creaked, as I walked back over to the couch and plopped down, letting my feet dangle over the edge. We looked like two strangers making small talk in a doctor’s office lobby.

“Soooooo…” I watched him shift his body weight back and forth in his leather loafers. My coffee table separated us. “What’s going on?” I gripped the edge of my papasan. The possibility that he had actually stopped by that day to beg for my forgiveness now seemed highly unlikely. I’d never seen such frigidity from my velvet teddy bear.

He parted his lips. No words came out. He lowered his head and took a deep breath, then exhaled loudly. I could feel his anxiety churning in the air. My nails dug into the wicker frame of my couch. My eyes fixed on his face.

Michael ran his hands through his hair. “I’m not sure how to say this.” He turned his body toward me. His mouth drooped. I noticed dark bags under his eyes for the first time. It was a look of weakness I’d never seen before. I sat up straight and leaned forward, my nerves frazzled by anticipation.

“Okay.” He dropped his hands to his sides. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to do it.” He laced his hands behind his head and bent over halfway to the floor. His face flushed a deep red. I held my breath.

“Are you familiar with Chlamydia?” His eyes raised to meet mine.

Oh no, he didn’t. I slumped back into the couch, nearly kicking the coffee table. I felt like I’d swallowed a cinder block. Hearing a guy use four-syllable words had always been a turn-on—until that moment. The question came so far out of left field, I had no game plan. My cheeks were on fire.

I gritted my teeth. “Yeeessss.” I looked at Michael—the guy whom I’d believed had the best husband credentials since Lance. His pretty face was as red as a stop sign. A higher power was trying to teach me a valuable lesson about dating: Disease does not discriminate. Michael was a preppy jock who’d be writing prescriptions in a few years. I glanced over at the wicker trashcan next to my couch. The silence felt awkward and tense, like the moment before Sinéad O’Connor ripped the Pope’s picture on Saturday Night Live.

“Wuh…well…uh.” His voice staggered on. “My doctor says I contracted Chlamydia, and I’ve only slept with two girls in the last two years.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “And Shari told me she doesn’t have it, so I figured that I must have…” He looked at my scowling face and his lips stopped moving.

I felt a monster awaken inside me. I leapt from the couch and threw my hands on my hips. “You see that blue trash can right there?” My arm shot to the floor. “Inside, you’ll find the results from a slew of tests I had done because you cheated on me.” My ponytail whipped around my head. “You’re welcome to read it yourself. You can’t miss it.” I grabbed the wicker wastebasket, fished out the card and threw it at him. “Take that back to Shari!” My heart fluttered like a coked-up hummingbird, as I stared at the side of his face.

He kept his eyes locked on the paper lying on the floor. I hadn’t gone “Rage Against the Machine” on a man since fifth grade when my dad was drunk in the backseat of Mom’s Camaro, and I’d slapped him. Michael scrunched his nose. Wrinkles formed on his forehead. I stood next to the coffee table and watched his mind do the math.

“I just don’t see how this could have happened if…” He rubbed his fingers through his thick, blonde hair once again.

My hands anchored on my hips. “I think you need to go back to Tampa.” I wanted to kick him square in the nuts. Not only had he accused me of being a disease carrier, he’d believed her before even talking to me. I’d promised him complete and total honesty from day one. I’d given him my heart. He’d almost given me the clap. I took a deep breath and tucked my bangs behind my ears. His shoulders were hunched over like a quarterback who’d just lost a big game. I shook my head and strutted past him to the door.

I tugged hard on my front doorknob. “Anything else I can do for you today?” My waitressing instincts kicked in to combat the anger and awkwardness. My back pressed against the open door. I looked up and caught a glimpse of his ashamed, blue eyes and forced myself to look away.

Michael shuffled toward me, then paused in the doorway. Only a few inches separated us. His citrusy smell made me nauseous. He leaned toward me. “I wish we could go back in time.”

I turned my head and slowly closed the door in his face. My forehead rested against the cool, wooden door, as I listened to him pacing in my hallway before sulking down the stairs. I never expected an end like this. I exhaled deeply, letting the shock and anger spill from me. The lesson was so hard to swallow, it would take me ten years to realize what Michael had taught me about love: Even when my relationship wasn’t built around sex, it could still be destroyed by sex.

I walked over to the purple card and plucked it off the hardwood floor. Back to square one. I sighed deeply, letting his news sink in. Then I stepped into the kitchen and slid the card under the sand dollar magnet on my freezer. The most important test of my semester didn’t happen on a college campus, and I needed a daily reminder.

RAUL

“BRASS MONKEY”

Beastie Boys

REWIND: I leaned forward on the barstool and plucked my Dixie cup off the worn-wood bar. A haze of smoke lingered above two pool tables at the back of the narrow room. This was our place—a dark, cloudy bar with black poster board covering the windows, and a trickle of bikers and head bangers making their way in the dented, metal door.

I lifted the clear cup to my lips with a smirk. “So this is the kind of place you bring girls you’re courting.” The ice-cold Sam Adam’s Honey Brown tickled my tongue as it flowed down my throat. Two beefy guys with barbed wire tattoos sharpened cues next to the pool table. I glanced down at my blue Express dress shirt and strappy sandals. I must have looked as out of place as Kim Kardashian at a Kentucky truck stop. Raul always took me to Society Hill on South Beach on Saturday nights. It seemed like a foreign country compared to the velvet ropes, thumping Lamborghinis and $20 cover charges lining Washington Avenue just yards away from our barstools.

“I don’t need to court you anymore.” Raul’s full lips spread into a Cheshire Cat grin. “You’re my woman.” His deep voice emphasized the “wooh” in “woman.” Then, he burped. I rolled my eyes in disgust.

I ran my fingernails playfully through his wiry, black hair. “You never courted me in the first place, smart ass.” He kept his hair buzzed super-short to fend off unruly curls he hated almost as much midterms. But Raul wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that made him look like a science geek. He reminded me of the boys in school who always sat in the front row taking copious notes—a constant reminder that looks can be deceiving.

“Come on!” Raul grabbed the edge of my barstool and pulled me closer to him. “You gotta be shitting me. Would you rather go hold hands at some sappy movie, Bro?” His biceps flexed tight against the cuffs of his blue-striped T-shirt. Raul always spoke with an air that was half confident, half carefree, and his terms of endearment ranged from “bro” to “baby” to “beeatch.” I found it boyishly attractive sometimes, repulsive others.

I shook my head in disbelief as he squeezed my upper thighs. “Dinner and a movie would be nice once in a while.” We’d gone out to dinner just once—Outback Steakhouse on Valentine’s Day about four weeks into our relationship—and I’d paid. I cocked my head and glared at him. “You’re lucky I’m not a whiny bee-atch.”

Dating Raul was an exercise in unconventional relationship wisdom that marveled me some days and frustrated me others. His free hand moved from his beer to the thigh of my jeans. I watched my thigh disappear under his gigantic knuckles, hands big enough to palm a basketball. He’d mastered the petting, but nothing else.

An evil smile engulfed his face. “Movie dates are boring.” He pulled my leg on his barstool. “Why would you want to go sit in the dark with someone you want to talk to and be quiet for two hours, Bro?” I gazed at his baby face, studying his thoughts. You can’t get to know someone if you only go to the movies together. It was one of the many golden lessons in life that slacker instilled in me, and it took me years to realize it. Raul began rubbing my calf. I loved how he always touched my skin as soon as it was exposed: shoulders, stomach or ankles. His touch made my ears muffle the words coming out of his mouth. Raul’s affection was a temporary concealer for our problems, just like make-up that covers big zits.

My fingers bridged over the rim of the cup. I nodded my head and propped my right leg onto his hip. Raul looked deep into my eyes. “You’re the one who wanted this, remember?” He could have passed for Daniel Tosh’s twin brother from Tosh.O with slightly fuller lips and a bigger nose, but the same dirty mouth and foul sense of humor.

I tucked my bangs behind my ears and smiled at the plastic pitcher of beer sitting between us. “Yeah, yeah, thanks for the intervention.” Five months before, I didn’t know him. I didn’t know that bar. After the unsettling break-up with Michael, my weekly schedule revolved totally around work and school. No television. No dates. No social life. When other Florida International University students were gearing up to party all weekend, I washed my uniforms and prepared for four, back-to-back shifts at The Cheesecake Factory. My five-step plan for financial success involved a strict financial budget, an even stricter diet and a relentless drive to graduate with honors—not a full-blown relationship with a Puerto Rican kid from Hialeah who burped in my face.

He raised his beer cup. “Somebody needed to come along and wake you up, woman.” Raul grinned between sips. “You needed a man to set you straight.” He emphasized the first syllable of every word. Raul had tucked me under his carefree wing the first week of my second semester, and my world immediately had taken a 180-degree turn. The responsible girl had gone to recess. Nearly two years of opportunity for creating epic college memories—my sophomore year at Kansas State and half my junior year at FIU—had passed me by while I’d picked up double shifts and memorized lecture notes. My determination to make lots of money and graduate with honors had bordered on obsession before meeting Raul.

I squealed and play-punched him in the arm. “Whatever, you ass! That’s why you kept pursuing me? I needed you, huh?” I’d met Raul on my first day of class at FIU’s School of Journalism and Mass Communications. We were the same age with the same major in public relations, so I thought we’d have a lot in common. He’d asked for my number at the end of our first Media Law and Ethics lecture, then announced that he’d be dropping the class because he could “put off an elective this boring” for another semester. At the time, no room existed in my focused world for the complications of a relationship. Period. After a pizza delivery pseudo-date with an aspiring actor—who left the next day for a casting call in Orlando and never called again and a “study” date with David, the saltwater fish salesman, who thought smoking weed was foreplay—my goose was cooked. I went cold turkey. My two-year string of humbling break-ups had finally spooked me into abstinence. I simply didn’t have the strength to carry any more ex-boyfriend baggage. Two months of birth control pills were unnecessarily ingested, which seemed like reason to celebrate. I bought a pet iguana to keep me company and named him “Dax.”

Raul pushed my hair from my face. “I kept calling you because you’re cool. And you’re pretty.” He delivered his compliment like a snarky third grader. “You see. I am an emotional guy.”

I huffed into my beer. “Whatever.” My eyes rolled back. My eyeballs hurt after every barstool conversation with Raul. “You called me because you liked it.” I wrapped my lips flirtatiously around the edge of my cup. He pinched my exposed stomach. I batted him away, tugging at the sides of my tight, wide-collared top. He was about as emotional as Arnold Schwarzenegger in The Terminator. On our first date, Raul had sat on his favorite barstool at Society Hill, asking naughty questions that ranged from the craziest place I’d ever had sex to the most erotic spot on my body. We’d made out in the ripped seats of his beat-up Honda like horny teenagers. For an hour, he’d begged and begged me to invite him upstairs, like a kid who wanted his Halloween candy.

While Raul had sucked on my neck and nibbled at my side on our first date—already deploying my shared secrets against me—a bright idea had flown into my tipsy head: I will use him. I’d have emotionally detached sex with him the way many ex-boyfriends had done with me. I’d told him my rules and intentions before walking into my apartment: “I’m not interested in a relationship.” I was in control of the date and my love life. I never expected Raul to call me again; I didn’t really want him to.

“You’re damn right.” He leaned into me, pressing his lips to mine. Raul’s kisses were always luscious and sensual, just like John’s. I loved the feeling of his mouth engulfing my lips. Raul didn’t have the thick goatee, straight hair and square chin like the Cuban guys, but he definitely had the Latino kissing technique mastered. Jedi Master mastered.

He pulled back and looked into my eyes. “But then I got to know you, Baby.” A big grin spread across my face. Raul always knew when to shut down his smart-ass hydrant and spray on the charm.

I reached for my beer. “I told you I was a nice girl.” The fact that a one-night stand had turned into six months of exclusivity gave me a false sense of hope that I could have a long, healthy relationship after years of giving it up too early. Within a week of our first date, those late nights and long afternoons of dissecting court cases about freedom of speech were interrupted by unexpected knocks at my door. Raul would duck under my doorway with a six-pack of Rolling Rock in one hand and his Les Paul guitar in the other. He’d thumb through my CD collection, but always chose the Beastie Boys and cranked up “Brass Monkey.” Almost two decades later, “Brass Monkey” makes even more sense as our song because all we ever did together was drink and make out. We’d both been twenty-one for less than one year, and the liberating thrill of being able to drink in public, legally, had yet to wear off. Raul’s drink of choice was beer and his choice of job paid very little, so my palate for wine remained fledgling.

I grabbed the nape of his neck and pulled him closer. “Just because we’ve been together this long doesn’t get you off the hook.” I threw back my head with a laugh. “You gotta respect your woman.” I mimicked him with my best WOOH-man. I pressed my lips softly to his, then tugged at his upper lip.

His luscious lips surrounded mine, then he pulled away. “This is the longest I’ve ever been with one girl.” His fingers laced with mine. I glanced down at his size eleven tennis shoes hanging over the foot rail. The boy had big everything—and I mean everything—except manners.

“I’m not surprised,” I replied with a smirk. “Most girls wouldn’t put up with your crap for longer than a month.” The only way to win with Raul was to play his game—two quick jabs to follow his. I think it felt so good to act like the cocky teenager again because I’d grown up way too fast.

But a relationship can only run so long on great sex and draft beer alone. Before Raul had even ordered the second pitcher of beer on our first date, he’d already ticked way too many boxes in the deal-breaker column: the twelve-inch differential in our heights; his lackadaisical attitude toward college; his constant use of the words “bro” and “dude;” his gushing pride over the fact he still lived at home with his parents and abuela and planned to milk that security blanket for as long as he could; his zodiac sign (Sagittarius—the bachelor); his faded, black Honda sedan with the broken AC and missing front bumper; his distain for Latin dancing; and his lack of a full-time job. He spent every other weekend being a deck hand at the Aventura yacht club, but insisted on working only forty hours per month when I clocked forty each week. And there was still that distant fear that he too might screw like a monkey.

“Whatever, my ass.” Raul raised his beer to his lips. “This works. We fit.” His eyes moved from my face to my thighs, as he glided one finger down my stomach. “We have fun. That’s why we’re together.”

I looked him in the eye. “You can have fun and be responsible at the same time.” I remembered those first impromptu visits to my apartment, him sitting on the edge of my bed strumming chords while old-school rap blasted in our ears, and a stack of study cue cards weighed heavy in my lap.

“I’ll have plenty of time to do grown-up stuff when I’m old.” He pushed his thick glasses up his big nose. “The real world isn’t going anywhere.”

I peered at the liquor bottles on the back bar. “I guess you’re right.” I rubbed his thigh through his jeans. Raul constantly put my days of sacrificing happiness today for career success tomorrow into perspective. Most nights, I’d get five hours of sleep, but the lack of rest didn’t seem to affect my grades. When I should have crammed for quizzes, I slurped White Russian daiquiris (relapse!) with him at Fat Tuesday. I’d even dropped my International Business class and started taking guitar lessons, hoping to become good enough to strum with Raul or my brother and mom, who both played a mean “Proud Mary.” To complete my transformation to a new woman, Jorge chopped off my long, permed curls and sculpted my hair into chunky, straight layers like Jennifer Aniston’s on Friends.

My palm caressed his chest through his pinstriped tee. “You know, I would have figured things out with or without you, punk.”

We finished off the pitcher and paid the tab. I wasn’t changing my life for him. I was changing it for myself. Looking back, I realize the importance of being with someone who helps balance me out. It was yet another lesson that Raul was sent to teach me.

My exes could always sense when I was taken. How do guys do that? As soon as I’d settled into a somewhat stable relationship, men emerged from my past and circled me, like wild dogs hunting for dinner at dusk. First came the phone call from Matthew—on Valentine’s Day night, which pissed me off even more. Raul was in my kitchen, fishing two Heinekens from the refrigerator, while I stood by my nightstand with the phone in my hand, shaking. “Don’t…ever…call…me…again.” I snipped each word, my voice trembling. Next up was Chris, who called on a weekday afternoon. He said he’d fallen into a deep depression after our break-up and had been in therapy. Talk about making an ex-girlfriend feel like shit. He said he was finally a happy person again and living in Philadelphia. He called me because he needed closure. I apologized for being immature, for deserting him, for not explaining why I’d left. He said he was sorry for being careless with our money. When I told him a collection agency had been calling for him, he just laughed. Good ol’ Chris. A few weeks later, the phone rang again. That time, Michael’s warm voice filled the line. He asked how I’d been and then stuttered through an awkward invitation to dinner. I can’t imagine how embarrassing and hard that was after his STD affirmation. His chase was so sweet, and I might have given him another chance under different circumstances. He owned a boat and a condo in the Keys, remember?! But my heart was devoted to the skinny Puerto Rican guy whose idea of a perfect date involved the Burger King drive-thru, a six-pack of Heineken and a free joint from his buddy Manny. Raul was always more good than bad, more positive than negative, more party than pooper.

Our pendulum of happiness and frustration swung back and forth every few months for two years. And the swings were as wide as the Golden Glades Interchange. First, Raul went to Disney World with his family the week of my birthday and never so much as called. Raul was notorious for not calling and always being late. He showed up a few days later with a stuffed dolphin and one of his big grins and playful apologies. The make-up sessions in my apartment somehow made his antics worth the irritation, and made me forget that I’d already gotten my Disney revenge by spending a night with an the exotic flower importer, who had Taylor Lautner’s face and a Chippendale dancer’s body—basically a dead ringer for Jacob the Twilight skin-walker. The greatest one-night stand of my life.

The normal boyfriend hibernating deep inside Raul’s cave of a brain pounced around the eight-month mark. He massaged my feet after long bartending shifts. He invited me to Sunday dinner at his house with his entire family—all thirteen of them—where we shared a pot of arroz con pollo the size of a trashcan. He enrolled in my travel and tourism class, so we could spend more time together, then rarely showed up for class and bummed my notes. It was the kind of yo-yo relationship that kept me holding onto a plantain of hope that he would someday grow into my 100-percent dream guy, not just the thirty percent he was half the time.

Raul finally asked me out on a date, a real one, which included dinner at an authentic Puerto Rican restaurant, followed by a movie, Kiss the Girls, based on James Patterson’s novel about a serial killer who drugged, kidnapped and raped talented, young women. That movie changed my entire outlook on our relationship, and my life. I lived alone. I walked on campus alone. I parked my car on the street outside my apartment building alone. I was Ashley Judd minus the kick-boxing training. A real-life Casanova could stuff a chloroform-laden rag in my face and pull me into a white van. No one would even know I was missing for days; no one, except Raul, who shared a bathroom with his grandma. You need this man, Harley. You’re a prime target for abduction, I told myself. I hadn’t felt that vulnerable since getting hit by a taxicab while rollerblading on Key Biscayne, two months before I’d met Raul. (Being single and living alone wasn’t nearly as empowering when I couldn’t walk or touch my toes.) The sooner I got out of college, the sooner I could dump Raul, find my husband and never live alone again. I bought a Tae Bo video, then enrolled in summer school to stay on track for graduation in May of 1997.

“When are you going to declare your area of concentration?” I asked Raul at a table in the campus cafeteria. It was September 1996, and our senior year had just begun. I could almost see the light at the end of the collegiate tunnel, but time was running out. To graduate on schedule next spring, I needed to squeeze sixteen hours of an “area of concentration” into my schedule. These courses had to be outside of my major in mass communications.

He emptied our bag of Doritos into a paper napkin between us. “Mind your own business, Miss Responsible.” Raul sneered, brushing crumbs from his hands dismissively. “Why are you getting on my case?” He wore a Corona T-shirt and gym shorts, reminding me how little he cared about his appearance.

I stuck out my tongue. “Because we need to graduate, smart ass.” I’d just changed my area of concentration to hospitality management due to familiarity, enjoyment and geographical convenience. All Environmental Science and French classes—the other areas I’d considered—were offered on FIU’s main campus more than one hour from the communications school campus in North Miami. And if you’ve ever driven in Miami, you know that traffic on I-95 and the 826 sucks big time. I’d dropped my Ecology and French classes and had loaded up with hospitality electives, which included a course that had me giddy: Wine Technology 101. I’d had no idea such liquid treasures existed in the FIU curriculum. Finishing my degree by sampling wine and studying vineyards sounded like the ideal fit for a waitress/bartender hell-bent on getting great grades without slaving over books everyday.

He slowly chewed a mouthful of chips before speaking. “Next summer? That’s like a year away.”

I turned away from him in my chair. “You have nine months. That’s only two semesters.” I looked down at my sundress and wedge sandals angled in the aisle, then back to his grubby T-shirt.

His face flashed red with frustration. “I might switch majors.” He crumpled the empty bag of chips and tossed it across the table. “I don’t know if I’m cut out for this shit. You know, there’s a lot more writing than I thought.” I nearly coughed up a Dorito. His grandfather had worked as a reporter for a major newspaper in San Juan before moving to the States. I knew Raul wasn’t crazy about studying or writing classes, but I thought he’d always buck up and follow in his grandfather’s footsteps.

I slammed my palm on the tabletop. “You’re insane.” My head jerked back in disgust. “Don’t you want to ever graduate?” I’d dreamed of becoming a writer since sixth grade, and I’d wanted to work in public relations since my first semester in college. My focus was sharp. I had goals to achieve and only a window of time shorter than a pregnancy to get the job done.

“I can always wait until next fall,” he mumbled, fondling his Coke bottle.

My eyes practically shot from their sockets. “Are you for real? That’s another semester.”

“You’re doing it again.” His voice harped. He reclined in his chair. “You need to chill out.”

I gripped the edges of the Formica table. I’d been living by his laissez-faire rules for about ten months. It had been a blast, but I was now a senior in college. The party was almost over.

“I’m doing just fine.” I folded my arms across my chest. “I’m not like you.” I stared at the unruly whiskers on his unshaven face. “I like my classes. I get good grades. I wanna get outta there and have a career.”

“And you want to do this by next summer?”

I bit my lip. I loved having deadlines and goals and over-delivering on both. “If I’m going to work in the wine business, then I need to get moving.” During my first wine class lecture, Professor Chip Cassidy talked about a monk named Dom Pérignon who accidentally created Champagne. He made us squeeze a red grape and watch the white juice come out on a white paper towel. His passion was infectious. I was inspired and hooked.

“You wanna drink wine for a living? And you think I’m a slacker?” He shook his head with a scoff. He didn’t bring up my family, and I appreciated his rare expression of couth. I wanted to spend the rest of my life surrounded by wine—a refined beverage that combines agriculture with alchemy—even though my dad, stepdad, grandma and grandpa all had drinking problems. Deep down, I think I wanted to prove to the world that children of alcoholics can have stable, fulfilling lives centered around the drinking culture. What could possibly be better than drinking responsibly for a living?

I folded my arms tighter. “Hey, you’re the one who said life should be fun. Jobs are a big part of life. They should be fun too.” I’d decided that the key to having both career success and job happiness would be applying my skills (communications) in an industry that fascinated me (wine). It sounded way more exciting than writing press releases for a hospital. “Now that I’ve got my area of concentration locked in, I can work an internship next semester.” My voice barked like a CEO. My wine professor hired interns every semester and had a deep network of contacts throughout the South Florida wine community. And because I hailed from a world where the only Justin was a boot maker—not a Paso Robles winery renowned for its red blends—I needed a jump-start on my wine career.

Raul dropped his nose. “You’re going to work full-time, go to school full-time and do an internship?”

“If you think I can’t, then I guess you don’t know me.” I pushed my metal chair into the long table, then returned to the library to study.

Raul tugged both my hands. “Just come with me, Baby.” It was a Friday night in February, and we were standing right outside Cheesecake in Fat Tuesday’s open-air bar. I’d just finished a server shift; Raul had been slurping Rum Runners with his bestie for hours. Raul’s grin was big and his eyes cloudy. Whenever he hung around Manny, smoking weed was the especialidad de la casa. They always spent an hour trying to figure out the safest place to roll a joint in public, and usually settled on the CocoWalk parking garage.

My hands pushed his away. “You’re a mess.” I slung my work apron over my shoulder and loosened my tie. “I’ll just stay here.” I pulled the scrunchie from my hair and let the straight layers fan around my shoulders. Smoking pot reminded me of the bad times with Chris and Robert, yet Raul had convinced me to smoke with him on two occasions. I’d gained five pounds from caving into the munchies. Those days were over. I grabbed a barstool and sat down. With graduation in my sights, I’d said adiós to such immature, illegal behavior.

“Come on, Bro.” Raul stared at me, grinning. “Don’t leave me hangin’.” It was the same thing he’d said that first night in his car after an hour of making out.

“I’m not doing it.” I glanced over at Manny on his cell phone. “I can’t, and even if I could, I don’t want to.” I crossed my arms and my legs, so he knew I meant business.

After getting the highest grade in my wine class, I’d approached Professor Cassidy about pursuing a career in the wine world. He’d helped me land a part-time gig at The Cellar Club, a members-only wine bar, located at the swanky Biltmore Hotel in Coral Gables. I wrote membership welcome letters, helped track membership dues, fielded phone calls, and helped set up private tastings, and still worked for Cheesecake at night. I definitely didn’t need the money or the extra stress of a second job, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get some wine business experience on my résumé before graduation, and to prove Raul wrong. Random drug tests were standard at The Biltmore Hotel. I had to keep my distance from potheads.

“You don’t have to smoke.” His tone was low and hurried. His eyes darted around the bar, as he sized up the people slurping frozen drinks around us—as if someone was an undercover cop. “I just want to be with you, Baby.”

His eyes fixed on mine. I looked at him in silence, letting the buzz of bar conversations fill my ears. Raul turned to the bartender and ordered my usual White Russian.

A deep sigh left my chest. “Okay, fine. I’ll go.” I peeled myself off the barstool, watching the crush of Saturday night partiers swallow our empty seats. Raul nibbled on my ear down the escalator, then pulled me through a pink metal door into the parking garage.

I stood at the top of the flight of stairs in my white jeans and button-down shirt, while Raul huddled over Manny in the stairwell landing below. I rested my head against the metal railing and looked down at my wristwatch. Manny fished a Ziploc baggy from his jeans’ pocket. I scoffed, looking up at the empty stairs above my head. Hurry up, slackers. I tapped my white sneakers on the concrete floor.

The heavy metal door between stairwells flew open. Two men in dark uniforms charged in and yelled, “Police! Put your hands up!” My body froze, as my worst nightmare unfolded. Adrenaline surged through me.

One officer glanced over his shoulder and spotted me sitting one flight above the drug bust. “You! Get down here!” Oh, fuck. Not me too. I sulked down the stairs,, legs wobbly with fear. The officer pushed me up against the cinder-block wall and dumped my purse on the concrete floor. Tampons, lipstick, ink pens and spare change rolled around my feet. I looked away, my face flushing red with anger and embarrassment. The only thing worse would have been a vibrator flopping out and buzzing on the floor. The officer pressed my cheek against the cold wall and frisked me. The stairwell smelled of smoke, stale beer and dirty water. Shame spilled over my helpless body. From the corner of my eye, I watched the other cop frisk Manny, then Raul. The disgrace felt sharper and deeper than the time I’d gotten arrested in high school for skinny-dipping. I kept reminding myself of the disclaimer at the beginning of every episode of Cops: I was innocent until proven guilty by a court of law.

“She doesn’t have anything to do with this,” Raul said over his shoulder, as the officer kicked his feet apart. “She didn’t do anything wrong.” Raul’s hands were laced above his head.

I shot Raul a death stare. My blood was boiling, but my tongue was paralyzed. I’m not like him, Officer. I was still wearing my Cheesecake uniform! There must have been hidden security cameras, and my boss might see the tape. I couldn’t believe I’d gotten myself into such a piss-poor situation.

The cop finished rubbing his hands over my jeans’ pockets. I kept my eyes closed and my right cheek pressed against the cold concrete wall. My jaw trembled. I could hear his fingers shuffling through my belongings on the floor.

“She’s clean.” The man’s voice rang out in my left ear. “You can go.” His tone was stern and curt like a high school principal.

I turned and watched the other cop pulling Manny out the door in handcuffs.

My eyes locked on Raul’s, like lasers burning holes in his head. I took a deep, quivering breath and shook my head, before leaning down to grab my purse.

Raul threw his big hands in the air. “I have to help him, you know.” His eyes were wild and pleading. “I can’t let him go through this alone. He’s my best friend.”

My chest thumped wildly, as I watched Raul scurry out the door after the cops, leaving me alone in the stairwell to pick up my tampons.

Hours later, a fist banged on my front door. I rubbed my eyes and looked at my alarm clock. It was 4:06 a.m. I dragged myself out of bed and peeked through the peephole to see Raul pacing in my hallway. I flipped the dead bolt and opened the door slowly. He blasted past me.

“How could you desert me like that?” His voice wailed; his eyes were buggy and bloodshot. “My best friend is being taken to jail and you run in the other direction. I needed you.” My back was pressed against the wall where he’d made love to me a dozen times. I looked down at my silk sleeper shorts and matching top, then wrapped my arms around myself. I needed a robe, and didn’t own one.

“You’re turning this on me?” My hands shot from my sides. “You almost got me arrested!” I looked at his bewildered face, then rubbed my cold arms. My air-conditioner in the window hummed while we stood in silence, looking at each other. “How could I possibly get a real job with a misdemeanor on my record?”

“All I’m saying is that I needed you to be there for me. You’re my girl. You weren’t.” Raul shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Why is it always one step forward and two steps back with us?” My mind raced from Christmas with his family to the pot bust. “Why can’t we just have a normal night out that doesn’t involve a fucking tow truck or a cop car?” I’d recently bought a used Honda Civic because my Pontiac sounded like it had black lung disease, and Raul had convinced me to let him drive it to South Beach the night I’d brought it home. He’d talked me into parking it in a residential neighborhood, which led to the car being towed and me spending two days and $300 to get it out of the impound yard because I only had temporary tags.

“I said I was sorry,” he said. “Why can’t you let it go?”

“It was your fault, and I had to pay.” I turned my back to him and looked at my unmade bed two feet away from us. “I’m always the one that ends up paying.” My tiny apartment was never a good place to have an argument with a boyfriend—especially not while wearing lingerie.

“This is me.” Raul’s voice echoed in my head. “You said you wanted to have more fun.”

“This isn’t fun anymore,” I whispered. My toes circled a plank in my wood floor while Duncan Sheik’s “Barely Breathing” played in my head—my personal anthem that winter.

“Baby.” He stepped toward me. “Come on.” I could feel his warm breath on my bare shoulders. “I needed you then, I need you now.” His warm hands squeezed my cold arms. Tears pooled in my eyes. He spun me around and grabbed my chin with his thumb. “Look at me,” he whispered, wiping a lone tear trailing down my cheek. His brown eyes watered. Seeing Raul’s emotional side made me cave. I began to question my actions. Am I wrong not to be supportive? He was my boyfriend. Did I desert him? He hugged me long and deep, then lifted my chin so our lips would touch.

“Why is it always so damn hard?” I asked, letting the tears pour. Deep down, I knew coasting along with Raul couldn’t continue much longer. I just didn’t have the energy to find a new boyfriend. And I still thought I needed one so Skin City wouldn’t swallow me whole. Starting over from scratch with another guy—fumbling around for weeks to try to figure out if we were compatible or if he was going to turn into a bat and fly away after midnight—seemed like more work than I could handle.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” I watched a tear trickle from his eye for the first time. “You know how much I care about you.” Raul wrapped his long arms tight around me. I inhaled his musky cologne, a welcomed scent after the stench of a mall stairwell. My lips began to move, reacting to my need to reciprocate with an “I love you,” but I stopped myself. He had yet to tell me he loved me even though I’d said it several times. “I’ve never said that to anyone but my mom,” he’d kept telling me. “It’s going to take time.” Raul knew how to push my buttons—the good ones and the bad. We’d had passionate, sweaty sex on every piece of furniture in my apartment and against every wall, door and appliance. Raul had the moves—and body—of Mark Wahlberg in Boogie Nights. Kicking a good lover to the curb when we spent the limited amount of time we had together kissing and screwing didn’t seem rational. Not only was it the longest monogamous relationship I’d ever had, it was the first relationship where I’d learned the importance of having sexual chemistry with someone. Too bad we only had the physical part aced.

I moved into a one-bedroom apartment in South Miami with a remodeled kitchen, room for a dining room table, a screened-in patio for my lizard and a communal pool in the courtyard. Working two jobs helped me squirrel away enough cash for the upgrade and a makeover. I sold my hand-painted living room furniture to a co-worker and purchased a sleek, oak futon couch with matching coffee table and entertainment center. The last remnants of Matthew’s ghost were officially gone. I bought my first wine rack and filled it with newly discovered bottles from Santa Barbara, California, to Colchagua, Chile. The finer things were gaining importance in my life, but Raul was still drinking bland beer. A few months had passed since the stairwell fiasco, and I still gave him the spare key to my apartment. “Not that you’ll ever stay the night.” He knew it was a challenge. Then he told his mom he was staying at Manny’s house and slept the entire night in my new apartment with his long, muscular arms wrapped around me.

My college graduation finally arrived—the day I’d been looking forward to since high school. I sat in the blazing sun of Miami in May, wearing my black cap and gown amidst a sea of fellow classmates and couldn’t have been happier. Raul wore dress slacks, a white oxford and a tie. I couldn’t help but marvel at his metamorphosis. He sat with my mom and brother in the bleachers on the lawn at FIU’s South Campus, whistling, clapping and hollering my name, as I crossed the stage with sweat on my brow and gold honor society ropes around my neck. When the words “magna cum laude” echoed through the loud speakers, I raised my chin. My father didn’t come to the ceremony, which stung, but I hid my hurt under that hideous, tasseled cap. Dad could drive a truck to Canada to fish for a week, but he couldn’t get on an airplane to watch his only daughter become the first woman in the family to receive a college diploma. Growing up, he rarely came to my softball games or cheerleading performances, but I thought graduation might be different. I’d yet to learn the biggest lesson of all: You can’t change a man.

“I’m so proud of you, Baby,” Raul said afterward, squeezing my hands. That boy could be so good when he needed to be. I wondered if he might like the feeling of that dress shirt and tie so much he’d transform into a devoted career man. It was one of the most rewarding, happy days of my life, and Raul was there by my side. For my graduation present, Raul gave me an iguana that would be “ours.” We named him Parker. We’d rocked back to a good place at the eighteen-month mark—the longest relationship of my life. I began wrestling with the notion that the longer relationships last, the more extremes a girl must endure.

I came home from an afternoon shift at Cheesecake and found Raul sitting on my futon. Three empty Heineken bottles were lined up on my coffee table. It was the first week of June and humid as hell.

“I’ve made a decision about my future,” Raul said, swallowing air. I draped my work apron on the back of the futon. He was wearing his usual daytime attire: a logoed T-shirt and cotton gym shorts.

He grabbed my hands and pulled me down to the couch. My mind began to gallop. Has he declared a new major? Will he graduate before the new millennium? My eyes fixed on his lips, awaiting the next few words. I’d made a decision about my future too. I had a diploma; I’d crossed over into the real world. We’d drifted too far apart. It was time to dump Raul. Being the breaker-upper was something I hadn’t really done since Chris.

“I’m sailing to Brazil,” he said firmly, rubbing my knuckles. “I’m going to sail on a sixty-foot boat from here to the Rio de Janerio with a crew of just four.” He grabbed a new bottle of beer from a cardboard six-pack next to him. His face had a look of determination I’d never seen. “This is a chance of a lifetime I never thought would happen.” His big fingers laced into mine. I looked into his brown eyes—past the bent rim and chipped lens on his glasses. Can he take care of himself at sea?

I sat on the edge of my futon. “When are you leaving?” In two weeks, I’d be on a flight to France, spending a week studying viticulture in the Burgundy wine region. The trip was an award for earning the highest grade in my Wine Technology 101 class. My plan had been to break-up with Raul when I returned from my trip.

“I leave this Saturday.”

My eyes widened. Sailors are amazingly free-spirited people. Gypsies of the water, I thought, mind whizzing back to Matthew. Who can decide in seven days that they’re going to cross the equator by boat and just do it? “I’ll be back in September.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I know that’s a long time to be apart. But will you wait for me?” His eyes locked onto mine.

I sat in silence on the edge of my futon. I felt like I’d been punched in the throat. The break-up speech I’d already begun practicing flooded my brain. I took a deep breath and collapsed into the cushion. He was leaving me. The exit ramp was wider than a Los Angeles freeway.

“Come on, Baby,” he said. “Don’t leave me hanging.” His signature line. Raul smiled at me with his brown eyes flashing. He leaned in and started nibbling on my neck.

I pulled away. “Do you think this is the best thing for your future?”

“I’ve dreamed of doing this since I was a teenager.” He peeled the label off a Heineken. “If I don’t do it now, I may never get the chance.”

I admired him for chasing his dreams, no matter how polar opposite they were to mine.

“Ummm, okay,” I smiled sheepishly. “I guess I’ll wait for you.” My teeth clenched as the words crept out of my mouth.

“You will?” A look of pleasant surprise washed over his baby face.

I hopped off the couch. “Three months apart will be good for us.” I walked to my refrigerator to grab the chilled bottle of dry rosé.

“That’s the only part I’m not cool with,” he said. “Guys will be after you.”

I poured myself a glass, shaking my head. “I can handle myself.” I sipped the crisp, strawberry-hued wine from my fancy, Riedel crystal glass. Breaking up before his oceanic adventure—the easy way out—didn’t seem fitting after nearly two years of our tumultuous relationship. I was challenging my morality. A strong woman would choose three months of celibacy over another summer of dating the plethora of immature men who treated their women like cars—lease but never own. Ninety days without the headaches of relationships seemed like a great way to cleanse my soul and say “adiós” forever to my college-dating era. I listened to Natalie Imbruglia’s “Torn” constantly that summer; it made me feel like it was okay to be out of faith, filled with illusions about love that hadn’t become real.

I stood outside customs at Miami International Airport, pacing. It was Labor Day weekend, and Raul was coming home. His mother and father stood across the crowded aisle as travelers streamed between us. They never made eye contact or waved, which didn’t surprise me. I always felt like a stray dog they didn’t want hanging around their house. I was stealing their youngest child, their only son, their baby. And I was as white as rice.

A deeply tanned, tall, gangly guy strutted into the corridor. If it wasn’t for the thick glasses, I wouldn’t have recognized Raul. Black ringlets covered his head, not unlike an afro. His thin cheeks were covered with scrappy stubble. I stood quietly, waiting to see if he’d scan the crowd for me. I watched his eyes move from me to his family on the other side of the barricades. That big grin that had won me over in the first place spread across his face. He waved to his parents, then rushed over to me, dropped his two duffle bags and scooped me into his arms, hugging me tightly. My entire body was a ball of nerves. He’d called me twice during his voyage and had sent me three postcards. After two years, I truly cared for him. Even though the movie credits were about to run on our love story, we’d been through a ton of crazy shit together. We’d chalked up so many memories—some quite disturbing then, but laughable now.

“I missed you,” he whispered in my ear. His glasses squished my cheeks.

“I missed you too.” I pulled back. I could feel his mother’s eyes burning into my head.

“Don’t move.” He turned to his parents. I watched Raul dart across the aisle and hug each of them. His mother covered his face in kisses. Then Raul walked back to me with his duffle bags slung over his shoulder. “I’m going with you.”

An hour later, Raul tugged me up the steps onto the covered patio of their beachfront condo. My legs locked just short of the front door.

I looked down at my sundress. “I don’t know if this is such a good idea.” His family rented a big condo on Hollywood Beach for two weeks every September, and I’d never been invited to join them before. Crashing the treasured family time of thirteen Puerto Rican-Americans was something I had not prepared for, and I’m sure his mother had not either. Raul hadn’t made any phone calls the last two weeks of his journey.

“Come on. It’ll be fine,” he said with a scoff. “I’m not letting you leave my sight.” His tanned fingers squeezed mine. I followed him into the sparkling white great room, which combined living, dining and kitchen into one cozy space. Two of his sisters sat on a tropical-patterned, wicker sofa with their noses buried in People and Cosmopolitan magazines. “Hi,” they said in unison. I looked over to his tall, thick mother, standing over a white kitchen counter.

“¿Que quieres beber, Raulito?” she asked. His mom always spoke in Spanish. She began banging cabinet doors and plates in the kitchen. I gripped the straps of my purse, waiting. Sand sprinkled across the white tile floors crunched under my flip-flops. There was no “¡Hola! ¿Cómo estás?” for me, and definitely no bebida. I was the invisible woman.

“I’ll get changed,” I said to Raul, then slipped outside to the parking lot. I fished my beach bag from my car. In Miami, bikinis and beach towels were always kept in the trunk in case of emergencies, just like spare tires. And this was an emergency.

We went for a sail to have some alone time.

“I think I should go.” I was perched across from him on his Hobe Cat. I wore my new blue-and-green striped bikini. The boat glided parallel to the beach about fifty yards offshore. “I’m not welcome here.” My toes and fingers pressed against the fiberglass. His mom always made me feel like an outsider. I figured she wanted him to settle down with a pretty Latina—not spend two years dating a gringa transplant who tended bar. My mind zipped back to Alicia telling me Latin men were tethered to their mothers for life. It was yet another reason why our relationship was doomed.

“Oh, come on.” He pulled the ropes on the sail. “Tack!” he shouted coolly, and we ducked our heads as the main sail flew to the other side. “Just give them some time.” My ponytail flapped against my neck as I watched his lips. “I’ve been gone for months, and the first thing I wanted to do was spend time with you. That’s hard for my parents.” I pushed my sunglasses up my nose and rolled my eyes. Having lived away from home since age eighteen, I could not relate. A fiercely independent woman and a fiercely dependent man make for strange bedfellows.

“I’m never going to be welcome.” The wind whipped stray hairs around my face. “I’m a white girl from a broken home who fled to Miami to find a new life where I live alone, don’t go to church and want to market wine for a living.” My hands gripped the top of the fiberglass hull. “I am the devil, el diablo.” Deep down, I always believed that one of the reasons Raul dated me was because it pissed off his parents.

He rolled his eyes and laughed, brushing off the cultural differences like always.

The fear of confronting him felt like a rusty anchor in my belly, pulling me deeper into the ocean with every passing second. I took a deep breath of salty air. “We can’t keep pretending this is going anywhere, you know.” I watched the sail above, preparing for the next tack. Tiny turquoise waves patted the bow.

He tugged on the ropes. “Where should it be going?” His bare, tanned chest glistened in the afternoon sun. He looked leaner and more muscular than ever before. I pushed the memories of his sensual touch out of my mind—an easier feat than usual, thanks to his unruly cheek hair and afro.

I looked out into the open ocean, watching the water melt into a deep blue at the horizon. “Nowhere.” I took a deep breath of the salty air. “We’re in different places in life. We want different things.” The words flew from my mouth. They’d been imprisoned in my head for months. I kept my eyes fixed on my tanned legs against the white fiberglass.

“How do you know that?” he asked. “I’ve been gone for three months. Spending weeks at sea can change a person.” My chest tightened. The wind died down. The jib sail fluttered slowly, then collapsed against the pole. The boat stalled twenty yards offshore.

“I’m moving to California.” A wave of relief washed over me as soon as the words left my lips.

“You’re whaaaaat?” His head crooked as he dropped the rope. The main sail’s boom banged against the hull. “When did you decide this?”

“While you were sailing.” My eyes stayed fixed on my calves; my heartbeat thrashed. “I started a new job last month working for a wine magazine. If I want to be successful in winery public relations, I need to live in California wine country.” My fingers squeezed my knees. Quality wine grapevines can’t grow in the tropics, so most Florida wine jobs were in sales. I’d accepted the fact that the only way to advance my career was to leave Florida, but first, I’d landed one of the few non-sales jobs. The Wine News, a well-regarded bi-monthly with international circulation, had editorial offices located in The Biltmore Hotel. When the publisher learned of my journalism background, she’d offered me a position as editorial assistant. After gaining a year of experience, I would move to Santa Rosa, California, the largest city in Sonoma County wine country. I would finally be a California girl—just three years after I’d seen the Pacific Ocean for the first time. Maybe I’d meet a winemaker and fall in love.

Raul jumped into the water and guided the bow to starboard. “I can’t believe you’re saying this.” He glanced up at my face. “All I thought about on that boat was you.” His voice cracked while waves sloshed against his chest. “And how much I missed you. I thought maybe we’d move in together when I graduate.” My eye widened. My throat tightened. I felt like I’d swallowed a mango.

“You’re finally at the place in our relationship where I wanted you to be a year ago.” I threw one hand in the air. My toes curled against the fiberglass. I shook my head, glancing out into the still water. We sat in silence, listening to the water slosh against his boat.

Raul exhaled. His head and shoulders bobbed in the water. “Baby, you’re the first girl I ever loved.” He angled the tiny boat toward the shore with me sitting atop like a princess in a chariot. Hearing the words “girlfriend” and “love” come out of his mouth sounded like a foreign language.

My head cocked sideways. “Oh, now you love me.”

“Come on!” His brown eyes pleaded. “You know I love you.”

“How many guys spend their entire life with their first love?” My expression was as flat as the water. I glanced from his eyes to my bare feet resting between the hulls. Raul didn’t need to scour two states looking for love as I’d done, but he needed to date more girls to be sure which one was The One. I tried to count the number of guys I’d loved since my first and lost count at twenty, and I still wasn’t sure how to spot Mr. Right.

“There’s someone else, isn’t there?” His tiny brown eyes scanned my face from the water.

I looked him straight in the eye. “You think I can’t leave you on my own? I can. I am.” I’d gone ninety days without a man’s touch, and felt like I could conquer the world on my own for the first time. My determination had shifted to focusing on my career. I wanted to quit bartending and work in the wine trade from nine to five; that thought filled me with the kind of pleasure and joy that Raul could not.

The wind never returned. I quietly watched Raul as he pushed the Hobe Cat to shore, me resting on top. I felt like laughing and crying at the same time. My emotions were torn between the sadness of saying goodbye and the joy of putting myself first.

Back on shore, Raul looked down at me. “How about we make a pact?” He stood next to my car in his swim trunks and flip-flops. “We could still date until one of us starts seeing someone else.” His eyes fluttered behind his broken glasses. His trademark grin emerged.

“We’ll see.” I stared at his carved pecks and abs I might never touch again.

I held out my hand. “Can I have my key back?” My palm trembled. He hesitantly dug into his pocket. I tugged on the door handle. Raul slid his arm between the car and me.

“As long as you break it off before you sleep with someone else.” He paused and pressed his hand against my car door. “I’ll accept it’s over between us. I’ll accept it someday, but not right now.” He leaned down and wrapped his arms around me. I hugged him back, smelling his scent one last time. Sorrow barreled through me, then a wave of relief. As he stepped away from my car door, I looked down at the pavement.

“I’ll sleep on it,” I replied and slipped into the driver’s seat.

FERNANDO

“CRASH INTO ME”

Dave Matthews Band

REWIND: I stood on my third-story patio and stared down at the grassy courtyard, dimly lit by the evening sky. My eyes fixed on the calm swimming pool, searching for answers below the surface. The patio screens surrounding me felt like a cage. I twirled an ink pen in my left hand, keeping rhythm with a flickering votive candle on my bistro table. My bare feet tapped on the concrete floor until my heels felt dusty and sore. I darted back through the sliding-glass door and grabbed a sheet of paper.

I got lost the other night.

My fingers tingled as I gripped the edges of the paper and reread my words. The cool breeze of a November night brushed my bare shoulders. I walked to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of Elsa Malbec. As the Riedel stem touched my lips, the juicy taste triggered a memory flash. I should buy a crisp, white. Fernando loves Italian Pinot Grigio. I grabbed the Blockbuster Music bag off my coffee table and ripped open the new jewel cases. The night before, I’d spent an hour thumbing through racks of CDs at Blockbuster CocoWalk, searching for something completely unknown yet comfortably familiar. French National Orchestra. Duke Ellington. Beethoven. Mozart. I’d snapped their plastic cases into my arms like a mother stockpiling hurricane supplies. The unexplainable urge to buy classical music had hit me as soon as he’d driven away in his pick-up truck. And I had no idea why.

The sound of a delicate violin streamed through my apartment. “Violin Sonata No. 5” instantly collided with memories of the past forty-eight hours. The conversation. The dance floor. My dream. I rested my wine glass on the dining room table. When a piano joined the airy strings, my body glided effortlessly with the music. I flew onto my tiptoes and extended my arms like a swan. My heels dropped to the floor, landing naturally in “first position.” I’d never taken a ballet class in my life.

More violins chanted with the piano. Visions of two horses racing through burning trees flashed in my mind, the same wicked scene from the dream that had woken me the night before. My eyes slammed shut. An endless, shiny wall of white covered my mind like a blizzard.

I rushed back to my desk.

I stood in a crowded room with

bright lights, buzzing conversation

and loud music.

But I couldn’t hear a thing.

Two nights. That was all that had passed since the moment. My thoughts had strapped themselves into a roller coaster without brakes, but I didn’t want the exhilaration to end. I just needed to know why. Why me? Why him? Why now? Why did the uncertainty of this budding romance feel as if our first date would be followed by a funeral?

More words hit the paper. My heart bounced with every mental picture reliving Saturday night: squeezing through the crowd at Sloppy Joe’s in Coconut Grove, bumping shoulders with him—in the exact same spot—two weekends in a row, and chatting all night about our new careers and recent break-ups. I couldn’t help but wonder what force was steering my destiny.

The sounds were muffled in my mind.

My eyes were closed, but

I know, even if they’d been open…

I rested the pen on my desk and grabbed my glass of wine.

“What is it about you, Fernando?” I whispered, gripping the crystal stem. Fernando was no stranger, but I knew him about as well as I knew my dry cleaner. He was Cuban. He’d been dating Alejandra—think Daisy Fuentes with a bigger nose—since high school. She was vivacious, intelligent, driven and my main competition for the highest grade in every public relations class at FIU. She also had grown up in Hialeah on the same street as Raul, and they were as close as cousins. I’d seen Fernando with Alejandra at a few college parties.

On that night at Sloppy Joe’s, we’d spent two hours talking at a tiny bar in the back corner.

“If Wal-Mart would have sold Camo Barbies, I may have never stopped hunting,” I shouted over the music blasting from overhead speakers on the dance floor. My back was arched and my legs crossed at the knee. “The biggest piece of furniture in our living room was my dad’s gun cabinet.” I pushed the hair off my shoulders, laughing. I wore my favorite button-fly Levi’s, a teal tank top that made my blue eyes pop and black slip-on sandals with high heels—comfortable with a touch of class. Fernando’s brown eyes widened behind his thin, designer glasses.

He threw back his head. “No way! I have a gun rack in my bedroom.” His whole face was one big smile, as he leaned into my ear. “I usually don’t tell girls about that right away.” His black goatee was pencil thin; his black hair kept short and sleek.

“Yeah, my experience with loading guns and skinning frogs usually falls into the ‘wait-at-least-four-months-before-sharing’ category.” I sipped my Malibu and pineapple and flashed him a wink. I told him how I’d spent many Sunday afternoons as a kid shooting empty beer cans off tree stumps with my dad. While music blasted and the crowd noise hummed, we debated the merits of live bait vs. lures and bait casting vs. spinning reels. The conversation was worthy of a Jeff Foxworthy redneck skit. This guy can’t possibly be Cuban, I kept telling myself.

My mind continued to race through the memories of that night, as I walked back onto my patio.

He grabbed a wine list from the bar. “So, tell me why I like Pinot Grigio so much.” Fernando loved to drink Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio, which would soon become the most popular Italian wine in America. He had a lean face that reminded me of a young Andy Garcia and wore Banana Republic dress shirts. Yet he drove a black Toyota pick-up truck with a big, metal toolbox spanning the bed—just like my dad.

“Pinot Grigio is a good gateway wine for getting started.” Our cheeks nearly touched as I chatted over the music. “I think it’s because of the combination of fruit, acidity and a touch of sweetness. My first wine love was Riunite d’Or.” It was winter of 1997—more than two years since my summer with John. Between the common interests and the ease of conversation, my heart was doing the “Macarena.”

“What wine would pair best with sole meunière?” His thin lips looked so cute when he said, “MOON-ee-air.” He had me at “moon.” Fernando scooted his barstool closer to mine. “That’s my favorite dish at my favorite restaurant.” My heartbeat revved like a sports car engine. I’d found a guy who liked to shoot guns and enjoyed fresh fish cooked with a classic French preparation.

Fernando kept asking wine questions like an over-eager bookworm. Why are white wines so crisp? Why are red wines so dry? Why did Cabernet stain his teeth? How can you tell when a wine is corked? What types of stories are in a wine magazine? It felt so good to have a guy showing interest in my brain before my body.

I looked down at the half-empty bottle of Malbec of my patio table, remembering what he said next: “I want to be the guy who thumbs through a wine list with confidence.” The guy worked days as a construction foreman. His split personality was utterly fascinating. Throughout the conversation, my brain was swimming in shock. Fernando was the only guy who could relate to the two Harleys: the small-town girl who still liked to go fishing and the career-driven, city woman who wore cocktail dresses to fancy wine tastings.

I got lost the other night.

The poem continued to form in my mind. I jotted down more words, then stared into the courtyard below.

“Let’s dance.” Fernando pulled me onto the dance floor. His callused palms cupped my hands, and the feeling of a new touch made my pulse skyrocket. Almost two months had passed since the Raul break-up, and more than two years since I’d been on a dance floor with a man. We started off with bodies farther apart, bouncing to “Hypnotize” by Notorious B.I.G. It was nothing like my merengue days, but Fernando had the same fluid hip moves as John, my first Latin lover. (I wish we could isolate the dancing part of their DNA and inject it into all white dudes.) By the time Puff Daddy—before he became Puffy, P. Diddy, Diddy and whatever Sean Combs calls himself today—started rapping lyrics to “Mo Money Mo Problems” my back was pressed against Fernando’s, his arms wrapped around me. Heady, dreamy elation consumed my rocking body. My face hurt from its ginormous grin. Even the drunken college girls sloshing their beers beside us could not knock me off my cloud. Fernando rested his chin on my bare shoulder. Our break-ups were a distant memory. We landed on common ground.

The room was dark, almost black.

I had no idea where I was, yet

“Hey!” A voice called out over the music, jolting me from Fernando’s trance. My friend Danielle was standing in the middle of the dance floor with her hands on her curvy hips. “We’ve gotta get outta here.” Danielle cocked her head of wavy brown hair toward the door. She had Chelsea Handler’s spunk and Nigella Lawson’s body—my perfect partner in crime for barhopping. We’d always vowed to use the buddy system, but usually got split within thirty minutes, thanks to our suitors.

I pulled away from him on the crowded dance floor. “I have to go.” I tucked my lips behind my teeth, trying to hide my big-ass smile. Playing it cool was critical. My body turned away. It was like watching an instant replay in slow motion. My eyes followed Danielle’s voluptuous frame, squeezing between two bouncing girls on the dance floor.

My world seemed copacetic even though

I couldn’t explain this amazing thing.

Fernando fingers grabbed mine. He spun me around like a bottle. My nose brushed against his hairy chin, then our lips touched.

I can only call it electric.

Like nothing I’d ever felt before;

Something so powerful and intoxicating

I got lost when I was most in control.

Even though my eyes were closed, I saw the brightest light. Every nerve in my body prickled, turbo-charged by the thrill of the unknown. It felt as if a pair of jumper cables was plugged to our chests. My lungs expanded and froze. I teetered on the edge of numbness and hypersensitivity. There was no music. No bar. No people. Nothing in the world existed except the two of us. I was under his spell. I’d never felt such a wicked sensory overload in my life.

It was a rush of uncertainty and nirvana.

I always dreamed it existed, but

Never knew it would be like this.

What a crazy thing—a kiss.

We backed slowly away from each other, our mouths still open. His eyes locked onto mine. We stood two feet apart on the crowded dance floor for what seemed like five minutes—just staring at each other like two frozen statues. I raised my hand to my tingling face. My fingertips felt like lightening rods touching my lips, but my body couldn’t move.

“Holy fuck,” Fernando said, his jaw hanging open.

“Holy shit.” My eyes stayed locked on his, as I backed away, disappearing into the crowd.

I read every scribbled sentence on the paper three times, then sat in my swivel desk chair and launched Word Perfect. My fingers flew across the computer keyboard. I desperately needed each line, each word, to be neat and perfect. The clarity would hopefully end the confusion. When the paper fell from my printer, my fingertips caressed the page. I read the poem once more just to relive the sensory rush.

“He is for real,” I whispered, looking at my reflection in the patio doors. “You gotta chill out. Pull it together.” A single kiss had melted my brain, sucking me dry of rational thoughts. I’d been talking to my reflection in doors, windows, mirrors, my computer screen—even the Coconut Grove Arts Festival painting on my living room wall. Visions of flying horses? I felt more strung out than Fergie from The Black Eyed Peas the night she talked to the clothes hamper. And I’d only had two mixed drinks and two glasses of red wine—over a three-day period.

I grabbed my cell phone and checked for missed calls. Nothing. Damn. I poured myself another glass of Malbec and took a lengthy sip of the full-bodied, dry wine. My edgy nerves squelched the alcohol in my bloodstream, keeping it from calming me down. Double damn. At the time, most big red wines still clocked in under fourteen percent alcohol, and you couldn’t get smashed off two glasses of a Napa Valley Cabernet like you can today.

My mind replayed the events of Sunday: I spent the morning floating and gloating behind the bar, recommending Santa Margherita to anyone and everyone—then I spotted Fernando, sitting at the other end of the bar, watching me work. He neglected to ask for my number at Sloppy Joe’s, and I never offered it. Look where practicing restraint had landed me. We went to a nearby bar after work and watched the Dolphins game … with his best friend. Serious stuff.

After sunset, we sat together in his pick-up truck without the air conditioning on—a late November luxury. He flipped on his CD player and Dave Matthews Band’s “So Much to Say” poured into the cab. He leaned into me, and the explosion of energy short-circuited my nerves all over again. We both jerked back like our bodies had been shocked with a cow prod.

He exhaled deeply. “This is insane.”

“I know.” My voice was breathless. My fingers squeezed both knees of my dirty work jeans. My entire body felt exposed, turned inside and out, every time his skin touched mine.

His forehead rested against my temple, rolling a bolt of desire through me. “What are we going to do?”

My heart pounded as the words crawled across my lips. “I don’t know.” My forehead stayed pressed to his for minutes, listening to the music and my runaway thoughts.

The sound of drum brushes rippling across cymbals filled his truck. Dave Matthews’s words from “Crash Into Me” echoed in my ears—the line about touching your lips and love glowing in your eyes. I totally felt like that song was written for me, for us, and our lives were unfolding with the lyrics in real time. An emotional connection to that song was tattooed inside my head forever.

Fernando gripped my chin with his fingers. Thirst for his touch poured over me, anticipating his next move. We kissed over and over while “Crash Into Me” roared from Fernando’s stereo. Our tongues looped with ease, as if we’d been kissing for months. He knew almost nothing about me, yet he knew everything when his lips touched mine. I could not wait to learn more about the man behind the kiss—his hopes and dreams, what he ate for breakfast. Fernando’s touch had a softness and spark that always sucked the air from my lungs. I felt like I couldn’t breathe yet had more energy than a middle school cheerleader. When the song was over, Fernando hit rewind without leaving my lips. The steam on his windshield was as thick as fog on the California coast. All night, Fernando never tried to grab my boobs or dry hump me—not even when Dave Matthews sang the skirt-hiking part.

“I’ll make you dinner,” I whispered as his lips floated across mine. “That’s what we’ll do.”

With the poem out of my head and onto paper, I had less than twenty-four hours to pull myself together and whip up something amazing, and this was long before the Food Network had gone mainstream. Epicurious.com did not exist. Fancy recipes only lived in hardback books and on hand-written notecards. I had to be resourceful.

I prepped for that meal as if it were an Ironman triathlon. The menu, the music, the lighting, the napkins, the wine, the glassware, my hair, my nails, my outfit—everything had to be perfect.

By the time Fernando knocked at my door, all the boxes on my list were checked. The table was set. The wine chilled. My Wonderbra? Strapped on. Depeche Mode’s “It’s No Good” drifted through my spotless apartment, strategically selected because he didn’t need to tell me that he loved me. It was definitely understood. I floated to the front door in my short, black skirt and baby-blue rayon top, leaving a pot of boiling penne pasta on my stove. Fernando looked and smelled delicious—black slacks and a crisp dress shirt, all sprinkled with sandalwood. He greeted me with one of his Earth-shaking kisses, making me lose myself all over again.

“The pasta!” I darted back to the kitchen. “Make yourself at home! Wine’s chilled and on the table!”

My mouth dropped as I stood over the stove in my galley kitchen. The pot of boiling pasta tubes looked like a tiny swimming pool stuffed with bloated rafts. I let out a deep exhale while straining the pasta over my sink. My mind launched into triage mode. I tossed the penne with a pre-mixed dressing of minced garlic, olive oil, and salt and pepper. I popped a tube into my mouth and chomped and chewed. I looked like an old man eating a peanut butter sandwich without his dentures. Shit! My heart sank. I added more garlic and a medley of steamed vegetables and sun-dried tomatoes. Better, but not good enough. It was terminal. My head felt like it was going to explode.

I walked sluggishly onto my balcony with two plates in my hands and a frog in my throat.

Fernando raised a Riedel glass filled with Ponzi Pinot Gris. “I like this.” I flashed a tiny smile while he stared into the glass like a jeweler studying a diamond. He’d said he wanted me to broaden his wine horizons.

I rested an octagon plate in front of him and let out a sigh. “I wish I could say the same for this pasta.” Steam drifted above the flickering candle in the middle of the table. I dropped into my chair with a long face.

“What’s wrong?” He rubbed my bare knee.

“I screwed up.” I shook my head. “It didn’t turn out as planned.” I twirled a strand of hair and gazed into the candle. I quickly grabbed the glass of wine he’d poured for me and took a long sip. He lifted a forkful to his lips. I watched his jaws, waiting for his gag reflex to kick in.

Fernando chewed and chewed and chewed. “It’s not that bad.” He looked like he’d just swallowed raw Brussels sprouts.

My chin dropped. “But I wanted it to be great.” I wanted to kick myself for choosing a Cheesecake Factory pasta dish for our first dinner. Employees weren’t allowed access to secret recipes, so I’d just tried to wing it after a brief conversation with the pasta chef. “The acidity in the vegetables was supposed to complement the wine.” I poked at a penne tube with my fork. “The pasta isn’t soaking up any flavors from the sauce.” For all the years of working in restaurants, I’d failed at my first attempt to pair classy wine and classy food—and for a guy who seemed as interested in wine as me.

Fernando laughed and kissed my forehead. “There’s always next time.” His brown eyes looked black in the candlelight. My clenched jaw loosened. A grin glinted across my face. I loved it that he was making plans for us. “No more talk about food. Tell me about this wine.” Fernando lifted his glass.

I smiled with the pride of a teacher. “This is what Pinot Grigio tastes like when it’s made in America. You taste more tree fruits and less citrus than the Italian style.” Fernando nodded. I raised the glass to my lips, letting the wine’s crisp acidity cleanse my palate. To this day, Oregon produces some of the best-value, high-quality Pinot Gris in the world.

I jabbed a broccoli floret. “So what’s it feel like to run a job site?” I continued picking at my plate. Fernando had a team of twenty employees and contractors working for him. He was twenty-three years old, just like me. The closest I’d come to managing people was new server training, which always made me feel empowered.

Fernando’s face lit up. “I love getting up every morning.” He reached for the wine bottle as he talked. Fernando worked for a small construction company that had landed its first big job building a high-rise in North Miami Beach. He talked about juggling the time lines and material deliveries. He made sure the carpenters, concrete pourers, plumbers and electricians started their work as soon as the other had finished. He was the maestro of a construction site. His hands flapped around his chest while he talked. His eyes sparkled. I gazed at his face, following every detail of the conversation and thinking of my dad, the town carpenter. Talking to Fernando returned me to my roots, and I liked the nostalgia. “Dry wall is going up this week.” He popped a sun-dried tomato in his mouth.

I rested my fork on the edge of my black plate. “Dry wall? Is that the same thing as sheetrock?” I’ve never been one to keep quiet when I don’t know what someone is talking about. Most of my dad’s jobs involved sheet-rocking. I’d watched him sheetrock our house in fifth grade. My mom had told Dad the only way she’d get back together was if he remodeled the entire house. So he did.

Fernando cupped both hands around my cheeks. “You’re so damn cute.” He looked into my eyes. “Yes. It is. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. You totally get me.” He pressed his lips firmly against my forehead, then kissed my nose before finishing with my lips. The energy from his kiss whipped through my body like a tornado. A Cuban guy and a Midwest girl talking carpentry over a bottle of wine—it was as unlikely as Fantasia Barrino winning American Idol.

He caressed my hand. “My sister-in-law can get you an interview at her company, if you want.” Fernando had an older brother whose wife, Christina, worked for one of the top wine distributors, and I’d told him how badly I wanted to get out of the restaurant business. Blending drinks until midnight was not part of the master plan after I’d graduated from college.

“You’d do that for me?” My voice cracked with joy, my heart warmed by his willingness to help advance my career. “I’ll send you my résumé tomorrow.” I squeezed his hand. “I wish there was something I could do to help you.” The only gifts I knew how to give were love and hospitality.

“You help me in other ways.” His face glowed in the candlelight. “You make me feel alive. You make me wonder about the world I’ve never seen. And we’ve only really known each other for like three days.” His tone was soft, yet upbeat. I felt the blood rush to my cheeks.

I smiled, sipping the crisp wine. “I know what you mean.” We were bordering on fairytale romance. I can’t believe this is finally happening. Do not screw it up, Harley.

“You left home. You put yourself through college. You follow your dreams. You want to work in wine country.” He paused and exhaled. “I have cousins in San Francisco. Now I’m asking myself, ‘Why haven’t I visited them?’ ‘Why haven’t I lived there?’ I would love to leave South Florida someday.” My heart began to trot. I tried to stay cool, just nodding. Fernando was born and raised in Kendall, and he still lived at home with his parents, like most Cuban men in their twenties. His father owned a cigar shop on Calle Ocho. They were Miamians for life. I couldn’t stop the thought of us moving to California wine country from popping into my head.

“You even have pet iguanas.” He looked over at Dax and Parker climbing on my potted Hibiscus trees. “I love that.”

“I love that you have sheetrock.” I smirked into my wine glass. Being playful calmed my nerves and took my mind off wondering if he liked me as much as I liked him. I still had not developed the self-confidence to stop worrying about where the relationship was heading from day one. We gawked into each other’s eyes in silence, then began giggling.

I pushed my hair off my shoulders. “What do you think they’ll say when they find out?” My eyes drifted to the candle on our table, and intense visions of fire and horses flashed through my mind. I pinched my lips shut.

“I don’t really care,” Fernando replied, eyes locked on his wine glass. “How could we have known this would happen?” Latins are notorious for their tempers and possessiveness; Raul and Alejandra probably wanted to stuff us in a dumpster behind La Carreta. Learning I’d moved on to another guy was one thing, but Fernando Costas? Now we were talking blood.

I ran my finger around the rim of my glass. “All this time. We were with them.” I leaned back in my chair, staring into the melting candle. Raul had been calling every two weeks around midnight—his booty call—and some were answered, others ignored. The next time my phone rang, Raul would be calling me way worse than “beeatch.”

“I always wondered what you were doing with him.” Fernando’s voice was soft and controlled. “You two weren’t a good match. Just like Ally and me.” He explained how Alejandra obsessed about manicures, facials and shopping; she didn’t care about the things that were important to him—like fishing, hunting, camping. I could feel the heat of his breath on my shoulder. I like all those things. I sipped the racy wine while all the possibilities scurried through my head.

“They’ll be pissed, but they’ll get over it.” Fernando rested his palm on my bare knee. “It’s not like we broke up with them to be together.” He gazed at my face, beaming. We sat there silently exchanging grins, while bugs buzzed in the courtyard and Natalie Merchant crooned “Jealousy” in my living room.

“You’re so easy to talk to,” Fernando said.

“I feel the same way.” I blushed, looking away to the patio screen. “I haven’t had a great date in a very long time.” One week before Fernando had kissed me, Raul’s full extraction from my life was nearly complete. Danielle had set me up on two disaster dates—one with a thirty-nine-year-old fire fighter and one with the University of Miami Hurricanes mascot, who reeked of Surf detergent and clapped his hands way too much. I’d even pursued a fellow Cheesecake employee named Alberto, who had graduated from K-State. He’d dated one of my sorority sisters while I’d been dating one of his fraternity brothers (a fate trifecta), but we’d never met until Miami.

“I just like talking to you.” Fernando’s head rocked from side to side. “It’s different. I don’t know why.” My heart was sprinting faster than a Backstreet Boys groupie’s with a backstage pass. It was so thrilling to have a first date where we talked about our careers and childhood memories, not favorite sexual positions. Fernando refilled my wine glass, then set the empty bottle of Pinot Gris back on the table. We kept one hand locked together and used the other to pick at our plates. Songs from “Tigerlily” continued drifting from the living room while we talked about our first kiss and Sunday night in his truck.

Fernando turned his body toward mine. “This may sound totally crazy.” His face glowed in the candlelight. My stomach did a triple Lutz, as I waited for his next word. “But I want to take this slow.” He grabbed my hands and laced his fingers in mine. My heart thrashed in my chest, as his words replayed in my brain. It was a beautiful declaration—one I’d never heard a man say—almost as beautiful as “I love you.” His head titled toward mine, and our foreheads touched again. A tingling sensation rippled down my body. I exhaled a quivering breath and closed my eyes. We sat with our heads abutted like two iPhones bumping contacts. I always felt like I could read his mind, complete his sentences.

I pulled back to see his brown eyes. “I was hoping you’d say that.” His lips glided to mine, and the fireworks exploded again.

“I’ve never felt anything like this before.” His tone was sensitive yet strong. The candle flame shined on his glasses, revealing watery eyes. “I don’t want to screw this up.” His voice quivered as his fingers locked tighter with mine. My legs began trembling. I’d never seen a man display such tender emotions for anything but his first car. This guy had just put all his cards on the table—seventy-two hours after we’d kissed. He wasn’t playing games. Hearing those words leave a man’s lips—after trying to read minds for ten years—was surreal. It was my first taste of relationship respect and far more refreshing than any glass of wine.

“I feel it too,” I whispered. He kissed the back of my hands while I soaked up our unbelievable conversation. Over a flickering candle, we openly discussed our feelings for one another. The connection between us was special. We owed it to ourselves to enjoy the beginning of something special without leapfrogging into bed.

He leaned back in my chair. “We should set a deadline or something.” He paused and laughed into his glass. “Like no sex for at least eight weeks.”

I shoved my hand at his chest. “Done.” We shook hands, giggling. It felt so mature to have a conversation with a guy about sex—before we were naked. I looked into my empty wine glass, giddy with glee. All my headaches and heartaches had been worth it. I’d hooked a keeper.

I trotted back from the kitchen with a bottle of Elsa in one hand—my go-to value red back then—and my wine key in the other. My body turned to stone in the doorway. Fernando was standing by my desk, reading a sheet of paper—yes, that paper. Fear shot through my brain. My true feelings about our first kiss had already been exposed; I wasn’t ready for him to see my romantic side. Whenever my heart flooded with the excitement of a new love, I felt inspired to write, and giving a guy a poem within three days of the first kiss was a flashing “danger” sign.

“You wrote this?” Fernando asked, grinning. He sounded like a proud parent who’d just stumbled upon his child’s A+ paper. “This is about us?”

I dropped my head and shrugged my shoulders. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“Why not?” His voice screeched. “It’s amazing. It’s beautiful. It’s so freaking true.” He held the piece of paper with both hands. “Could you print me a copy? I want to show it to my mom.”

That was when I decided Fernando was an alien.

Our hectic schedules helped keep our hormones in check. Fernando worked full-time and took graduate school classes at night. The Wine News was deep into final deadlines for its December/January issue, so my days were spent editing feature stories about Blanc de Blancs Champagne and the fledging organic wine movement. I still worked as a bartender at night because magazine editors got paid very little—even back when print publishing was booming. Fernando kept his promise and took me to dinner at his favorite restaurant, Red Fish Grill, for sole meunière. We shared electromagnetic kisses at bars, in cars, on my couch, and fought the urge to fly into my bedroom.

We caved to temptation after two weeks. My bedroom became a lair for mind-blowing sex every night. The beads of sweat felt like electrodes zapping me under the weight of his naked body. My eyes always slammed shut from the fierceness of the energy flowing between us. Every time we made love, time stood still. It seemed like hours before our glistening bodies collapsed, exhausted by the overload of physical, mental and spiritual chemistry. Sex with Fernando reached a spiritual level I’d never known existed. It made rock-star sex with Raul seem so empty, shallow. I realize now that it was the first time since Lance that I’d experienced an emotional and physical connection with a guy where the feelings were mutual. The comfort and confidence that comes with two-way love was something I’d been willing to live without since high school—selling my body and soul short.

Almost every night, Fernando left his dusty work boots by my front door, just like Dad always did back home. Fernando was the first boyfriend I thought I could actually bring to Kansas to meet my family, and he wouldn’t scurry away like a groundhog that had just seen his shadow.

I called Mom on Sunday, eager to hear the test results. Sixteen days had passed since the most insane kiss of my life, and I needed some concrete answers about us—the kind only astrology could provide. Mom had dabbled in reading tarot cards and writing astrological charts for most of my life, and I always asked her to pull every new boyfriend’s natal chart and examine it against mine. My relationship with Fernando was surging ahead with full force, but it felt like a thriller movie was hijacking my life. My interest in classical music grew stronger. Dreams of fire and horses intensified. Maybe her ephemeris could shed some light on the whacked-out situation. Fernando’s moon was conjunct my sun; his Venus fell in my seventh house of marriage. This is the equivalent of a Super Bowl win in astrological matchmaking, people.

I told her about the dreams. “Maybe he’s unlocked a memory from your past life.” She suggested I read two books by Dr. Brian Weiss: Many Lives, Many Masters and Only Love is Real: A Story of Soulmates Reunited.

Once I started reading Only Love is Real, I couldn’t stop. Before finishing the first chapter, my mind was reeling from the doctor’s words:

“You are bonded together throughout eternity, and you will never be alone … He may not recognize you, even though you have finally met again. You can feel the bond … When you both recognize each other, no volcano could erupt with more passion. The energy released is tremendous.”1

I finally had an answer, but so much for clarity. It was the kind of secret no woman wants to harbor. Who should I trust with my freaktastic revelation? I might as well have told Fernando I dabbled in voodoo and handed him a doll full of stickpins. Fernando’s touch had definitely opened a door between our souls. I was experiencing what is known as a past-life recall. One line in the book’s Preface haunted me: “A wrong choice or a missed chance can lead to incredible loneliness and suffering.” I read that sentence again and again. Haven’t I suffered enough? Fernando and I were not a “missed chance.” I already knew he felt the same energy between us, but he didn’t know the reason. How do you tell the man you love—a man you’ve dated for three weeks—that your souls are chained for eternity? After he says, “I do” or maybe never. Part of me wanted to leave the book on the top shelf of my desk, so he could find it just like the poem. But I stuffed it into the bottom drawer of my wicker dresser.

The thought of losing Fernando began to consume me. My hunger to be close to him grew insatiable. The more time we spent together, the larger my appetite. I listened to my heart, which told me to show him how much I loved him. Sex was the only way I knew how to show love without saying those three words. I couldn’t be the one to say it first; the last thing I wanted to do was scare him away. But I could not live without him. I sat in my apartment alone, staring at my cell phone, begging him to call. I talked to my computer screen, then cranked up Dave Matthews Band on my stereo and cried through the chorus of “Crash Into Me.” I was one drug binge short of a Courtney Love meltdown. I needed professional help. I needed to talk to Dr. Brian Weiss.

Just when I thought life couldn’t get any freakier, it did. In Dr. Weiss’s book, he mentioned that his practice was located in Miami. I grabbed my phone book and scanned the listings. His office was located on Sunset Drive: the same street as my apartment complex, less than one mile away. Talk about a flashing sign from a higher power. I called to make an appointment and learned his fees far exceeded my post-college budget, so I asked his secretary for some suggestions in the $100-$150 range. She suggested a local regressionist. Digging deep into my subconscious through past-life regression could explain my history with Fernando, and what karma we were trying to work out in this lifetime. Cue the crystal balls.

Who needs to spend $3.99 per minute on a Psychic Friends Network phone chat when a girl can get regressed to a past life, in the flesh, for a hundred bucks? The experience was wickedly cool. I could dedicate an entire chapter to my regression session, but then you’d think I was a complete lunatic rather than a love-struck girl grasping for answers. In a nutshell, a female therapist in her mid-fifties with brown hair and a Princess Leia-sized bun guided me into a sterile, gray room—not so different from a doctor’s office examination room. She turned off the overhead lights, leaving only a small desk lamp glowing in the back corner of the room. I sat down on this chair thing that was half couch and half doctor’s table. My heart began sprinting. I was as tense as a teenager about to get her first pelvic exam.

She talked to me in a soft, calming tone. “Follow the air into your mouth, deep into your lungs. Examine every breath. Deeply.” My eyelids were pressed against my eyeballs. My mind looked like this gigantic, dark tunnel. I could feel my breaths relaxing into a slow pace. “Follow the blood flowing through your veins as it moves up to your mind.” She continued leading me with her kind voice. “Look for the hallway to life in your mind,” she said. “You’re going to see a passage way full of doors.” It felt like sunshine was blinding me from inside my closed eyes. I saw the doors. The first one was big, black and covered in metal spikes. It was either the doorway to hell, or the entrance to the kinkiest S&M club in the afterworld. My body began to tremble. Was Robert in there? Marco? I pushed on, passing the creepy door.

Sunshine poured through the cracks of a weathered-wood door at the end of the hallway. “You’ll know which door to open,” she whispered.

I saw the brightest light, reminding me of Fernando’s first kiss. My hand reached for the doorknob. Suddenly, it felt like a vacuum was sucking me through a hose into another world—like a time warp. Vividly detailed descriptions of the scene poured from my mouth. I could hear the words, but they sounded as if they were coming from the next room. I knew they were my thoughts verbalized, but my brain had never exposed them before.

I saw a thin, dark-skinned woman with long, black hair, kneeling. She was inside a dirt-floor teepee, looking over a baby in a makeshift crib. The teepee was small and bare; there were none of those fancy, animal-hair rugs and fluffy pillows like the Dothrakis have on Game of Thrones. The woman was in her early twenties. I’d never seen her face before, but I knew who she was. She was me. I was a Pocahontas! I’m a waitress from Kansas in this lifetime and a Native American living off the land in another? The Gods had a sick sense of humor. Next time, I wanted to be someone powerful, sexy and kind like Angelina Jolie—minus four kids and all those tattoos.

The tribal chief was my husband, but I didn’t recognize him. Definitely not Fernando. He was much older, maybe late thirties, and he had children from other marriages. Those wives had died. I was raising his children as my own, and I could not get pregnant. The tribe thought I was weak for not giving him a child—any interesting dynamic I wish I’d had time to explore. The therapist’s voice instructed me to leave the tent. “Keep going,” she said. “Follow your mind.”

The Native American me shuffled through a meadow carrying a big, wooden bucket. The chief’s oldest son was walking beside me with another bucket. His son was strong, brave and kind with long, jet-black hair. I guessed he was nineteen. We arrived at a river to fetch water. The son reached to grab my pail, tenderly touching my fingers. My heartbeat gunned like it had at Sloppy Joe’s. Fernando! He didn’t have the same eyes or body, but the touch was unmistakable. My breath fluttered wildly. “Stay in the moment,” she said. “Just focus on your breathing.” I exhaled deeply. The therapist coached me back to the river. Fernando caressed my arms, then pulled me down onto the grass. The sound of water cascading over rocks filled my ears. We made love.

Fucking your husband’s son isn’t a good idea—not now and not in 1412. I’m not sure how long we’d been trying to keep our forbidden love a secret, but I knew our history just by watching our naked bodies spooning in the meadow. We’d often left the tribe to gather food and didn’t come back until dark. I treated him differently than the rest of the children. My mind sped forward to a day when we were off gathering berries in the woods. Fernando wrapped his arms around me and kissed my neck passionately. He pushed me playfully against an oak tree. We heard a twig snap. A tribal yell echoed in the distance.

Busted.

We jumped on our horses and charged into a nearby forest. The sound of hooves smacking against dirt blasted in our ears. I could hear chanting behind us. The chief and his men were closing in. I panted in the therapist’s room. “Just breathe. Keep going,” she whispered.

Three men on horses darted out in front of us. Our horses reared up and stalled. One man grabbed me by my hair; another lassoed Fernando. They tied us to two pine trees. The men set fire to the brush surrounding our feet. Winds whipped around us, fueling the flames. Our horses paced in circles, then dashed through the fire, escaping into the woods. It was exactly the same vision of horses from my dreams. Fernando and I squirmed and screamed, bound to the flaming trees, staring into each other’s wild, scared eyes. The chief and his men stood on the other side of the roaring flames, watching us burn.

Afterward, the therapist gave me a cassette tape recording of the 60-minute session. “I think you broke through a big barrier here, and at least you’re starting to get some answers.” She squeezed my shoulder warmly. “Your newfound interest in classical music might be from another lifetime.” She encouraged me to come back for another session.

I hid the tape in my dresser under Dr. Weiss’s book.

The holiday season arrived with its twinkly Christmas palm trees and hordes of tourists wearing Hawaiian shirts and flip-flops. Fernando and I were still alive, and stocking up on great memories. Fernando bought me a necklace for Christmas and invited me to a black-tie gala on New Year’s Eve. Two days before Christmas, he drove me to Miami International Airport for my flight to Kansas. I spent the entire car ride squeezing his hand, fighting off the uncanny feeling that if I got on that plane and left his side, I would lose him forever. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were doomed.

My airplane didn’t crash, nor did my car plunge into a ravine, but contemplation began ruling my brain. Should I muster up the courage to tell Fernando what is fueling the energy between us? I’d leave out the teepees and borderline incest parts, of course. Maybe I should just keep my big mouth shut and relax? The relationship was still new and thrilling. We ushered in 1998 at a downtown Miami hotel ballroom, sipping Gloria Ferrer Blanc de Noirs sparkling wine—a value-priced bubbly with zippy fruit flavors. We spent New Year’s day in sweats and T-shirts, curled up on my futon watching the first South Park—the bootleg Brian Boitano-Jesus episode—which, in my book, was as bonding as skydiving together. The following weekend, he snuck me into his bedroom and proudly showed off his guns, fishing poles and camouflage bibs. We made love in his bed, whispering and giggling in the dark. He called me “Mami,” and I didn’t even flinch.

The annual Coconut Grove Arts Festival rolled into town in late January, and one of Fernando’s cousins was having her Quinceañera party that weekend. After the party and my brunch shift, we’d planned to spend a sunny Sunday afternoon strolling the tent-filled streets, looking at paintings. I told him I’d page him when I got off work. Yes, pagers were still cool in Miami in 1998.

I paged him at five o’clock. No response. I tried again at six. Nada. I stared at my Sprint PCS cell phone and begged it to ring, filled with that feeling of helpless desperation. My heart, my whole world, was in his hands. I turned the power on and off, then checked again for messages. Nothing. I walked aimlessly through the white tents dotting Peacock Park, looking blankly at every painting, frame or sculpture. I called Fernando’s private home line, something I rarely did. When his answering machine picked up, I quickly hit “END” on my cell. I called back and listened to his voice, then hung up before the beep. Did he have call waiting? Did three pages in two hours constitute stalking? I began to panic. I didn’t want him to think I was the kind of lover who would boil a bunny on his stove.

I sat down at a table on Sloppy Joe’s open-air patio and stared at the empty dance floor, reliving our first kiss. His pager battery is probably dead, or he’s getting a guilt trip from his Cuban mother for leaving early, I reassured myself. There were countless, reasonable excuses for his disappearance. But I couldn’t shake the horrific thought throbbing in the back of my brain: Things are moving too fast, and he is scared. I rapped my knuckles on the tabletop. I wanted to kick myself for sleeping with him before our deadline, for inviting him to stay the night so many times, for waking him up in the middle of the night to have sex. Maybe spending a day with his big Cuban family had made him realize having a gringa girlfriend wasn’t a great fit.

I went home and reorganized my entire wardrobe by color, then by clothing type. I pulled every CD from my black plastic racks and rearranged them alphabetically by genre, then artist.

My home phone rang at nine thirty. I practically hurdled my coffee table and snapped the cordless off the couch before the second ring.

“Hey,” he whispered.

“Hi.” My pulse galloped. I waited for him to talk. Uncomfortable silence filled the line. Something was wrong. We didn’t do wrong. “How was the party?” I forced a chipper tone from my clenched jaw.

“Good.” His voice was flat.

“So, do you still want to come over and watch South Park?” I asked, grasping for some act of normalcy that would put this bizarre afternoon behind us.

“Uhhh, yeah. But I can’t stay.” He was coming over. I could save us. My nerves began to calm. I poured myself another glass of Zaca Mesa Z Cuvée. My game plan took shape in my head. I would tell him I thought we needed to slow things down. I would tell him we should take some time to really think about how special our connection was. I totally believed Fernando was the man I was destined to spend the rest of my life with. There was no need to rush eternity. This was the lifetime we’d find happily ever after, not be burned at the stake for adultery.

I reached for my doorknob, wearing in a tight, sky-blue top and khaki skirt. My hair and make-up were freshly touched up. I opened the door, ready for his touch and a big talk.

Fernando stood outside my doorway with his hands stuffed deep in his jean pockets. His eyebrows hid under a baseball cap. Fernando never wore hats outside work. My chest grew tight.

“Aren’t you going to come in?” My voice cracked. I forced a smile. My fingers started to shake with fear.

He stepped through the door and pecked me on the cheek. “Hey.” His smile was rigid, almost plastic. He looked like he was about to sit down in the dentist’s chair for a root canal. I watched the wall begin forming between us. My head throbbed with confusion. I shut the door and grabbed his hand. I stepped toward him, lifting my chin to his. Kissing was the only defense against the wall. I needed him to feel the energy, jolting him to remember our perfection. His lips pressed against mine, and his tongue glided into my mouth. He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close. I moaned softly, feeling our electricity reviving him.

Fernando’s hands gripped my shoulders. He pushed me away. My eyes shot open, dazed and confused.

“I can’t…I can’t handle this,” he said, shaking his head. My mouth dropped. I reached for his hand. When my fingertips touched his, he jerked his arm away as if he’d just touched a hot skillet. His brown eyes widened. “I’m sorry.” Silence filled the room. My chest felt numb, as I stared at his solemn face, twisted with confusion. “It’s…it’s just…” He started to move toward me, then took a deep, jittery breath and stepped back. He pushed both hands back into his pockets. “You’re just.” Words staggered from his mouth. “You’re just too…” His face flushed pale. I held my breath, squeezing my hands. “This is too good to be true.” He stared down at my floor. His eyes and mouth drooped. I couldn’t tell who was more confused and sad—him or me. His words paralyzed me. I watched his contorted face. My back and shoulders stiffened from the shock. My mind screamed but I couldn’t speak. Tell him you understand! Tell him something so perfect scares you too! Tell him why he’s feeling this way! Tell him your souls have been chained for lifetimes! My vocal cords and lips couldn’t move. I watched him grip my brass door knob. He turned to me. My eyes darted around his face, pleading. Don’t go, please.

His dark shadow passed outside my living room window. The scent of his spicy-woodsy cologne began to retreat. I inhaled deeply, savoring the remnants of his smell. My mind reeled from the waves of shock and sadness. I listened to his footsteps trail down the three flights of stairs. Open the door, Harley. Stop him. His truck door opened and slammed shut. My legs didn’t move. I could feel my heart splintering into so many pieces not even Ty Pennington could repair me. Our love was worth dying for centuries ago. It was worth fighting for in 1998. Why wasn’t I running after him? Funny how a girl who’d always chased men in the beginning didn’t have the guts to do it in the end. I didn’t know where to start. Girls weren’t supposed to fight for their men, right? He’d given me his answer. He couldn’t handle the power of us. Lines from the Dr. Weiss’s book began replaying over and over in my head:

“Soul recognition may be subtle and slow … Not everyone is ready to see it right away. There is a timing at work, and patience may be necessary for the one who sees first.”2

Patience? I’d been looking for Fernando since my freshman year of college. And he’d just told me I was too good to be true.

I listened to his truck engine rev up. His wheels screeched as he barreled out of my parking lot. I collapsed into my futon couch and stared at the ceiling. My six-disc CD changer clicked, and the familiar cords of Dave Matthews’s guitar filled the room. The feeling of helplessness rushed my body. I felt like my chest had been sliced open.

First came the tears—then the visions of racing horses. Fernando had left me with the haunting memories of our past life, and the sinking feeling that my true love of this lifetime might be lost forever.

1Weiss, B. (1996). Only Love is Real: A Story of Soulmates Reunited (pp. 1, 2). New York: Warner Books Inc.

2Weiss, B. (1996). Only Love is Real: A Story of Soulmates Reunited (pp. 2). New York: Warner Books Inc.

TYLER

“SUPERMAN’S DEAD”

Our Lady Peace

REWIND: Tyler pulled a ball of gray dress socks from his dresser drawer. The morning sun flared through a wall of windows spanning the east side of his behemoth bedroom. I sat on his twin bed, watching him from the corner of my eye while buttoning my shimmery blouse. He wore only tighty-whities, which seemed so adult and so, well, white boy—a respite from my former world where all men were Latin, immature or both, and usually wore boxers. I bit my upper lip as he tousled his full head of bleach-blonde hair, still damp from our shower. Is he thinking what I’m thinking? I took a deep, perplexed breath. Tyler had the body and face of Bart Conner back in his 1984 Summer Olympics heyday. And we were finally getting serious. It was time. I’d found a nice, handsome gringo—someone who’d never remind me of Fernando when I looked into his icy-blue eyes—which seemed like the only recipe for healing my wounds.

Tyler turned toward me, catching my stare. I smiled timidly while zipping my new XOXO suit skirt. His cheeks turned bright pink, and he threw both hands over his crotch like a nervous middle schooler dressing in the locker room after gym class.

“This is kind of weird.” His voice muttered over the music. My back muscles flinched. I felt like I’d been crane-kicked in the face—Daniel-son style. Our Lady Peace, one of the many grunge bands we both loved, roared from a Pioneer stereo tower in the corner. Tyler turned away, looking out the windows.

I stood up from his bed. “Weird?” I stuffed my shirttails into my tan skirt, looking out the window. I felt my shoulders tighten. The night before, he’d insisted we sleep in the guest bedroom and had locked the door behind us. That was weird. He’d flipped off the lights and scurried under the bed sheets like a virgin. That was strange.

My eyes scanned his rosy cheeks for clues. His choice of adjective echoed in my ears. Hearing the word “weird” used to describe the morning-after rituals of our first sleepover made my head spin. I’d been dreaming about sharing a bed with him for months. Tyler’s eyes met mine again for a nanosecond, as he flashed his usual, bashful smirk. I straightened the collar on my blouse and stared blankly at his throbbing stereo speakers, frustrated. The blasting music filled the silence but did not blow away the awkward air between us.

“Uh, yeah. I guess I can see that.” I tried to sound agreeable even though he’d just thrown a gigantic gutter ball at my emotional bowling alley. I looked over at Tyler’s chiseled chest and bit my lower lip. Keeping my true feelings to myself had gotten easier with 150 days of practice. It felt so strange to be holding back, to be hiding in his spare bedroom. We’d never slept in the same bed before that night, and we’d been dating for five months. The relationship had moved slower than a barge docking at the Port of Miami, and I’d actually welcomed the change of pace … for a few months.

He turned his back to me and quickly slipped on his gray dress slacks. “Don’t watch me like that.” His voice was playful, yet snippy. I shook my head and readjusted my skirt. After years of sensuous Latin lovers, dating a shy guy was refreshing for about four weeks and bewildering ever since. Tyler wouldn’t even look at me naked without putting on a condom. Embarrassing memories of my bedtime follies with Robert and John had made Tyler’s coyness seem so cute at first. But I’d just turned twenty-four and had landed my first job at a wine distributor in Broward County, thanks to a referral from Fernando’s sister-in-law. I was getting too old to work for tips and to date guys who weren’t ready for marriage. My taste for the career world wasn’t pairing so well with Tyler’s boyish charms.

I picked at my acrylic nails. “It’s not like we’re going to get caught.”

“We better not.” He fished a white T-shirt from his dresser. “My mom would never speak to me again.” My eyes bounced from his lips to his sculpted cheek bones. I glanced over at the stereo to hide my rolling eyes. Sneaking around felt as ancient as wearing Jordache jeans. After graduating from Florida State University, Tyler had moved back to his parents’ house to save money for his own apartment. Why was an independent girl like me always drawn to guys who still lived at home? Through them, I’d get a taste of what it was like to have happy parents supporting me.

“Come on,” I replied. “It’s not like they don’t know what’s going on.” His parents were vacationing in Antiqua with friends, which was probably the only reason we actually even had a sleepover during our entire relationship. His mom was a religious conservative—beautiful, blonde and wound as tight as Ann Coulter.

“I’m their angel.” Tyler pulled on his T-shirt. “Cody is the one who gets in trouble.” Tyler had an identical twin who lived in northern Florida and was just as cute and athletic. Dating a twin always enticed me, as my dad had a twin sister.

“What time will you get off, uh, work?” I stopped myself short of saying “home.” I pulled my suit jacket from a hanger in his closet and disappeared into a daydream. Sleeping in a house in the same bed with Tyler was the closest I’d gotten to cohabitation since Chris. We both had college degrees and full-time jobs with benefits. We both liked to run and both practiced karate in middle school. We both had blonde hair and sky-blue eyes; my friends called us Ken and Barbie. He loved to surf, showing off a free-spirited, daring side that reminded me of Matthew, the ghost of my past. We were happy, young adults who liked jamming out to angry songs by 311, Rage Against The Machine, Deftones, Our Lady Peace and Creed. Our conversations revolved around South Park episodes. We were the epitome of compatibility. My internal clock was buzzing: time to live with a man again. It had taken me four months to feel repaired enough to put my heart out there again. After three weeks of sleepless nights on my tear-stained pillow, I’d decided sleeping with someone else would help me get over Fernando. Brilliant idea. Two one-night stands—one with James’s old roommate, Adam, and then another with a Jason Preistley lookalike who managed a South Beach hotel and lured me into his apartment with a bottle of Caymus Conundrum (part Sauvignon Blanc!)—did not ease the pain. A great bottle of wine is like catnip for aficionados, but loveless sex left me feeling even lonelier. Duh. I’d almost accepted the fact that Fernando would not come to his senses and want me back. Almost. With Tyler, our kisses had enough spark, our conversations had enough substance and our worlds had enough common ground.

His voice pulled me back into the moment. “If you can wait to get here until after five thirty, that would be best.” I squeezed my tan dress jacket with both hands to suppress my anger. Tyler sat down on the matching bed across the room. The thought of Tyler and his identical twin brother sleeping in their identical twin beds wearing matching Superman Underoos brought a smile to my face—even though he was trying to hide me from his neighbors.

“Don’t worry.” I stood in the center of his room. “I won’t park in the driveway.” Staying overnight with Tyler cut thirty minutes off my drive home and thirty pounds of frustration off my chest, so I let the secrecy slide. I’d recently moved out of my apartment in South Miami to share a house in North Miami Beach with Scott and Diane, former co-workers who fell in love not long after they’d met at Cheesecake Factory. My new digs provided quick access to Tyler’s parents’ house in swanky Lauderdale-by-the-Sea. Sharing a house with a happily engaged couple, however, was about as uncomfortable as peeing in the woods. It was time to stop being a third wheel.

“I’ll call you when I get home,” Tyler said. I nodded while adjusting my skirt. Tyler had to call me; I liked it that way. I’d decided to get serious about my dating strategy—i.e. actually having a strategy. Let him make the effort.

I glanced down the hallway. “I’ve got plenty of work to do.” My voice was cool and crisp. “If I don’t answer, I’ll call you when I’m free.” Learning how to be a patient swan during courtship, not a bulldozing tank, did not come easy, but losing Fernando was the relationship wake-up call I’d needed since high school: My instincts were the devil. I’d always told myself to just follow my gut, put my heart out there from the beginning and the right guy would fall for me. I still can’t believe I thought every guy would actually want more than sex once he got to know me—at a time when their hormones were running on Hawaiian Tropic bikini contests. So, the time had finally arrived to set some dating ground rules. No more offering my phone number. No more sex on the first date. No more invitations for drinks, dinner and sleepovers within the first few weeks. No more calling a guy before he called me. Ditching my hook-up habit required professional intervention. Before meeting Tyler, I’d purchased The RulesTM: Time-Tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right. I’d quickly realized I’d broken every rule in it. Don’t Accept a Saturday Night Date after Wednesday? With Raul, I’d been accepting dates on Saturdays at 9:48 p.m. that night, and had offered to drive—and pick up the bar tab.

“I’ll be hungry before dark,” he said.

I shifted my weight from side to side. “I shouldn’t be too late.” Following The Rules with Tyler had worked wonders. Boundaries became my best friends. I’d declined his first date invitation (Rule #7). I’d never called him first (Rule #5). Face-to-face meet-ups occurred once or twice a week at restaurants or ballparks, contingent upon my schedule as much as his. I’d perched myself on aluminum bleachers in the grand stand, cheering as he’d dove to catch line drives at third base. After work, we’d rub knees under the booth at the Ale House in Hollywood. We’d exchanged soft, sweet kisses in parking lots next to our cars before going our separate ways home. The only diamond on his mind involved a baseball field. It was the same return to innocence I’d felt when first dating Michael.

“When do you feed Rocky?” I asked, standing over the other bed. Tyler grinned, then grabbed a metal cylinder filled with dead bugs from the window ledge next to his terrarium.

He shook the cylinder above the terrarium’s top latch. “Whenever he wants.” His pet bearded dragon sauntered across the mulch to a petrified branch. Our shared love of lizards had also jumpstarted the relationship. I draped my jacket on the foot of the other bed and sighed. Watching Tyler and Rocky made me miss my little iguanas. My work schedule and commute had left me with no choice but to give Parker and Dax to a waitress at Cheesecake.

“What do you usually make for dinner?” I asked, walking toward the adjoining bathroom. His fancy, thick carpet felt warm and soft under my bare feet unlike the Berber rug in my bedroom. I plucked a round brush from my toiletry bag and eagerly awaited his answer. Sitting down with Tyler to share a home-cooked meal and a bottle of wine was a moment I’d anticipated more than the release of the Cabbage Patch Kids in fifth grade. Cooking was my nesting instinct. We usually met for dates at one of the Ale Houses for beer and smoked fish dip.

“I’m not really big on dinner.” Tyler kept his nose in his closet, thumbing through dress shirts. “I usually eat a bagel and a banana.” Tyler tugged a crisp, white shirt off a hanger. “A bowl of oatmeal with skim milk, and I’m good to go.” His indifference about food surprised me—not what you’d expect from someone who worked out harder than trainer Bob on The Biggest Loser. When Tyler wasn’t auditing records at an accounting firm, he played baseball for the West Palm Beach Expos, minor league affiliates of the Montreal Expos. His rigorous training schedule included a strict (and unconventional) dietary plan. I stared at my damp hair in the mirror and gritted my teeth. Playing house for the first time was a big step forward for him. I wanted to play the happy wife who cooked him dinner when he got home from his long day at the office. He wanted to eat a bagel and watch ESPN.

“But, Hon, I’ll make you cookies.” My voice chirped like Eric Cartman’s mom from South Park. Tyler laughed and shook his head. Lightening the mood was my only defense when conversations with boyfriends got uncomfortable. Tyler and I rarely talked about anything serious. I should have expected nothing more from someone who called my vagina a “cha-cha.” Laughing made me feel happy. And all I really wanted back then was happiness.

“How about some Cheesy Poofs?” Tyler replied in his Cartman voice. I watched myself in the mirror, giggling. My shoulders quickly caved at the sight of my face, showing its first laugh lines. I’m getting old. I sighed and grabbed my hairdryer from the countertop. The motor’s buzz drifted through the second floor while I wrapped layers of hair around the sculpting brush. It was September 1998. I’d graduated from college sixteen months prior and had lived alone for more than three years. Most of my friends back home were engaged or married. Several had babies. Me? I had a part-time boyfriend who dreamed of being called up to the majors. When Tyler wasn’t at baseball practice, he was cramming for the CPA Exam.

Tyler stepped into the bathroom doorway. “Hey, we could go for run tonight.” His tone was soft, warm. His slacks fit his body better than a Kenneth Cole model’s. Tyler was quite the eye candy, which often distracted me from our idling relationship. He slipped his muscular arms into a crisp, white oxford. Oh, my little hottie.

“I don’t know if I can keep up with you.” I fluffed the layers of my hair. My lips twisted with a smirk. Even though we both liked to run, we had never gone running together.

“I’ll go slow. I promise.” His blue eyes sparkled in the morning light. My cheeks plumped from smiling wide. Isn’t this what I’d always wanted? A man who’d ease slowly into my life—not parachute into my apartment holding a box of condoms when he didn’t even know my birth date? I didn’t have much free time for Tyler anyway, working two jobs in two counties. Even though I spent weekdays running the distributor’s desktop publishing department, I kept working weekends as news editor of The Wine News in Coral Gables. Writing and editing wine stories was keeping my dream of moving to California alive—a dream that I’d moved to the backburner once feelings for Tyler had developed. Falling in love meant making compromises. That was the kind of mumbo-jumbo I’d let social norms tattoo inside my head. I only had a few years left in life’s optimal window to find my husband. I totally believed a nice-looking, sweet guy like Tyler was worth the sacrifice of my dream career—especially if we could get married before turning twenty-six—the point of no return for girls who were still single.

I moved toward Tyler and kissed his lips softly. Kissing him always felt like returning to the playground. All we needed was a little more maturity to make us work. His touch was always gentle and sweet, not the electrical surge of Fernando kisses. The fireworks with Tyler were more like sparklers than Saturn missiles, but it was a start.

“You can take one of my bagels for breakfast.” He pecked me again on the lips. I closed my eyes, relishing his sweet taste.

My lips chased his, sneaking another peck. “Why don’t I just inject the fat right into my butt with a syringe?” I scrunched my face. “Carbs are my worst enemy.” To keep my mind off Fernando, I’d thrown myself into an intense workout regime that included running five days a week. My thighs were the thinnest since my senior year of high school, and I wasn’t about to let my diet screw up the new me. It felt damn good to look presentable in a bikini, and attract a guy like Tyler.

I parked my silver Volkswagen Golf in my designated spot on Tyler’s cul-de-sac—across the street from his house—so the neighbors would think he was home alone. Sneaking around made me feel like a stashed case of beer on prom night. I sat in my car in my work suit with the air conditioning blasting, looking at his house. It was a super-sized Tara from Gone with the Wind, painted bright white with as many windows as the White House and six massive columns stretching from a brick terrace to the roofline of the second story. There was only one house in my hometown that nice and that big. When Tyler had invited me over to meet his parents for the first time, he’d made me swear that I’d say we met at a Third Eye Blind concert in Coconut Grove.

“I’m getting tired of the lies,” I muttered, sitting alone in my car. I’d met Tyler by posting an ad on Yahoo! Personals. I’d believed my boundary building required more tools than The Rules. I’d needed to put distance between prospective men and myself—we’re talking miles—to quell my weakness of getting too close, too fast. At the time, dial-up Internet was taking the country by storm, and online dating was the taboo alternative to the traditional blind date. Meeting men online was considered too risky and untested, especially in a metropolitan city with a robust homicide rate. But You’ve Got Mail had premiered the year before. Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks had inspired me to take a chance at Internet love. Tyler—the best-looking guy I’d ever dated—had said he was too shy to approach attractive women, so he’d decided to give online dating a try.

I squeezed my steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. I followed The Rules and made some new ones. So why are we stuck at this place? I’d refused to continue dating men I’d met in bars or restaurants. Finding a new environment in which to meet Mr. Right was as easy as spotting two straight men at 10th Street and Ocean Drive. Working at the distributor meant regular invitations to Bacardi promotions and winemaker dinners. Weekends writing for The Wine News often required attending wine festivals and auction galas. My life was becoming one big cocktail party—quite a refined one, I might add—but I had no idea where to meet men outside of work other than the gym, which steered me to online dating. Tyler didn’t like hanging out in bars and lived about one hour north of Miami by car, which seemed like enough distance for me.

I stepped out of my chilly car onto the warm pavement and walked swiftly up his brick sidewalk, my sling-back heels clicking along the way. It was a typical, sticky, summer evening: oppressive air with a gorgeous sky painted shades of orange, pink and purple. Rows of palm trees and sculpted bushes jetted out from a circular drive, which looked like a golf club entrance. A sparkling white yacht glided by on the Intracoastal behind their colonial mansion. Tyler’s house belonged on a postcard. My dad’s backyard had a decaying barn and a pigeon coop. His parents played tennis at a country club. Mine played bingo at the American Legion. But Dorothy had outgrown Kansas. I could identify Merlot’s plummy nuances in a blind tasting. I owned a sequined gown and had worn it twice. I’d shed as much of my stereotype as possible and believed I could win the heart of a rich boy, and the approval of his parents.

With my suit jacket hanging from my forearm, I glanced back at his neighbor’s bay window. Alright. The coast is clear. I huffed and ducked under the breezeway connecting their home to a four-car garage. My knuckles tapped on the pane-glass door. Tyler trotted through the long, galley kitchen in gym shorts and a Sigma Nu T-shirt. He tugged me quickly in the door.

“Hi,” he said in his boyish tone, then kissed me softly on the lips. His sweet, gentle kiss made my mind race back to his courtship. We’d chatted online for two weeks on AOL Instant Messenger before Tyler had asked me to go to a Third Eye Blind concert. He’d sent me flirtatious IMs filled with lots of “hehehes,” “LOLs,” “*grins*” and smiley faces. We’d exchanged pictures by email. He’d told me I was pretty. I’d loved the excitement of rushing home after work to flirt with him on the computer for hours. Now, I was rushing home to be hidden away.

I clutched my purse and jacket. “Will we ever stop hiding?”

He batted his long eyelashes. “I don’t know.” I looked into his blue eyes, shaking my head. “But I do know that you need to suit up.” He plucked a half-eaten bagel from the kitchen counter and took a bite. “I need to enjoy my freedom while I have it.” He chewed with a smile.

I could feel my face turning to stone, so I walked into the den and sat my purse on a chair. Tyler had four months to prepare for his CPA Exam and often dive-bombed those little reminders into our conversations. His use of the word “my” added another layer to my mounting disappointment.

“Your upper body is too stiff,” he said as we jogged up his cul-de-sac, past rows of electric gates, stucco walls and coconut palms. The fiery sun sank into the horizon, as we turned onto Federal Highway and headed north toward Lighthouse Point.

“Really?” A gentle breeze helped keep us cool in the evening heat. “What am I doing wrong?” My eyes bounced from the pavement to my Coconut Grove Arts Festival tank top.

“Let your arms flow with your body movement. Don’t think about your legs. Your arms should propel you. My coach always told me to pretend that I had bananas in my hands.” I watched his arm movements and mimicked him, and felt my lung capacity increase and my body relax into the cadence. It was the first time Tyler had been my teacher, which endeared him to me even more.

The warm air filled my lungs. My heart hummed, in sync with our pace. I felt strong, in control and on top of the world, like I always do while running. The thought of spending every evening jogging with Tyler bounced in my head. Shoulder to shoulder, we glided down the sidewalk.

“I got a call from a headhunter today,” he said between breaths. “Deloitte & Touche has an opening for a financial analyst in West Palm.” The words danced off his tongue. My arms tightened again. Who’s-a-jigga-what-what? My ponytail slapped the back of my head. West Palm Beach was forty minutes north of his house. If he took that job, we’d be right back where we started, geographically speaking. And he was gushing the news like a lottery winner. My breathing accelerated. I stared at my Nike sneakers flying underneath me.

“Did you send in your résumé?” I asked, bananas in my hands.

“I have an interview next week.”

“That’s…uh…great.” The words panted from my lips. My smile was plastered on like stucco. He wiped the sweat from his brow, so I did the same. My little voice was screaming inside: You’re supposed to be asking me if I want to share an apartment—not move away! The voice inside my brain had recently begun throwing her own fastballs, which always seemed to happen around the six-month mark with any boyfriend when I had no freaking idea where I stood.

We showered together after our run. I like this routine, I thought as I covered my torso in soapsuds. My eyes pivoted from Tyler’s beefcake body and beautiful face to my small boobs and kidney scars. He’d seen me naked four times and was still dating me. I looked out the steamy window. You’ve always been pretty enough to attract a guy like Tyler. I rubbed my pouf sponge on his stomach. His face turned red, and we both giggled. He was more conservative than Fox News on Monday morning. In bed, Tyler was a missionary man. I wasn’t about to try to spank his ass. He was prim and proper—the kind of guy that made me feel very wholesome despite my sexual history. Tyler rinsed off and stepped out of the shower. He didn’t hand me a towel. He wasn’t the type to open car doors either.

We walked downstairs to the kitchen, wearing fresh sets of T-shirts and gym shorts like two workout buddies. The kitchen was almost as long and wide as my efficiency apartment. Two walls of floor-to-ceiling white cabinets opened to a wide den with French doors and magnificent views of the Intracoastal. The room always smelled like Bath & Body Works.

“Don’t you have anything we could cook?” I asked, peeking over his shoulder. The first and only time I’d cooked for him at my place, we’d had salade chevre chaud and a bottle of Tavel Rosé from one of my favorite producers, Château d’Aquéria. Tyler opened the refrigerator door, then closed it quickly.

“Let’s just order pizza.” His suggestion was spontaneous and unhealthy—two traits I didn’t think existed in Tyler’s world. My mood instantly lightened. I professed my love for Pizza Hut Pepperoni Lovers Thin ‘N Crispy—they hooked me forever with the Care Bear glassware series in 1984—but Tyler replied, “I don’t like their crust.”

We returned an hour later with a bottle of Zinfandel and two lukewarm Papa John’s pizzas: a Hawaiian for him and a double pepperoni for me.

I stacked the pizza boxes on the kitchen counter. “Can we eat in the formal dining room?” Their dining room walls were covered with patterned felt wallpaper and ornate Wayne’s Coating. It was as fancy as a French hotel banquet room. I envisioned us sipping our Zinfandel under the sparkling chandelier at the cherry table in hand-carved, high-back chairs. We could even dress up our pizza with the fine china displayed in the matching china cabinet against the wall. I looked down at my frumpy gym clothes and frowned. The meal would be impossible to truly dress up.

Tyler grabbed the pizza boxes and marched them over to the round oak table in the den. “Let’s just eat in here. It’s easier.” He bounced back to the kitchen and returned with a roll of paper towels and a two paper plates. Fancy.

Their den was four shades of brown, which always struck me funny, considering how pristine and bright the home looked from the outside. The dark paneled walls were sprinkled with colorful pictures of the boys and family portraits over the years. A thick, almost shaggy, brown carpet covered the floor. Two sets of French doors on the back wall ushered in Florida sunshine and waterway views, which transformed the room from dark to cozy. I pulled a corkscrew from my purse—wine pros never leave home without it—and opened the Zin.

“We can’t break these,” Tyler said, as I poured the inky wine into two crystal glasses pulled from his mom’s china cabinet.

I set the bottle firmly on the table. “I think we’ll manage.” My voice hissed. I was a waitress for eight years, remember? I stuffed my nose in the glass and inhaled deeply.

Tyler took a baby sip. “It’s not as sharp as the last one.” Tyler’s first wine tasting lesson had included that bottle of Tavel Rosé, which is known for its strawberry and cranberry flavors and bright acidity. I’d explained to Tyler that the “sharpness” he’d tasted was the wine’s acid.

“Zinfandel doesn’t have as much acid as the other wines we’ve tasted.” He tried swirling the glass at the base of the stem as I’d taught him. Tyler then asked about the difference between White Zinfandel and a Red Zinfandel, like all wine newbies do. I explained, with enthusiasm, how fermenting red grapes on their skins gives the wine its color. He took a short sip.

It’s dry,” he replied flatly. I eagerly awaited the night I could walk into a black-tie gala at a wine festival holding his hand. He still didn’t know the difference between Pinot Noir and Pinot Blanc, so that was going to take some time.

“Yep. That’s the tannins,” I replied, nosing my glass. The Zin had a typical briary-jammy bouquet and gobs of fruit. “This is a big, juicy red wine. The sweetness in the fruit will complement your pizza.”

“Wine goes with pineapples?”

I nodded. “Zinfandel tends to add sweetness to the fruits. Pineapples are sweet. Ham is somewhat sweet too. Sweet complements sweet.”

He raised the glass to his lips and took another sip. “It tastes.” He paused, studying the wine glass. “I don’t know. Hot. Warm.”

“That’s good. You’re tasting the alcohol. Sometimes wines that have high alcohol are described as having a hot finish.” Zinfandel is known for being a high-octane wine, which is precisely why I drank it in my early twenties.

He pushed his glass away. “I don’t think I like hot wine.” Tyler scrunched his nose, then picked up a piece of pizza with his fingers.

I felt my eyebrows cave. “Come on. It’s not that high in alcohol.” I shoved his wine glass back toward him. “Ravenswood is a good value.” Ugh. Newbies. My knife sliced hard through a piece of pepperoni.

I raised my fork to my lips. “What would you do if your mom walked in right now?” I poked my knife at the door. I looked over at the designer sofa with scalloped edges and remembered his mother waiting there to meet me for the first time. She had dark-blonde hair with a classy, bob haircut, and every hair seemed perfectly placed by a stylist. Her legs were gracefully crossed at an angle with Cole Hahn loafers on her feet. A copy of Architectural Digest was pressed between her manicured fingertips. She looked like a cross between Linda Evans from Dynasty and Chris Everet, with her mint-collared shirt and matching gold bracelet and necklace.

Tyler chewed his crust and swallowed. “I’d poo in my pants.” He couldn’t even say the word “shit” in my presence, which I found cute sometimes, immature others. “She’d kill me.”

“Parents aren’t stupid.” I took a lingering sip. “You’re twenty-three years old.” I recalled her swan-like motions, raising from the couch and extending her hand. Her grasp was dainty; I felt like I was shaking hands with a queen. I could tell she was the master of her domain. And nothing got past her. She’d spoke with conviction and confidence. She’d congratulated me on graduating top of my class from FIU and asked questions about what I loved most about writing for a wine magazine. I’d grinned at Tyler across the room when I realized how much he’d been bragging about me to his parents. Meanwhile, my mind was sifting through all my baggage I’d been hiding from Tyler—my father’s drinking problem, Robert the coke user, Michael’s STD or my string of Latin lovers. I wondered if seeing her son date a girl named after a hideous motorcycle got her tennis skirt in a bunch. I couldn’t imagine how Tyler would react on our first trip to Kansas to meet the family. It would be a scene straight out of The Beverly Hillbillies. I’d show his family that I had some class. Someday I would bring over a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon—something elegant and timeless, such as Jordan or Shafer—if Tyler ever invited me to Sunday dinner with his family.

Tyler put his nose over the glass and sniffed deeply, following my lead. He still cupped the bowl of the glass with his hands versus stem, but I didn’t correct his technique. Tyler’s tasting skills and palate would come around with practice. I’d moved him quickly past White Zin and Riunite D’Oro: bottles with flavors as sweet and simple as Juicy Fruit gum. “Trust me. The taste of good wine will grow on you,” I’d told him multiple times.

He rested the glass on his oak table. “It seems so strange to drink wine after going running. And it’s a weeknight.” He pulled another piece of pizza from the box.

My head cocked sideways. “A glass of wine with dinner is good for you.” I looked into my glass while swirling it. “It’s good for your heart, and it enhances the flavors in your food.” It was that time when wine consumption was climbing, thanks to 60 Minutes coverage about the French paradox—how French people drank more wine and ate fatter foods but were healthier than Americans. After graduation, I’d evolved from drinking wine to get buzzed to enjoying both the taste and the health benefits.

“I should switch to water.” He pushed his glass away again. “I need to study tonight.” I looked down at my half-eaten piece of pizza and chewed slowly. If it wasn’t baseball distracting him from us, it was books.

I poured myself another glass, wondering if we’d ever get on the same page.

Tyler poked at my stereo’s remote control, clicking through songs. I sat on the edge of my futon, nervously swirling my wine glass, waiting for him to pop the big question. My roommates pushed around boxes in the dining room; they were moving back to Atlanta. I had two weeks to find a roommate or be evicted, and a week had passed since Tyler and I had played house.

“What should I do?” I asked, voice cracking. I wore a short tunic dress and black sandals—something that would get his attention.

“I don’t know.” His tone was flat; he reached for his wine glass. I tapped my foot, watching his muscular arms flex. He wore a Florida Marlins T-shirt and gym shorts—his usual after-work look. Third Eye Blind’s “Semi-Charmed Life” bopped in the air around us.

My body sunk into my futon couch. “An eviction notice? I feel so dirty.” I took a healthy swig of Glen Carlou South African Chardonnay. Flavors of vanilla and ripe apple danced across my tongue—so sweet despite the sour moment. “What’s next? An application for food stamps?”

“Stop it. You’ll be fine. You have a great job, and you’re the most responsible, normal girl I’ve ever dated.” He leaned back, his shoulder resting against mine. “That’s why I like you.” The unexpected compliment startled me; I gulped my wine.

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” I stared into the golden-hued glass of wine. “For a nice guy to realize I’m normal.” A normal girl was supposed to be the jackpot in South Florida—no hair extensions, no boob job, no jealous ex-boyfriends, no nagging, no overuse of the word “irregardless” and no addiction to expensive jewelry. I kept telling myself that being normal was the key to landing a nice man. But it was also supposed to make the guy love me, not like me.

Tyler began jabbering about his interview, which took place over lunch at Ruth’s Chris in West Palm Beach’s new CityPlace complex.

“They offered me the job before the waiter presented the check,” he said with a smirk, all pleased with himself.

“That’s great news.” My voice croaked. I kept glaring into my half-empty glass.

He turned his knees toward me. “There’s something I need to ask you.” His usual bashful tone turned sincere.

My stomach began knitting itself into a crochet scarf. I squeezed the stem of my wine glass. Finally. The proposal I’ve been waiting for. “Okay. Shoot.” My eyelashes fluttered.

“Well, I’ll finally be getting my own apartment.” He sat down his wine glass. “And I was wondering if you’d be willing to take Rocky.” His blue eyes locked on my face.

I looked at his beautiful head of blonde hair, feeling like I’d just been hit in the chest with a line drive. “Take? Like take for a weekend?” I needed a lifeline. I grabbed the wine bottle off my coffee table and poured myself another glass of Chardonnay.

“Like an adoption.” He rubbed his palms together. “Think of it as joint custody. You love lizards, and I don’t think I’m going to have time for him with the new job and everything else.”

Holy shit. I want to move in together, and he just wants me to raise his fucking lizard. I straightened my back, feeling the anger rage through me. My dreams began to crack like a thin sheet of ice on a pond. I slurped my wine to calm my nerves.

“I could take him on weekends or something.” Tyler bumped his knee against mine and smiled, waiting for my response.

I squared my shoulders to him. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m a little busy with my own ‘everything else’ right now.”

His back fell hard against my futon. “Okay…I’ll take that as a ‘no.’” He grabbed his wine off the coffee table and took a long drink. “This is really sharp.” He peered into the wine glass.

I folded my arms. “Tell me about it.” My voice could have cut right through him—sharp and crisp like a Sauvignon Blanc, not a Chardonnay. But, I was too emotionally exhausted to teach him the difference.

I found a classified ad on Yahoo!—not the dating section—from someone in Hallandale Beach looking for a roommate to share a three-bedroom house in a gated community. I quickly moved in with Brandon, the homeowner, who was tall with short black hair, round glasses and always wore a tie. He worked for a paper manufacturer located in the same business park as the wine distributor. My new bedroom was long and wide, big enough for my desk, living room and bedroom furniture all in one space. My new place was located twenty minutes north of my last house, which cut my commute to Tyler’s new apartment in Palm Beach County. Over the six months we’d been dating, I’d moved twice, but the relationship was still parked in the same spot since month two: low-pressure and comfortably cute. We chatted online at least three or four nights a week. We still met up on weekends a couple times a month. I found myself calling him, asking him if he was free, if he wanted to get together. My rules were out the door. School, baseball practice and geography made weekday rendezvous nearly impossible. When the weekend rolled around, he fit me into his schedule.

Wanna come up 4 a sleepover? he asked on instant message with a smiley face, *wink* and *grin*. I took the bait.

Driving to Palm Beach County from Broward for the first time felt like crossing over into a different country. The grassy marshes flanking I-95 north of Boca Raton morphed into strip malls and business parks the farther I drove.

I climbed Tyler’s open-air stairway with heavy legs, admiring the tropical gardens surrounding his building. When I found his unit on the third floor, I paused in the humid air and tugged on the edges of my tunic dress. My fingers fluffed my flat hair before knocking on the door.

The door openly slowly and Tyler peeked around the edge. He smiled sweetly and pecked my lips. I rested my duffle bag gently on the floor. His kitchen was the size of a walk-in closet and opened to a skinny living room with a sliding-glass door and small terrace overlooking a courtyard. Tyler proudly showed me around his mismatched living room—a mix of freebie furniture from relatives.

“Now we both have our own places.” He stood in the center of his living room, grinning. His need for a life independent from mine baffled me. If he didn’t want to be with me, why was he keeping me around? It couldn’t be the sex. I didn’t even wear lingerie around him, scared he might think that was slutty. I stood with my arms laced, waiting for him to be hospitable.

He tilted his head. “What’s wrong?” I peeked into his bedroom to find a twin bed and one nightstand. I’d hardly said a word; I wanted to scream. Tyler obviously wasn’t planning to play house with me. There wasn’t even a place for me to sleep besides the couch!

I planted both hands on my hips. “I’m your guest. You haven’t offered me anything to drink.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied. “But I only have milk and water.” He flashed a bashful smile, hoping to squelch my disappointment. I glanced over at my duffle bag, wondering if I should leave.

We drove to CityPlace, ten minutes east of his apartment. The open-air entertainment complex had three stories of bustling bars and restaurants. Things were looking up.

“What do you want to eat?” I asked, hopping out of his Honda Civic in the parking garage. “I heard there are some great restaurants here with really progressive wine lists.” My eyes bopped around his handsome face, waiting for an answer that would make my mood go from okay to great.

“I don’t really care,” Tyler replied. “I haven’t been anywhere but Ruth’s Chris.” My chin dropped.

We walked into the shopping center’s piazza. “Do you wanna try something new?” I waited for him to grab my hand, like always. He finally did … after I intentionally bumped into him.

His hand felt lifeless in mine. “Not really.”

“Let’s start with a martini.” I spotted a Blue Martini bar and guided Tyler to the terrace. I ordered a Cosmopolitan; he ordered a Kalik. I sighed and looked sheepishly around at the other tables. Did people with real jobs drink cheap beer? I saw only bright-colored martini glasses dotting the high-top tables filled with young men and women in designer suits. Was Tyler really ready to grow up? I picked at my fingernails, unsure of what to say. Tyler raved about his office in the fancy high-rise off Worth Avenue and how awesome it was to walk to the bars after work and have a beer with his new colleagues. I sipped on my pink martini, feeling more perturbed with each swallow. Once we finished our drinks, Tyler said he wanted to take me to his favorite local dinner spot as a surprise.

Within minutes, we pulled into a Blimpie on Okeechobee Boulevard. A freakin’ Blimpie.

We squeezed awkwardly into his twin bed that night and had our usual sweet, conservative, missionary sex. We slept on our sides so I wouldn’t fall off the bed.

I woke up the next morning cramped and disoriented. Where am I? Oh, yeah. Tyler breathed deeply on my shoulder, still fast asleep. I slipped quietly out of his tiny bed and tiptoed to the doorway in my tank top and panties. I turned back and watched him sleeping peacefully. Will there ever be enough room for me in his life? Nearly half a decade of prime honeymooning years had evaporated. Moving forward with the CPA Exam was his goal. Moving forward with our relationship was mine. I was twenty-four and he was only one year younger, and I couldn’t imagine anyone our age not thinking seriously about marriage. We’d spent a half-year dating, and the topic had never come up once. Deciding if we had a future should have happened at the ninety-day mark. He’d told me he liked me, and there was one “I missed you” when he’d picked me up at the airport. That was the closest to “I love you” we’d ever got. Those slivers of emotion had kept me going for months. I gingerly grabbed my clothes and pulled them on.

I walked over and looked out his sliding glass doors onto the balcony. The high rises of CityPlace and downtown West Palm glistened in the distance, lit by a pink sunrise. “What am I doing here?” I muttered to myself, resting my head against the warm glass. We were at two different places in our lives. He wanted Papa John’s; I wanted Papapietro Perry Pinot. My palate had evolved from beer to vodka to spritzy white wines to silky reds. My taste in men was maturing too. I bit at my thumb cuticle, thinking about the direction his life was taking. College was a distant memory for me. I never wanted to step foot on a college campus again unless it was for a guest speaking gig. A bachelor’s degree and some work experience was a solid springboard for a career in California wine country. The only thing missing is a husband, I told myself. Tyler was sweet, good looking, athletic, smart, driven and wealthy. He seemed like my Superman. Just like his song says: I smiled to show how happy I was, but how long would I keep faking it? Fernando had been my true Superman, and I was dead to him—not the other way around. I pressed my fingers against the glass doors, feeling the despair rake through my chest. For months, I’d kept telling myself Tyler was worth waiting for—handsome, wholesome, well-to-do Tyler. He wants a girl like me—he just isn’t ready for a serious relationship. Fine dining and wine tasting will grow on him. I’d been brainwashing myself with affirmations as bitter as cheap box wine. It was time for my inner wino to spit or swallow—go or stay. Will he ever be ready? Will he ever love wine? The questions rolled through me, as rays of sunshine sprayed into his living room. My eyes stayed fixed on the horizon. You have to do this, Harley. Put your needs first for once. I could no longer pretend that cold pizza and weekend hook-ups in a single bed would keep me satisfied, while I waited for Tyler to profess his love for me and for all things epicure. Our relationship wasn’t built on sex—it developed from mutual attraction and similar tastes in songs, television and exercise—so a part of me didn’t want to give up on one of the few relationships that had started out right. But I had to face the music: He just wasn’t that into me. Maybe if Tyler and I had met two years later, things would have been different. Timing is everything in dating.

My days of working overtime to win a guy’s heart were long gone. I was listening to my own heart, and using my head for the first time. I wanted to spend my life with someone who shared my passions, and made me his number one priority. The next time I saw Tyler, I would break up with him. I would not run away. I would not leave a note. I would sit down with him and tell him it was over and why—like all adults should.

And for the first time in my life, more than anything, I hoped we could just be friends.

PAUL

“HUNTER”

Dido

REWIND: It can’t be good luck if you tell a guy you love him for the first time while you’re bent over the back bumper of his car puking your brains out, and he’s holding your hair. I wanted to blurt that answer back to the rosy-cheeked woman and her pigtail braids. A vice of embarrassment clamped tighter around my throat, as she sat in a fancy armchair with bony fingers laced in her lap, watching me squirm on the beige loveseat. A pair of reading glasses dangled from a string of tiny pearls around her neck. The woman reminded me of my sixth grade social studies teacher, but her office was more uncomfortable than afterschool detention.

I sat on the edge of her loveseat, looking down at the flowery accent rug between us. “What I love most about Paul.” I paused and lifted my head. Laugh lines carved deeper in her wrinkled face, as she smiled warmly and batted her kind eyes. I pressed my palms between the knees of my Gap jeans, feeling the pressure to talk openly about our relationship squeeze my insides. “We’ll, it’s hard to pick just one thing.” I took a long, deep breath, like a drag on a fancy cigarette. “He’s devoted to me. He’s always there for me when I need advice about work. He helps me do all the things guys usually don’t, like cooking, cleaning and running errands. He’d rather spend weekends with me than with a bunch of guys. He’s dependable. He’s strong. He takes charge of situations. He’s smart.” I spouted the words until my lungs ran out of breath, then inhaled deeply. He holds my hair while I puke. He slaps my ass with a wet towel. My mind kept churning out his virtues after my lips had stopped moving. I turned to Paul at the other end of the loveseat and smiled sheepishly. His face was as pale as a sheet of paper.

Did I say something wrong again? My heartbeat ran wild under my taupe turtleneck. The last thing he’d expected to do on Valentine’s Day was attend a couple’s workshop with a life coach named Ziggy that I’d found on Craigslist. I was always pushing him to do things he didn’t want to do. “It will be good for us to talk to someone about this other than ourselves,” I’d begged at the dinner table, two weeks before. For the first time in years, he’d agreed to a weekend activity that didn’t involve us cleaning the house, weeding the yard, balancing our checkbooks or shopping for groceries.

Ziggy nodded along to my monologue, then her eyes moved to Paul. “What do you love about Harley, Paul?” The words trickled from her mouth with a warming grace. Then silence. Flames crackled in a fancy marble fireplace across the room. The place felt more like a parlor in a Victorian home than a counselor’s office.

My fingers rubbed the embroidered flowers on the loveseat, as I waited in anticipation of the compliments I’d been starving for. I stuffed my hands deep between my clamped thighs before looking over at Paul’s profile. A long, wide nose and full brow line dominated his features. He wore Hugo Boss jeans and a cashmere designer sweater. Paul always dressed classy, among the many things that attracted me to him.

He pressed his fingertips together above his knees. “She…uhhh…ummm…” I stared at his face, waiting for his lips to move. I’d never known Paul to be at a loss for words. “Well, uhhh, she’s a great support tool for my career.” My eyes zoomed from his face to hers. Shock stunned every muscle in my body but my heart. I felt like two jackrabbits were humping in my chest, but I could not move. The woman cleared her throat and smiled. What about pretty? Affectionate? Caring? My mind screamed the rebuttal. I tried to swallow. My mouth was drier than a bag of cotton balls.

“And?” Ziggy asked, baiting him to continue. I watched his lips move. He said something about being affectionate, dedicated and smart, but the words were muffled inside my racing head. He definitely didn’t say pretty.

She shuffled her hands in her lap. “Why don’t you tell me how you met?”

“At work,” we both said in unison, in a tone flatter than cheap bubbly. I turned to him, waiting for a disapproving look to flash over his stern face. He looked a bit like Jason Statham, The Transporter—Paul shaved his head with one of those fancy skull blades, and he had the same wide nose and serious, ass-kicking look. “We carpooled to a trade show together in Key West about five years ago, and we’ve been together ever since,” I said, smiling softly at Paul.

Our fate had been sealed in November 1998, only a month after I’d broken up with Tyler, when mixing work and romance still seemed like a brilliant idea. A fatality accident had closed Seven Mile Bridge on Highway 1 for three hours, so we’d spent eight hours in Paul’s sparkling sedan, talking about work, relationships and life. He too had grown up in a tiny farming town and had paid his way through college by waiting tables. We’d covered more ground in one car ride than most people do in five dates. Even though we’d worked together for ten months, I’d known little about Paul before that night, except that he was separated from his wife, had a dog, wore expensive ties and was the only winery sales manager (“suppliers” as they’re called in the business) who stopped by my office each week to drop off new tasting notes and press kits for the Kendall-Jackson wine brands.

I raised my eyes to Ziggy. “He was always my favorite customer.” I smiled, remembering our start. Paul had possessions that screamed maturity: tasseled leather loafers, a company car, an expense account and a black day planner (i.e. life before smartphones), which he clutched under his arm like a priest carrying the Bible. And he could stick his nose in a glass of red wine and guess the varietal with ninety percent accuracy. My kind of guy.

“It’s the easiest relationship I’ve ever had,” I continued. “Paul never plays games.” If he wanted to see me, he’d just call. From the day we’d returned from Key West, he called me every night. Paul made the effort to drive to my place. He picked up every tab for lunch, dinner or drinks, flexing his expense account muscle at hip restaurants on South Beach. He chose nights and weekends with me versus drinking beer in a bar or playing a round on the golf course. No boyfriend had ever made me his top priority before. The two guys I’d been dating before the Key West road trip—Alex, a Fort Lauderdale bartender who kissed like a fish, and Kyle, a sports reporter for a Palm Beach TV station—were quickly cut lose. I could sense fate at work. Within two weeks, I’d known Paul and I would get married some day. Why? I was smack-dab in the middle of my optimal marriage window—age twenty-four—so the timing was right. Within a month, he’d asked me to move into his apartment. I couldn’t imagine saying, “It’s too soon” back then. We’d just spent a Saturday night drinking Kristone Rosé sparkling wine at another Kendall-Jackson employee’s house party, and I’d told him I loved him while puking on his car’s back tire. He’d held my hair from my face and replied, “Ah, Baby. I love you too.” K.J. discontinued Kristone wines a year later, which should have been a sign.

Ziggy chuckled. “Relationships are never easy.”

“It was easy.” My fingers shot to my mouth. I gnawed on my pinky nail. “I thought it was.” I paused, feeling my chest tighten. “He was such a great boyfriend, unlike any I’d dated before.” I watched the side of Paul’s rigid face. His jaw locked as the word “was” left my throat.

Living with Paul had immediately brought a sense of order to my jumbled life—the world of a young woman whose parents weren’t big on rules or routines during my wonder years. Before meeting Paul, I’d dedicated myself to work, work and college, then back to work again. While I’d learned how to make a Manhattan, organize a wine festival, write a wine auction news article and make homemade Chardonnay, bare necessities at home had fallen to the wayside. Paul had taught me chapters in the book of life my parents had skipped over: making the bed each morning, cleaning the house every Saturday, neatly folding socks and towels, grocery shopping with a list (every Sunday afternoon at three o’clock and he pushed the cart!) and balancing our checkbooks every Sunday night. Paul’s entire world was one gigantic to-do list: all decisions were thoroughly calculated. Our life had more structure than U.S. Army boot camp. He loved managing the finances. After watching my mother crying over her checkbook when she’d finally left my dad, I’d promised myself, at age sixteen, that I would always have money, and I’d marry a man who’d manage it for me. Six years of fending for myself financially had taken its toll. The idea of being stripped of all loathsome accounting responsibilities captivated me from the moment we’d started dating. Paul’s business sense and knack for routines meant responsibility and maturity, a refreshing change from dating fellow college students. Dating Paul was so much easier than any boyfriend before him that I took it as a sign that we were meant to be.

Ziggy shifted her body toward Paul. “Did you find the relationship easy from the beginning as well, Paul?”

“Yes,” he said flatly. “But I thought it was just fine two months ago.” His eyes never met mine. I inhaled, feeling the exasperation filling my chest. It was fine, if you think eating the same foods, talking about the same workplace frustrations and watching the same TV shows every day is a perfectly fulfilling way to live your life. For the first two years, Paul and I were as inseparable as three-year-old twins. We’d go to the gym together at six every morning. We’d shower together every day before work. We ate the same cereal side by side at our dining room table. Having our routine made me feel fulfilled. Paul was my best friend and co-pilot in the world of wine. When it came to the wine business, we made one hell of a team. He was the salesman; I was the marketer.

“Harley, you said on the phone you wanted to improve how the two of you communicate.” Ziggy patted out the creases in her calf-length jean skirt and waited patiently for my reply. My stomach squished with anxiety. I felt like I’d eaten a gallon of ice cream.

“Well, it seems like every time we talk, the conversation turns adversarial.” I stared down at my laced fingers. “I’ve been reading some books, and I think that’s what has happened, and I know it’s not healthy.” I could feel Paul’s brown eyes staring at me. My insides churned. He took a deep breath and exhaled, like he always did when he was frustrated with me. I pressed on, letting the examples pour from my lips. Life had gotten to the point where we argued about whether or not the creamed spinach had enough parmesan cheese, or if the dog had been fed at the right time of day: 6 a.m. and 6 p.m., sharp.

“Do you agree with her, Paul?” Ziggy asked, sitting on the edge of her chair.

He squirmed like a kid in a dentist’s chair. “Yeah, I suppose there’s some truth to that. I’m just not sure if changing how we talk to each other will make her happy.” His eyes locked on the woman while I stared at the side of his face and bit my fingernail. Whenever we argued, Paul always played the “nothing will ever make you happy” card. For years, I’d thought maybe he was right. I was asking for too much. During our first year together, we never argued.

“When did the arguing start?”

Paul folded his arms across his puffy chest and looked at me.

My chin dropped; I shrugged my shoulders.

“When we moved to California.” His sharp tone cut through me. It always did.

My eyes stayed fixed on my fingernails while Paul explained how our big cross-country move went down. Moving from Florida to California in 2001 had made my life more tenuous than a Real Housewives of New Jersey season finale. I’d received a job offer in July 2001 to run the events department at E&J Gallo Winery, the largest family wine company in the world, based in Northern California. Paul’s high-paying job in sales had had many perks—the company car, the unlimited expense account, the annual bonus—and he was next in line for promotion. He didn’t want to leave South Florida. When he’d asked me if I would go to California without him, I’d lain in his queen-sized bed in the darkness and couldn’t say a word. I didn’t want anyone to hold me back from my California dream ever again.

“The job market out here hasn’t been as easy for him as it has been for me,” I said, keeping my eyes on counselor Ziggy. In California, my career had soared and his had sputtered. I’d traveled around the country to major cities, decorating wine tasting stations at wine festivals and pouring samples for consumers. Paul had worked at the corporate offices of a wine retail chain located in the East Bay. His expense account was hacked down faster than a redwood in a Pacific Northwest lumberyard; his salary had no bonus. “I miss Fort Lauderdale,” Paul had said while we shared a plate of nachos at Applebee’s—our Friday night routine while living in the culinary hotbed that is Manteca, California. “I think his job put a lot of stress on our relationship,” I said. After six months in California, my salary had surpassed Paul’s. My guilt had helped me endure the arguing for nearly two years. He’d shot down my first four selections on fabric designs for our den window valence. He’d rejected my requests to drive to Napa Valley or San Francisco on the weekends and had complained when I’d bought new clothes without consulting him first. He’d agreed to take me to Old Orchard to buy plants for our front lawn, then vetoed all my choices. He’d scolded me when I’d bought a blue collar for his dog because she’d been wearing red ones her entire life.

“My job?” Paul huffed, squaring his broad shoulders. “I think it was your job.”

I sat on the couch with my jaw locked, shaking my head. He always wanted to pick a fight. Whenever I was working a wine festival, I’d call him from a hotel room (where I spent a third of my time), and he’d snap at me about how he had to clean up dog puke and take out the trash while I’d been nibbling on sautéed fish at white-table cloth restaurants. He’d made big sacrifices for my career, and I’d deserved to take some heat for it.

“Your job was the only issue we ever had in Florida. The only issue.” He pointed a strong hand at me as the words shot from his mouth. Paul always had grip and a long finish … just like his favorite wine: Napa Cabernets from Howell Mountain.

I slouched into the love seat. “I guess he’s right.” Trying to argue with Paul sucked the energy out of me. It was easier to just agree. I explained how our troubles probably began in 1999 when I’d moved to a competitor wine distributor to be director of public relations and special events. We couldn’t sit at the same table at black-tie galas because I worked for the “enemy.” Paul would nip at my heels during wine tastings, telling me that my work was done as soon as the event started. “Come on, Honey,” he’d bark. “It’s time to go home. Now.” My eyes would plead with him to stop, as he’d tugged me out the door. I’d always wanted to stay until the end of each tasting and remove empty wine bottles, tasting note cards and tablecloths from the stations. I took ownership and pride in my job. I wanted the winery sales directors—my clients—to see my strong work ethic. And I wanted to sample that new vintage of Joseph Phelps Le Mistral—a delicious rosé that was hard to find at retail shops—when I’d finished putting on a successful event. I’d left the distributor world for a PR agency in hopes of ending the tension between us. It had worked for a couple months. Then the tech bubble had burst in early 2000, and the firm started hemorrhaging clients. I was fired for talking to a competitor about leaving to join their team, and Paul had supported me through all the drama.

My head oscillated like an electric fan. “I didn’t think work would be such an issue once we were married.” The words blurted from my shaking jaw. Paul and I had been engaged for almost a year before I’d felt ready to set a wedding date in 2000. Marriage had scared me so much once the ring I’d been dreaming about for years was actually on my finger. Not only did I not want to get divorced like my parents, I never wanted my children to experience the same financial hardships and part-time fatherhood. Marrying Paul seemed like the best way to calm my relationship fears. He’d navigated treacherous waters I’d yet to cross: running a household, managing finances and even being married. He’d already made his mistakes. He wouldn’t repeat them. This might be a great strategy for choosing a Wii bowling partner, but not a husband.

“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 teeth 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.

Paul turned back to Ziggy. “She cares more about her job than she does our marriage.”

My body sunk into the couch, stunned. “How can you say that?”

“Honey, please,” Paul scoffed, folding his arms across his chest.

I stared at the floor. “We’re here, aren’t we?” My shoulders caved. Deep down, I knew he was right. My job had been a point of contention since we’d moved to California. I did travel too much and worked too many hours—by choice. I’d dry my hair in the car just to get to work early. When he’d called me at my desk around five thirty to ask me when I was coming home, I’d say, “In about fifteen minutes.” We’d have the same conversation two more times, him calling back after thirty minutes and yelling, “Honey!” as soon as I’d pick up the phone at my desk, still typing away on email. Whenever I’d call him on my way home and he’d start to talk about his day, my mind immediately raced back to the office and another to-do list item for tomorrow. I’d rarely retain more than five of his words in any phone conversation. Work was my only source of accomplishment; I couldn’t turn it off. Approving event itineraries and merchandising materials made me feel productive and empowered. At home, I could do nothing right.

I took a deep breath. “We both need to try harder.” My voice quivered. Paul shouldered the load of running the household, but we had way more problems than my job. I’d also stopped lighting up for him—just like Tina Fey in Date Night. I wore baggy clothes to cover my thick hips. When I got home from work, I’d collapse into a dining room chair and eat the dull dinner he’d cooked. “Relationships are about give and take.” I squeezed my sweaty hands. “You give, you get something.” I looked at his face, then my fleshy knuckles.

I hadn’t talked about my feelings since the first month we’d dated. It felt like the vice around my chest was loosening for the first time in years. “I think we’ve stopped giving ourselves to each other. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel like I’m getting what I need and vice versa?” I looked over at Paul. It was also the point in our hotel-room argument when I’d asked him if his ex-wife had ever told him she needed more. I decided not to bring up his first marriage to his high school sweetheart back in South Carolina. If I said her name, he’d snip at me for a week. Talking about her was never in my best interest.

“I’m not asking for much.” Those were the same words I’d pleaded in the New York hotel room. “I hug you, I kiss you, I tell you I love you all the time.” I stared at my hands, reflecting on my never-ending yearning for affection from men who didn’t reciprocate: my grandpa, my dad, Chris, Matthew, Tyler and Paul.

“I don’t even think he finds me attractive anymore,” I sighed, shaking my head. I turned toward Paul, and more hidden feelings leapt into my throat, hell-bent on escaping through words I’d never spoken. “You never tell me I’m pretty. I know you said you’re working on it, but it seems so, well, forced.” My eyes fixed on his. I’d gained fifteen pounds within a month of dating Paul. I’d started eating what he liked to eat: Toaster Strudels, fried sausage, Totino’s frozen pizza, creamed spinach, macaroni and cheese and Phish Food ice cream. My body was a pear once again, but with more dimples and bumps thanks to the looming 3-0. I needed to be assured that he still found me attractive. After my nagging, Paul had finally gotten to the point where he told me I looked “nice,” which made me feel more like a grandma’s quilt than a twenty-nine-year-old wife. We hadn’t had sex since that night at the New York hotel room, nearly a month before. Sex with Paul was “just fine.” That was the same response he always gave to the question, “How was your day?” He had the right “equipment” downstairs and a nice body, but sleeping with Paul was all about the physical—no spiritual, no emotion. I’d spent a decade placing too much weight on sexual chemistry with boyfriends, so I married a man who didn’t push all my buttons. We both had orgasms, which I’d considered to be the highest form of intimacy for years. We are better off than most couples. I’d brainwashed myself into believing that sex pretty much stopped after marriage and would disappear once we had kids. I was actually looking forward to life without sex.

Ziggy crooked her neck at Paul. He popped his knuckles. I shot him a death stare and shivered. He knew I hated that habit almost as much as he hated me biting my fingernails.

My head shot toward him, as we drove off in his Jeep Cherokee. “Did you hear the first thing you said in there?”

“That came out wrong.” He stared out the windshield. “It was a weird situation.”

“Yeah, but people have instincts,” I replied, talking to the side of his face. “I’m a tool? If that was the first thing that popped into your head, it means something.”

We didn’t talk the rest of the way home. I bit my fingernails, waiting for him to scold me. I gazed out the window, counting the rolling hills of the Petaluma Gap, wondering if our marriage would self-destruct in T-minus ten minutes.

I hopped onto a cherry barstool in downtown Cincinnati, looking forward to treating myself to a drink after a long day pouring wine at the Cincinnati International Wine Festival. The bar, once a stately brick bank, had been transformed into a cocktail lounge with live jazz and a Speakeasy vibe. Huge vaults along one wall had been converted to wine, spirits and cigar cellars. Roger, a co-worker who’d just relocated with the winery to California from Canada, joined me at a high-top table. A man in a tuxedo played a piano in the corner. I swayed to the music and ordered a Rosemount Shiraz from the leather-bound menu. I was back living my other life—that world of a traveling wine marketer where I always felt complete.

As soon as our drinks were delivered, a young woman who worked for our local wine distributor stopped by the table to thank us for flying in to support their state’s largest wine tasting. Roger, who also worked in the marketing department, immediately stepped off his barstool and pulled out a chair for her. Warm, fuzzy feelings poured into my chest. It was as if someone had just set a box filled with puppies on the table. The woman said she couldn’t stay, and buzzed toward the door.

I swirled my glass of Australian wine on the marble tabletop. “I wish my husband did that.” I thought of the door slamming in my face at Morton’s in New York. Two weeks had crept by since the couple’s workshop with Paul.

“I was raised to treat all women like that,” he replied matter-of-factly. “It comes naturally. All women should be respected. Put on a pedestal.” My blue eyes flew to his. He wore a dark gray suit and striped tie and had the debonair look of Pierce Brosnan with the face of Hugh Grant. His drink of choice was Dewars on the rocks. The man was classy from brain to toe.

I shook my head and swirled my wine glass. “Wait until you get married someday. Relationships aren’t that easy.” I took a long sip, letting the juicy flavors of black pepper and blackberry coat my mouth. I gripped the stem of my glass firmly, keeping my eyes fixed on the inky wine. “It’s not a fairytale like we want it to be when we’re young. It’s friendship, partnership, working together, compromising.” I took a deep breath. “It’s a lot of work.” My straight hair brushed across the shoulders of my INC suit jacket. I’d recently cut my hair the shortest it had been since my senior year of school—without consulting with Paul in advance—and he was furious.

Roger placed his index finger on the rim of his rocks glass, then moved it slowly around the entire circumference. “Marriage should be the easiest thing in your life, not the hardest thing.”

I grabbed my wine glass and took a long sip, soaking in every word. Easiest? The man was smoking crack. He pressed both palms against the edge of the table and took a deep breath.

“What about romance, passion and fun?” he asked. “You didn’t mention any of those things.” My eyes met his, then quickly returned to my wine glass. I felt as exposed as a lingerie model at a photo shoot.

“I just wish he’d tell me I’m beautiful.” I gazed into the dark hue of my Shiraz. The beat of my heart rang out in my ears. Ideas sprinted through my head faster than Usain Bolt. I felt so alive, having an unfiltered conversation about relationships with a guy.

Roger sat back in his chair and pressed both palms against the edge of the table. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” His eyes fixed on my face. “Your husband doesn’t tell you you’re beautiful?” He laced his hands around the back of his head.

My head nodded over the wine glass. “Would you excuse me?” I darted into the bathroom.

I stood over the sink, staring at my face in the mirror. His every word echoed in my head, sending pulses of adrenaline into my bloodstream. My entire body felt hooked up to jumper cables. Maybe I am not asking for too much. Maybe I can have it all. Talking to others about my feelings was helping me find answers. I let the enlightenment of Roger’s little talk flush through me. My eyes looked brighter, my chin stronger. The forehead scar that had bugged me since grade school didn’t seem so noticeable. A transformation was occurring. I fished my raisin lipstick from my purse and smoothed it on, listening to the muffled jazz outside the door. Acting on my new therapist’s advice—verbalize versus internalize—had opened a floodgate of feelings inside me. Pieces of the puzzle were fusing in my head. Roger and I were having this conversation for a reason, and the reason was not because I was stupid and made bad decisions.

When I returned to our table, Roger hopped up and pulled out my chair. I blushed. A fresh bottle of Evian and another glass of red wine were sitting in front of my seat. “They were out of Shiraz, so I ordered you a Malbec from Argentina.” He helped me into my chair. “I hope that’s okay.” I flashed him a big grin. Roger knew nothing of my life in Miami or my love of Malbec. He was reading my mind.

I lifted the glass and inhaled. The bouquet of earthy plums and blackberries filled my nose. “Paul wouldn’t be able to guess what this is.” A smirk crossed my lips.

A saxophone began wailing along with the dancing piano melody. The crowded tables around us began to empty. Roger and I leaned across the cocktail table, so we didn’t have to yell over the music. A votive candle flickered on our table, making our faces glow. I spilled my guts about the dinner at Morton’s, the argument in our hotel room afterward and my conflicted feelings about my future. My thirtieth birthday was just two weeks away. I twirled my hair and bit my fingernails between confessions. Roger listened intently, nodding his head when he agreed, shaking it when he was shocked.

His fingers bridged the rim of his glass. “How do your parents feel about him?”

“He’s never really gotten along with anyone from my family,” I replied. “Honestly, that’s one of the things that attracted me to him. He’s totally different from them. He’s confident. He takes charge. He speaks his mind. I’ve always been trying to become a stronger person than I was ten years ago.” I told Roger how Paul took control of every meeting involving the settlement of my dad’s estate in his stern, all-business tone, and had made my brother so mad, he’d run out the door. Paul never made small talk with my mom when she called on Sundays; not that she made much effort, either.

“It honestly didn’t bother you that he didn’t get along with your family?” Roger leaned back on his barstool. “That would be so hard for me. I’m really close to my parents.” He looked down into his glass of Dewars.

I wish I could say the same. I sipped my wine slowly, letting the ripe berry flavors coat my tongue. “It didn’t bother me at first. When I was in college, I wanted to escape the Midwestern lifestyle. I didn’t have that desire to spend my winters sitting in front of a TV wearing long johns, watching the local news.” My cousin had never been on an airplane before he flew to our wedding and he hadn’t been on one since. Whenever Mom called to tell me someone back home was pregnant with another illegitimate baby and going on welfare, Paul would roll his eyes and laugh. “But lately, I’m tired of the jokes and put-downs. He says things like ‘I can’t believe you have the same genes as them’ and ‘Your family doesn’t have a clue.’” Paul had even called my stepdad a drunk to his face. Maybe he did drink too much from time to time, but he’s a great guy. He’s caring, entrepreneurial and takes better care of my mom than my dad ever did. I laced my fingers and raised my eyes to meet Roger’s. “The older I get, I realize my upbringing is part of who I am. It helped me grow into the person I’ve become. And I’m proud of who I am today. I wouldn’t trade my childhood with anyone.” I looked Roger in the eye with strength and confidence, then raised my wine glass in the air—Harley Aberle, the girl from Podunk named after a motorcycle, promoting fine wines for a living. I’d come a long way. Roger nodded and took a long sip of Dewars. I watched the ice cubes touch his lips. I proceeded to tell Roger about my childhood, the moves, my father’s suicide, then my therapy sessions. He rocked back and forth in his chair, inhaling and exhaling.

“He seemed like he’d be a great husband when I was twenty-four.” I recounted Paul’s attributes and my aunt’s infamous, pre-wedding advice. I talked about kissing Fernando, our intense connection on all levels and how he ran away. “I married my best friend because all the magic fades away.” I stared into the deep, purple wine in the glass. My rationale for choosing a husband suddenly felt irrational. Finally.

Roger shook his head, then pressed both palms against the tabletop. “You settled.” His blue eyes anchored to mine. “I’m sorry to be so frank with you, but you settled for less than you deserve. Life is too short to be with someone who doesn’t make you so happy, you can’t wait to see him everyday.” His tie bounced around his chest while he spoke with his hands.

My knees began shaking under the table. My eyes darted from his face to the piano player across the room. Dive-bomber. Direct hit. His words triggered a flashback. Until that moment, I’d forgotten that I’d called my old friend Danielle three months before my wedding, freaked out about the roller coaster of emotions. “You’re settling,” she’d said in her curtly way. “Trust me. I’ve been engaged before and got out before it was too late. Call it off.” She was the only person who’d been straight up with me about my decision to marry Paul. She didn’t RSVP for the wedding. I’d buried her statement in the deepest corner of my mind like a bad secret. We didn’t speak again until three years ago, when she found me on Facebook.

“I want to tell you a story,” Roger said, filling the uncomfortable silence. “I was an expert at the art of settling for years.” He leaned back in the chair and loosened his necktie. “It all started with one girl.” His index finger wagged above his rocks glass. Roger proceeded to tell me about a girl he’d met at University of California at San Diego who had rocked his world. His face lit up as he talked about meeting her at a college bar, their first kiss, the amazing sex, the way they could read each other’s minds. My head nodded until my neck hurt. My mind flew to the dance floor with Fernando.

“I felt that once,” I interrupted, my fingers gripping the edge of the marble table. “God, I miss that feeling.” Roger smiled, then continued. Their relationship had lasted four years. The passion never stopped. She dreamed of working in Thailand; he wanted to live in California near his family. “We just found ourselves at a crossroads, and we couldn’t go down the same path.” He ran his fingers through his light-brown hair. I looked into his sad eyes and wanted to hug him until he smiled again.

“I was devastated,” he said. “A part of me died. But now I know I cannot get involved with a woman unless I feel that same level of connection.” His shook his rocks glass until the ice cubes jingled. “My soulmate is out there somewhere. We’ll find each other someday.” He stared into the votive. Roger had not had a serious girlfriend for six years.

I leaned over the table. “How did you move on?”

His firm face flickered in the candlelight. “That relationship taught me more about benchmarking than any job. The benchmark has been defined for the kind of woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. End of story.” He threw back a gulp of Dewars. My eyes swelled with astonishment. A dating benchmark? Damn, I could have used one of those about forty times. I collapsed against the back of my chair and sipped the smooth wine.

“I called Fernando the first week of January.” The words blurted from my lips. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him for seven years.” My confession spilled across the table like a shattered bottle of booze. I told Roger about the phone call I’d made to Fernando’s office six week’s prior. Getting closure with Fernando was supposed to unclog my heart valves, unclutter my brain. If I could close the door on our love, the daydreams about how Earth-shaking good it felt to kiss him would end. I could finally unlock the hidden passion between Paul and me. But deep down, I’d always wondered if Fernando might be thinking about me and regretting our break-up. Just like Adele’s theory in “Someone Like You,” I hoped he’d heard my voice and realize it wasn’t over. Fernando was so aloof, I felt like a telemarketer making my first cold call. The small talk was so small, I’d needed a microscope. Fernando and Alessandra were expecting their first child, a boy, in just eight weeks. He’d hardly remembered the abrupt end to our relationship! “Oh, yeah. We were crazy kids back then,” he’d said with a smug laugh. But I didn’t have the urge to smack him upside the head with a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

I looked Roger in the eye. “When I hung up the phone, I wasn’t sad. I was happy. I was hopeful.” I gripped my wine glass. Speaking to Fernando had given me a newfound hope that my heart was no longer chained to his, and my life could truly move on. But I still felt like there was a rock in my stomach every time I walked into my house after work and kissed Paul.

“You have to find your balance. You are the only one who truly knows what happiness means to you.” Roger’s deep eyes anchored to mine as he spoke. “Everyone has a different definition of happiness. Stop listening to other people and follow your heart.” I sat quietly, nodding, letting his words sink in. There are billions of people on this planet. How could I think there was only one guy who was perfect for me—and that guy didn’t want to be with me? Roger waved over the cocktail waitress and ordered me another bottle of Evian. My cheeks flushed.

I looked around the now empty bar. The foggy confusion that had consumed me for the past few years began to lift, freeing my mind. The room felt as serene as a day spa. After months of banging my head against the wall, searching for answers, the puzzle pieces had snapped together. I’d spent thousands of dollars on therapists and all I’d really needed was a heart-to-heart talk with a stranger at a bar. The source of my problems became as clear as Fernando’s glass of Santa Margherita: My looming birthday wasn’t the mental roadblock—my marriage was. I married my best friend. I settled. But I could no longer live without the magic—not for another week, not for another thirty years.

“You build your house on sand, and it cannot stand.” I chanted the words of my yoga instructor, Baron Baptiste. “Your emotional house should be like a rock.” I caressed the marble tabletop, nodding my head. I needed to be strong. I needed to find peace within myself. The fate of my future was sealed at that moment in a downtown Cincinnati bar. I’d felt this all along. Why couldn’t I face it sooner? My nickname in grade school was motor-mouth Harley. Why did it take me five years to open up? I guess I’d needed time to grow. Paul had made so many sacrifices for my career, and our move to California had ultimately helped him land his dream job too. My guilt was gone. It was finally time to face my true feelings.

“Being alone isn’t easy, you know,” Roger said, signing the bill.

I rested my chin in one hand. “I know. I remember.” I wasn’t the same self-conscious girl from Miami who stayed in unhealthy relationships because it was easier than being single. I glanced down at my wedding ring, filled with diamonds reset from the ring Paul’s dad had given his mother. I’d had it remade once while we were engaged because I didn’t like the way it looked or felt, which had really pissed Paul off. Even after more than three years of marriage, whenever I looked at that ring, it always felt like I was looking at someone else’s hand.

We walked back to our hotel. It was a chilly, dry night in early March with remnants of a recent snowstorm piled along the street curbs. Roger put his heavy coat and wool scarf around my shoulders. I tucked my arm under his the old-fashioned way, as if we were strolling down the sidewalk in 1944, not 2004. We stood in silence at the elevator doors in our hotel lobby, looking at each other.

“Are you ready to go to sleep?” I asked him. He shook his head. We walked into the lobby café next to the front desk. It was two in the morning. Napkins fanned like peacock tails on top of white plates, waiting for guests who’d arrive for breakfast in a few hours. We sat in a horseshoe-shaped booth side by side in front of two preset place settings. He reached for my hand. My heartbeat shot up like a cork popping from a Champagne bottle. I had not felt that much excitement since Fernando. I gripped his hand. We’d bared our souls to each other. We had a bond. And I must admit: I found him very attractive. We’re talking Hugh-Grant-before-the-hooker-snafu attractive. We stared at our interlocked hands for a few moments, then looked up and smiled at each other. My chest fluttered, overcome by the shot of bliss coursing through me. My fingers trembled. I pulled one hand out from under his and caressed his knuckles.

I looked into his kind eyes. “Everything in life happens for a reason, you know?” He pulled my hand to his face and kissed it softly. It was thirty-eight degrees outside, and I wanted to crank the AC. My entire body tingled from the spark of his touch. I grabbed his hand and rubbed it gently against my cheek. Part of me wanted to invite Roger up to my room, to have one chance to feel the wave of passion pour over me that I’d given up on years before, to have a physical barrier placed between my husband and me.

I squeezed Roger’s hand and rested it on the table, then slid my fists into my coat pockets. “I’m not a cheater.” I looked down at the untouched place setting in front of me. Tears swelled in my eyes. “I have too much pride and respect to do that to anyone.” Construction of my emotional house had already begun. I would never jump crotch first into a relationship again. That moment was a monumental internal victory for me.

Roger cocked his head. “And I would never want or ask you to do such a thing.” I believed him 100 percent. He was the perfect gentleman, and my guardian angel sent from another galaxy.

I gazed at his oblong face. “I’m so glad I came to Cincinnati.” I thought of a chain email my mom had sent me—the kind where you forward it to five people and will have good luck for ten years or something like that. It had said: Every person we meet in life is not a coincidence but a destiny. Every person we meet in life is either a student or a teacher. I’ve always lived by the belief that no person, place or thing in my life is here by accident, and that email was the perfect reminder. Roger was my teacher. Our trip to Cincinnati was my destiny. My life had finally reached a turning point.

“Thank you for tonight,” he said softly, patting my hand one last time. My cheeks flushed. I watched as he climbed out of the vinyl booth and disappeared into the elevator.

I sat in the passenger seat of my SUV, staring out the window. White mountains and ravines stuffed with snow-tipped trees blurred by. My mind bounced from the torturous weekend in Lake Tahoe back to Cincinnati.

“What should we have for dinner?” Paul asked from the driver’s seat. He wore black ski pants, a Columbia coat and a winter beanie. His best friend and his wife canoodled in the backseat. Eight days before my thirtieth birthday, Paul’s best friend from college, an avid skier who’d also majored in hotel/restaurant management at the University of Alabama, had arrived with his bride for a Northern California honeymoon. Their trip was a roadblock, keeping me from having the most important talk of my life.

“I don’t care,” I whispered, pressing my forehead against the cold window. Less than two weeks had passed since my heart-to-heart talk with Roger. I’d already begun living for me, not for Paul. I’d stopped eating Toaster Strudels. I’d stopped watching television and started listening to music again.

Paul gripped the steering wheel. “That’s been your answer to everything this weekend.” Only a heartless bitch would file for divorce the week before honeymooners arrived at her doorstep for a romantic week of wine tasting and snow skiing. The entire weekend, I’d built an imaginary wall around myself. I’d gone to bed early while the newlyweds and Paul watched movies. I’d skied the green runs as slowly as a newbie. Paul had turned to me on the slope. “Hurry up!” he’d yelled. “Leave me behind. I’ll be fine,” I’d snapped back.

I looked down at my puffy blue jacket and matching ski pants. That’s because I have a truckload on my mind. My big secret wanted to spring from my chest like the midget trapped in the oven in Project X. The four of us had spent two long nights in a frumpy motel outside Truckee, which was actually more adventurous than our typical Tahoe getaway. Ski trips with Paul were never about hot chocolates and hot tubs. “Why stay in a hotel when you can drive four hours back home and sleep in your own bed?” he’d say, his southern drawl camouflaging his patronizing tone.

Jim Rome hissed about Pete Rose’s gambling on the car radio. I thumbed through my new portable CD case and popped Dido into the stereo slit.

“Hey,” Paul barked. “I was listening to that.”

“Rome’s a douchebag,” I replied with a snarl. “I’m tired of listening to shouting rants every time we’re in the car.” I tugged my blue beanie over my eyebrows and sunk into the seat.

“Hunter” poured from the speakers. The strum of the guitar engrossed my tattered emotions. As Dido’s angelic voice sang the lyrics, my knees began to shake. I’d never connected so strongly with a song in my life. While I looked out the window, Dido cooed about a king on his throne and a girl who wanted to leave. Goose bumps rippled across my legs. My eyes began to water. I sang along with Dido, finding more common ground in the chorus. I sang louder and louder with the building finale, not caring what anyone else in the car thought. I wanted a chance at life again. I wanted him to let me go. When the song ended, I hit rewind.

“Don’t even think about changing it.” My jaws snapped at Paul, as his right hand moved toward the stereo dial. Our SUV gradually dropped into Sacramento Valley, leaving the snow and the mountains behind.

Paul dropped his keys on the kitchen counter and strolled into the living room, surprised to find me sitting on our Ethan Allen couch, still wearing my work suit. He’d been on a business trip ever since we’d returned from Tahoe, which gave me time to sort out a plan.

“We need to talk.” My jaw quivered. I watched him walk around the coffee table and plop down, leaving a cushion of space between us. Anxiety whipped around my queasy stomach. My mind’s eye could see the speech I’d been rehearsing for three days, which was now a wrinkled piece of paper crammed into the front of my packed suitcase, hidden in our guest room closet.

“I’m very sorry for the way I’ve been acting.” My voice and hands shook. He sat on the edge of his cushion, thick arms folded across his broad chest. He didn’t say a word. I’d spent a week googling tips on communications tactics online: start with the acknowledgment of fault to soften any defensive reaction. The advice sounded pretty damn good for the most important conversation in my life with the most aggressive communicator I’d ever known.

“It’s just that I’ve been thinking a lot about our discussions about communication, affection, things I want us to improve on.” My mouth was cotton-dry. I’d strategically selected the words “discussions” and “improve on” versus “fights” and “change.” He nodded his head. His face was pale just like during the couples’ workshop. We both sat in silence, staring at each other. I looked down at my damp palms, clasped atop my Jones New York dress slacks.

“It’s not fair to you that I keep asking you to do things that don’t come naturally to you.” I paused to swallow. “Your relationship should be the easy thing in your life, not the hardest.” As I recited Roger’s mantra, my voice grew stronger, more confident. “If you truly love and cherish someone, your actions toward that person should be effortless.” My chin was up, my shoulders back.

“But I do love you, Honey,” he said in his sharp tone. For the last six years, that type of response would have made me withdrawal from the conversation—retreating to a falsely peaceful silence where my isolated thoughts and confused feelings ran circles in my mind.

“I know you love me. And I love you too.” I paused to regain my focus. “But you don’t adore me. You don’t cherish me. The intimacy I’m starving for would come naturally if you adored me.” I looked out the sliding glass doors across the room to our deck. “I finally realized we have to face the truth. We’re not soulmates.” My chest fluttered under my blue silk shirt. I felt like I’d crossed mile twenty-four of a marathon.

He looked at my eyes fixed on his face. “You don’t think we’re soulmates?” His tone made it sound more like a cocky statement. I’d told Paul about Fernando when he took me to Islamorada for our first Christmas together. He’d said he thought we had lots of soulmates in each lifetime. It took me almost six years to finally believe him.

I shook my head. My eyes watered. A downpour of sadness flooded my chest. I struggled to breathe. “I’ve been thinking about the past and the future a lot.” My voice trembled. “I have regrets.” I swallowed. My neck and shoulders felt tight, like I’d been lifting weights for two days. “I’m regretful of how our relationship started. How could you really ever respect me and love me the way I want you to anyway?” I looked down at the carpet. “I had no respect for myself.” My heart bashed against my rib cage. The first night in Key West, we’d skipped dinner and headed straight to Sloppy Joe’s for three rounds of Mind Erasers—a decision my mind could never erase. We’d had a sloppy make-out session at the bar, then Paul had followed me back to my hotel room—stopping off at his room to get his toothbrush and allergy meds. Even on the first night, Paul was orderly and organized. Very romantic. He was still legally married, and we’d screwed in my hotel room like two college kids on spring break. I’d spent the next morning in a steaming hot shower scrubbing my skin as veraciously as Meryl Streep during the contamination scene in Silkwood. Matthew’s ghost was still haunting me back then. Two wrongs didn’t make a right. I’d thought I was going to hell for breaking number six of the Ten Commandments.

“We were separated,” he said in the same frustrated tone whenever I brought up his first marriage.

I threw up my hands. “That is not the point.” My jaw locked. “I just know I can’t live another thirty years and look back on my life with regret.” I looked straight at him. Tears streamed down my face. I slipped my palms back between my knees to steady myself. “I have a hole in my heart. It’s been there since before we met. I know what it’s like to feel an electric connection with someone, something so powerful on a spiritual, emotional and physical level.” I took a deep breath. “I had it. I lost it. I thought I could live the rest of my life without it, but I know in my heart of hearts that it wouldn’t be fair to either of us. Your soulmate is out there too.” I looked at his shocked eyes and pressed on. “Someone who gets shivers every time you touch her. Someone who will be perfectly content with a husband who shows his love by handling the bills, helping with the chores, being in charge of everything.” My voice boomed with conviction and determination. Any worries about being judged were buried in a decade of failing at finding true love—a decade that was officially over.

Paul rubbed his palms on the knees of his khaki slacks. His pale face turned to mine. “If you felt like this before we got married, why did you go through with it?” His sad eyes pleaded with me for the first time since our New York trip.

My fingers trembled in my lap. I looked down at our fancy Ethan Allen coffee table. “I figured it was just wedding jitters. That’s what most women said when I asked for advice.” Then I recited my aunt’s words: Marry your best friend. All the magic fades away.

Paul sat on the couch in silence, looking out the sliding glass doors across the room. I stared at the little crease in the side of his blank face. It was a silent standoff.

“Do you have anything you want to say?” My voice cracked. I watched him, uncomfortably, for at least a minute. I couldn’t tell if he was going to fly from his cushion in a fit of rage or grab the remote and flip on the evening news.

“I’m scared. I’m sad,” he said, matter-of-factly. “You know me. I show no emotion.” He leaned back on the couch and continued looking blankly out the doors to our deck. I stared at his shaved head. Paul never minced words. We’d lasted longer than most NFL head coach contracts, and this was his response to the end of our marriage.

I shook my head, feeling a half-smile spread across my face. Yep. I knew him. And I finally knew myself too. The girl who craved affection and romance had married the responsible, wound-tight guy who couldn’t show emotions. I never would have stopped wanting more; he never would have changed.

My eyes scanned the wine rack across the room filled with expensive bottles we’d been saving for a special occasion—1992 Caymus Special Selection Cabernet, 1995 Swanson Alexis, 1999 Groth Reserve Cabernet. We’d never had enough special moments to make a dent in our wine collection. I sat quietly on the couch, staring at the wine rack, listening to Paul’s breath. My chest already felt as if a grape gondola full of stress had been removed. It took me ten years to truly overcome my fear of confrontation; I felt like yin and yang were karate fighting inside me. Part of me felt horrible for leaving him. I’d given my word, said my vows, at a garden in Key West. We’d built a life together that would have to be dismantled piece by piece. The other part of me wanted to grab that bottle of Swanson Alexis, pour a glass and toast to the most-empowering feeling in the world. I’d faced my fears. I’d taken back control of my destiny. My mind began to sprint through the possibilities of a new life that was about to begin.

“You’re still going to edit my presentations for work, aren’t you?” Paul’s voice rang in my ears. My jaw dropped.

A gasp zoomed from my mouth. “That’s what you’re worried about?” I glared at the side of his face. Any remaining ounce of guilt or fear leapt from my body and flew out the window. My exorcism was complete—minus the holy water and spinning head.

My eyes drifted to the window. “Oh, yes. The great support tool for your career.” I grinded my teeth. My writing and marketing skills were what mattered most to Paul when our marriage was ending.

A feeling swept over my body I’d never felt during a break-up: complete and total validation.

CHANCE

“SOMETHING IN THE WAY SHE MOVES”

James Taylor

REWIND: Chance’s black Jeep bounced along a rocky path snaking up the eastern ridge of Mount Veeder. It was a crisp, sunny evening, and Northern California wine country was awakening from its winter slumber—fruit trees blossoming, red clovers sprouting between vineyard rows, grapevines bursting new buds. Chance cranked the truck’s parking brake mid-slope below a forest of Manzanita and pines trees. I hopped out of the cab and into nature’s cradle of life, feeling reborn and ready to raise a toast to Mother Earth—and to Hammurabi, the inventor of divorce.

My eyes floated across his Napa vineyard. “Wow. This view is unbelievable.” Rolling hills carpeted with wildflowers and grapevines fanned out around a cluster of boulders bigger than minivans. Vineyards that gorgeous got two-page spreads in Wine Enthusiast. Scents of mustard and chamomile drifted in the breeze. Chance grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the rock formation. My chest fluttered beneath my DKNY top and fleece jacket, overcome by the locale and the rush of his touch.

“We’ve divided the vineyard into thirty parcels, according to sun exposure, soil type, incline and elevation.” Chance waved his arm toward the patchwork quilt of vineyard blocks. “This Cabernet block here is five-hundred feet below that Zinfandel block up there.” He pointed to the top of the mountain, chattering like a second grader on Show and Tell Day. I nodded, captivated by the intricacies of mountain farming, which stresses the grapevines, resulting in smaller berries and thus more concentrated flavors in the wine. But Chance didn’t look like your typical winegrower. He stood 5-foot-11 and probably weighed 190 pounds. He kept his short, light-blonde hair tousled with thick gel and had striking, light-blue eyes. Chance was handsome but not handsome enough to be cocky about his looks, kind of like Tom Scavo from Desperate Housewives. He wore faded Lucky Brand jeans and a sage paisley-print shirt—a gentleman farmer in every way.

His ears glowed reddish pink from the evening sun at his back. “We’re on our fifth leaf. The vines have taken well to the soils here.” My heart throbbed with rapture. Winemakers count the age of young vines by leaf, not year. It turned me on when Chance talked viticulture. I was one smitten wine kitten.

I gazed at the endless rows of grapevines with tiny, pink-edged leaves sprouting from skinny trunks. “Any problems with frost this season?” My voice was firm, yet cool like a cop at a routine traffic stop. Making small talk that would impress a wine guy was definitely in my wheelhouse. It was early April, and the vines had just emerged from their winter sleep and pushed their first buds of the season—the beginning of the grapevine’s growth cycle known as “bud break.” Spring frost can damage baby buds and significantly decrease the size of the crop.

“So far, so good.” Chance kicked the dirt as he walked. “But we’ve got another month before we’re out of the woods.” He stopped short of a cluster of car-sized rocks at the edge of the vineyard and pointed. “You gotta check out the view from up there.”

Chance climbed onto one of the boulders and extended his hands to me. I dug my Via Spiga boots into the red, rocky dirt to get some traction. “If this is a typical second date in wine country,” I said, grabbing his hands, “then I can’t imagine what you’ll do next time.” I laughed as he pulled me up. We stood side by side on a moss-covered rock in our fancy blue jeans and designer boots. Chance reached for my hand; my pulse surged. His hands were smoother and smaller than Paul’s, and I liked that about him. My new life was every bit as exciting as I’d dreamt it would be. I cupped my right hand above my eyes to block the sun. San Pablo Bay glistened on the hazy blue horizon in the distance.

“It’s even better here.” Chance pulled my body in front of his. He wrapped his big arms around me, as I crouched down in front of him. My heart leapt into my mouth. The guy had so much promise, and our bodies had never been that close.

“What clones did you plant?” I asked, hoping to calm my nerves. Birds chirped in the nearby forest.

“Clone seven, Clone two and some Martini.” I could feel his lips near my ear as he spoke. “They all do well in these red, rocky soils.”

“You’re so lucky to be able to start a winery right now,” I said, feeling the warmth of his chest against my back. “Land prices are going through the roof.” I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Thank God getting a divorce wasn’t as expensive as buying real estate. Three weeks had passed since I’d told Paul our marriage was over. I know. I moved so slowly, but after years of struggling with internal turmoil over my marriage, I was beyond ready to date again. Kelly Clarkson had just released “Since U Been Gone,” and I’d realized that I could breathe again … for the first time in years. I wanted to juggle men like bowling pins and perfect the art of dating without a deadline.

Chance laced his hands around my waist. “Dad and I have been holding onto this piece of land for ten years.” My stomach tingled. He had patience when it came to his dreams, just like me. I kept my back straight and didn’t lean into him. I wanted to keep a little distance. I was willing to wait ten years to find Mr. Right, but I knew he’d never find me if I sat home every night watching Alias re-runs, as I’d done while married. “I’m glad you wanted to come here with me.”

“All it took was thirty dollars, two glasses of wine and four tacos.” I looked down at my hands locked with his and shrugged a laugh. “And here we are.” We’d just had dinner at his favorite taco shop in Napa—a week after I’d found Chance on Match.com under the code name “KingofCabernet.” Online dating seemed like the best way to meet men outside of my inner wine circle, and I’d made a pact with myself to never date a co-worker again. My previous foray into Internet dating had netted me Tyler the shy hottie, so my record was quite good. Chance’s profile picture showed him toasting with a fishbowl-sized wine glass; his biography was riddled with jokes that would have impressed the writers of Family Guy. He seemed like the right amount of fun for a thirty-year-old divorcée.

“You’re a cheap date.” He sat down on the rock. “And you smell good too.” His arms tugged me toward him. I grinned and sat Indian-style in front of him on the bumpy rock, letting the evening sun warm my face.

I giggled, turning my head to him. “Are you kidding me? I smell like a taqueria.” My hair, my clothes, my breath—I could still smell and taste the spicy-greasy goodness of our carnitas and carne asada taco platter. Chance wrapped his arms around me, making my fleece jacket feel like a cozy blanket. I welcomed the tenderness of his soft arms, not the power of Paul’s thick biceps and broad chest. Chance’s body was neither hulky nor skinny, which worked for me. I took a deep breath and savored the moment of the new. His head rested on the crown of my head. We sat on top of what seemed like the wine world and just gazed at his magnificent mountainside view. My heart and mind were sprinting. It was way too soon to meet The One—that dashing winemaker I’d daydreamed about after breaking up with Raul in Miami. I took another deep breath and forced the ridiculous thoughts from my head. Chance was simply my rebound guy.

I looked over my shoulder to Chance. “What was it like growing up here?” A lot of women in the wine business who aren’t born into a winemaking family dream of finding a single guy like Chance. He grew up in Napa Valley wine country, owned a few rental properties in Calistoga with his father, and planned to launch his own wine label making Zinfandel and Cabernet Sauvignon from his estate-grown grapes. He was an entrepreneur who spent his days managing two of the most prized assets in wine country: vineyards and real estate. I wondered if dating winemakers wouldn’t feel so exciting if I’d been living in Sonoma County my entire life; they seemed like celebrities to a newcomer like me.

“It was…well…umm…interesting,” Chance said. “There’s a lot of wealth. There’s a lot of poverty. I had an interesting mix of friends. It taught me a lot about having money, but not so much money that it changes you.” His profound statement lingered in my head, as goose bumps flew up my legs. I sat in silence, thinking about my upbringing and the reality of my new life in wine country.

“I’ve always wanted more than I had.” I wrapped my arms around my knees. “But it’s only changed me for the good.” I peered out at the breathtaking horizon. Pink and lavender began mixing in the sky, signaling the finale of a wine country sunset. Years later, I’m still in awe of this region and all its beauty.

“I can’t wait for you to meet my friends,” Chance said excitedly. “My real friends. Not just all the people around town who have known me since I had braces.” He laughed. Dating Chance was a social rebirth as much as it was a wine dream. He’d already introduced me to tons of people from the Sonoma wine community—Napa’s more laid-back neighbor—and had my calendar booked solid with parties, dinners and wine tastings for the next three weeks. During our first date at the historic Swiss Hotel on the Sonoma town square, we’d shared a bottle of his inaugural 2002 Zinfandel, and locals had stopped by our table on the terrace every ten minutes to chat with Chance about everything from mortgage rates to vineyard frost protection. I’d felt as if I was on a blind date with the mayor. My desire to date a man who could provide the mental stimulation of deep conversation, as well as a fun night on the town, had been realized after years of living with a homebody.

“Hey, you wanna meet Darth next?” Chance spoke in a bellowing voice with a smirk. Chance named his dog Darth Vader, a Star Wars tribute any child of the 1970s would appreciate. The dog was a Pomeranian—a fluffy, dainty Pom—a telltale sign that Chance was totally in touch with his feminine side. I had no problem with that. What can I say? The man owned a vineyard.

Chance hopped down from the huge rock, then extended his arms to me. My body glided down his, and his arms wrapped around me as I hit the ground. I looked up into his eyes, as blue as an afternoon sky. The silence was uncomfortable but sweet. He leaned down to me, and my eyes instinctively closed. Our lips met. His lips were soft, wet and lustful. He kissed me again and again, never leaving my lips. My pulse raced, after days of anticipation. Finally, a real kiss I could get lost in. The world stood still. I listened to our breath and the birds chirping in the darkness of my mind. His kiss was filled with a desire I hadn’t found in the lips of the construction site manager named Brian (also courtesy of Match.com), who drank Bud Light and showed his interest by burning me Duran Duran and Toad the Wet Sprocket CDs. My mind danced with the magic of the moment: a vintner and a wine marketer, kissing in the middle of his vineyard. It was the closest I’d been to a surreal surge of chemistry in seven years.

Chance closed the front door of his house behind me. “Do you want anything to drink?” He owned a ranch-style home with an attached apartment near the Sonoma town square, about thirty minutes from his grapevines in Napa Valley. As I stepped under the vaulted ceiling of his living room, Chance darted behind the accent wall that led to his kitchen. The jingle of a dog collar trailed from down the hallway, then a brown-black ball of fur smaller than a carton of milk pranced around the corner, his tiny tail wagging rapidly. The dog looked less Darth Vader, more Chewbacca.

I scooped Darth into my arms, lowering my left cheek to his tiny nose. I miss my dog. Leaving Paul’s dog was one of the hardest parts of the divorce. I sat down on Chance’s cushy, gray couch, laughing and nuzzling Darth’s wet nose while he licked my forehead. I glanced around the room. Every white wall was bare, except for a dartboard next to the fireplace. Sliding glass doors off the living room opened to a flagstone terrace with a gas grill, a white plastic table and four chairs, shaded by a redwood pergola. I smiled at the discovery of a forgotten relic: the bachelor pad. “Make yourself at home!” Chance yelled. He was always a ball of energy—just like his dog and kind of like Robert in a haunting way.

“Do you wanna listen to music?” Chance handed me the glass of water without dropping cadence, as he buzzed over to an old stereo tower next to a tiny, dusty television. He kneeled and zipped through a handful of CD cases stacked on the speakers. His ears looked bigger from behind, but his butt looked mighty fine in his Lucky jeans. My whole face beamed while I squeezed his squirming dog in my arms.

“What kind of music do you like?” I asked, petting Darth. Music was a subject we hadn’t covered yet, which is serious when deciding whether or not to date someone.

“Kenny Chesney, Phil Collins.” Chance thumbed through the stack of CDs in his hands. “Country music is my favorite genre.” I felt a lump the size of an avocado form in my throat and swallowed hard. Strike one. Growing up listening to “Friends in Low Places” by Garth Brooks and “All My Ex’s Live in Texas” by George Strait had scarred me for life. I’ll forever blame that all on my roots.

“Can I pick?” I bent down over his shoulder and plucked James Taylor’s Greatest Hits from the stack. “Let’s go with this one.”

Chance clicked in the CD and hopped to his feet. His endless energy rejuvenated my hope that most men in their thirties didn’t spend four hours a day in a recliner with a remote control in hand. He flew through the house, tugging my arms through the animated tour of his personal world. He busted into each room waving his arms like Kramer from Seinfeld, before rattling off declarations:

Backyard: “I’m going to start landscaping this summer. The hot tub needs a new motor. I bought it on Craigslist for two hundred bucks.”

New computer: “Running your own business is a pain in the ass.”

Web site: “I’m not happy with the layout.”

Guest rooms: “You can stay here anytime you want. My brother comes up on the weekends. He lives in San Jose. You’ll meet him sometime. He’s awesome.”

Guest bathroom: “I need to retile the tub. I know.”

Bedroom closet: “I should throw away this shirt, right?”

Chance pulled me into the kitchen. “I’m still hungry.” He whipped open the refrigerator door. “We should snack.” I peeked over his shoulder, trying to discreetly inventory the contents of his fridge. (What a man eats says a lot about his character.) A dozen cans of Slim Fast shakes lined the door’s shelves; two Weight Watchers chilled-and-ready meal boxes filled the bottom drawer. I also spotted three two-liters of caffeine-free Diet Coke. My mind began cycling like a dishwasher. Danger! Danger! My dating radar hit code red. Chance grabbed a plastic to-go box packed with wilted romaine, then scrunched his nose and tossed it in the garbage can.

Chance threw open two cabinets above his Formica countertop. “Do you like popcorn? I know I’ve got popcorn.” His hands hunted through the cupboards.

I leaned against his kitchen counter, letting his true colors sink in. “I’m not really hungry. We just ate dinner like two hours ago.” Mexican food was not my idea of a light meal. After a plate of tacos, I wouldn’t be hungry for a day, and I’d need to run for two hours the next morning to work it off. Fat and married—I thought the two went together like Asian massage parlors and happy endings. Why did I fill my head with such crap? The Biggest Loser wasn’t even on TV yet. Within three weeks of filing for divorce, I’d slimmed back down to my Tyler weight. The fear of becoming that single, fat lady with a house full of cats was highly motivating.

Chance reopened the refrigerator and grabbed a Diet Coke, then looked at the glass of water in my hand. “I should just drink water, shouldn’t I?” His eyes darted from my glass to the plastic bottle in his hands. I shrugged, hoping my indifference would make him change the subject. He sat the bottle down on the countertop. “I’m really getting into a new work-out routine.” Chance grinned like a used car salesman.

I smiled, gripping the glass in my hands. “Oh, really. Tell me all about it.” I did a lot of listening to Chance’s stories back in the beginning, and I didn’t mind a bit—even if his choices in food and music seemed a bit odd. He never talked about the evening news or reality TV. Chance had told me he’d started running four days a week at Jack London State Park and suggested I keep work-out clothes in my 4-Runner so we could go running together. I liked the idea of dating an exercise buddy.

His eyes danced around my forehead. “I’m eating take-out salads from Sonoma Market.” His voice was chirpy like a bird. “I got my body mass index done a few weeks ago, you know, a BMI. I need to lose ten pounds.” He grabbed both sides of his waist and pinched a roll of skin through his dress shirt no bigger than a Totino’s Pizza Roll.

I rolled my eyes. “You’re nuts.”

“What?!?” Chance shrieked like a girl. “My jeans are too tight. Look!” He tugged at the denim near his hips. I felt like I’d been sucked into a time warp and was talking to my fourteen-year-old self.

I coughed down a gulp of water. “I don’t know why you’re so worried about your weight.” I rested my glass of water on his counter. “You’re a guy. You look fine.” He definitely didn’t have the body of a weightlifter, but he wasn’t really fat. Little love handles didn’t compare to the cellulite I’d been fighting.

Chance jabbered on, standing over his kitchen sink. “You know, BMI doesn’t lie, right? The numbers are always right.” I looked deep into my water glass. In a bizarre sort of way, it felt refreshing to have such a girly conversation with a guy.

“If you think you need to lose weight, just cut out the fatty foods and carbs,” I said, tapping my fingers on the counter. “And exercise. Burn off more calories than you take in.” I looked down at the Gap jeans I hadn’t worn since college and crossed my ankles. My chin was raised high. I no longer craved the junk food I’d eaten with Paul, and the pounds had melted away. Chance bobbed his head. If Chance really wanted to make a change, he’d need the same discipline.

“You’re going to be so good for me.” Chance grabbed the soda bottle from the counter and poured it down the sink. “I shouldn’t drink this crap anyway, right? It has Equal in it. It’s unnatural. I’m going to drink water from now on, just like you.” I watched his hand gripping the upside-down bottle. My mind began ticking off boxes—the bad ones. The man had more quirks than the cast of Pee-wee’s Playhouse. His eyes darted back to the fridge. “I’m thinking about becoming a vegetarian or maybe a vegan.” Chance pointed his nose in the air with conviction. “Well, maybe just for thirty days to see how my body reacts.” He tossed the plastic bottle in the recycling bin and rubbed his palms. “We have such a great farmer’s market. It won’t be too hard.” I glanced at his blonde hair and the tiny creases in his forehead. I wanted to study his mind like mechanics do car engines. Chance was a fascinating creature.

Chance opened a bottle of Gundlach Bundschu Merlot, a supple wine from one of the oldest family wineries in all of California. We moved to the couch, and he popped his favorite CD into the stereo: Kenny Chesney’s “When the Sun Goes Down.” A blaring siren now accompanied the flashing light in my head. I sniffed my glass of wine, letting scents of blackberries and plums fill my nose.

“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 distributors 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.

I stood up from the desk. “I think it’s, ummm, it’s more than that.” I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for a life of wine all day and all night.” The words echoed in my head. I can handle his Slim Fast but not his wine? My lips tingled from the shock of my realization. I rubbed my forearms. “I felt comfortable working with you a few minutes ago.” I squeezed the pen in my hand, staring down at my Franco Sarto sandals. “I think this is just too comfortable. It’s too familiar. It’s scaring me.” Even though I’d dreamed of marrying a winery owner when I’d lived in Florida, I’d suddenly realized that living a life of wine 24-7—as I’d done with Paul—was like drinking Pinot Noir every day. Boring! Sorry, Miles from Sideways. My soul craved diversity. I was thirty years old and still learning about my needs and myself. I was contributing tons of ideas to Chance’s dreams; I didn’t think he’d ever contribute any to mine beyond the bottle. The relationship was not effortless.

I painted the bedrooms in my townhouse sky blue and butterscotch—colors Paul had vetoed at our house. The first night at my new home, I didn’t invite Chance over for a drink or dinner. I wanted to be alone. I owned my own home: a safe haven for personal time, space and reflection. Paul had started dating a college senior—the man was thirty-six at the time—and she’d moved into his new house the day after the moving truck had left. Jealousy was, however, the farthest thing from my mind. Maybe she was The One. Maybe he would give her everything she wanted. There is a perfect match out there for everyone.

I marinated a chicken breast in Jamaican spices and tossed it on my new George Foreman, then heated a pot of black beans mixed with pico de gallo, Pickapepper sauce and a spritz of fresh lime juice—healthy, Caribbean comfort food I’d enjoyed for years in Florida and had abandoned when I’d started living with Paul. I lit the candles on the dinner table and poured myself a glass of Gallo’s MacMurray Ranch Pinot Gris. Crisp, bright, refreshing. Being alone never felt or tasted so good.

“We’re getting salads, right?” Chance asked in his ever-hurried pace, as we sat down at Mary’s Pizza on the Sonoma square. Six weeks had blown by since our first date, and I was still hanging out with the frantic foodie. Most dates with Chance felt more like Young Professionals’ mixers, so I wasn’t ready to give up all the opportunities to meet interesting people.

I settled into my seat. “Yes, and nothing fattening like a Caesar.” I’d told him I’d eat at Mary’s only if we didn’t order pizza. My body could handle pizza as an occasional splurge, not a weekly staple. And I didn’t want to hear Chance complain about his bloated gut for the next two days.

He ordered the Margherita Pizza and drummed his hands on the gingham-checkered tablecloth, smiling at me across the table. I shook my head. He bounced around in his spindled chair, singing along with Madonna’s “Die Another Day” drifting through the loud dining room.. When the server asked us if we’d like fresh bread, Chance fired back, “Yes, please.” My eyes flew across the table. He knew I didn’t like the temptation of bread with meals. Chance gobbled three pieces of bread from the wicker basket before I organized my thoughts.

“Why are you eating that?” I shoved my straw around my plastic water glass. “You keep on saying you want to eat healthy.” My voice was sharp and exasperated. I leaned back in my spindled chair. He doused another slice of bread with olive oil, then pushed the oil carafe neatly toward the salt and pepper shakers.

“Olive oil is healthy,” he replied. “This bread is made fresh daily. Isn’t that healthy?”

My cheeks flushed hot with frustration. The waiter returned with our two glasses of Benziger Syrah. I took a long sip and hoped the silky red from a great family winery would lighten my mood.

“Listen.” I sat the wine glass on the table. “You can eat whatever you want. I don’t care. I’m not your mom.” My nose scrunched as I snipped at him. Chance stared at me, stunned. I folded my arms. “I just hate hearing you complain about what you eat after you’ve already eaten it. I’m not your personal trainer either.” I wouldn’t have been surprised if the guy masturbated to Richard Simmons Sweatin’ to the Oldies. The buzz of the busy restaurant filled my ears. Ever since we’d starting dating, he’d talked about exercising together. I’d slept over at his house a dozen times, and we’d still never gone running the next morning. “Let’s go to Garden Court Café for eggs benedict, and we’ll run later,” he’d say. I squeezed in my workouts—a forty-five-minute jog or power yoga session—here and there, but my fuse was getting short. Standing up to Paul had given me the confidence to confront Chance. Chance needed a dose of honesty. Being good for him meant telling the truth. Truth hurts sometimes. I’d finally learned how important it was to be honest and not keep my feelings bottled up—especially when something was bothering me.

He pushed the breadbasket into the center of the table. “You’re right.” His hand waved in the air, motioning our waiter to return. “Please take this away.” Chance lifted his bread plate and the basket in the air.

“Are you going to come to my parents’ barbecue for Mother’s Day?” he asked, sitting a packet of Equal on his fork like a catapult and launching it into the air. I rolled my eyes and looked around to see if anyone noticed his childish table manners.

“Don’t you think it’s a little early for me to be meeting your family?” My eyes stayed focused on the stem of my wine glass.

His mouth dropped open. “We’ve been dating for more than a month.”

I swirled my wine. “That’s not a very long time.” My eyes drifted to the window.

“Let’s change the subject.” Chance rapped his palms on the tabletop. “I can’t wait for our trip.” He started dancing in his chair. I forced a smile; I wanted to crawl under the table and get swept away with the bread crumbs. Blinded by the bliss of a new romance, I’d made the classic dating mistake of a woman in her thirties: I’d invited him to travel, by airplane, with me—not once, but twice—before I’d seen his true chimichanga. We’d already been to the Wine Spectator Grand Tour tasting in Las Vegas, where I’d avoided him like jug wine. Deep in the Venetian’s crowded grand ballroom, I’d anchored myself behind my winery’s pouring table in my little black dress. Chance had worn his only pair of designer jeans (the tattered Luckys) and a frumpy cotton shirt that hugged his lil’ love handles. Every time I’d looked at him, thoughts of rummage sales and travel irons had flooded my brain. Most men were sporting suits, including Paul, who was flying around the ballroom with his college girlfriend on his arm. I wanted Paul to see me with the man of my dreams—not my man of the moment. And when he did, we both had to be dressed to kill. Chance and I would soon be jetting off to the New Orleans Wine & Food Experience, held each year over Memorial Day weekend. NOWFE—as wine people call it—had always been my favorite business trip of the year, but I was dreading it like a college calculus final. I’d prayed for an act of fate to sideline his trip: a canceled flight, a bottling problem with his Cabernet, an unexpected press check on his new labels.

Once Chance finished his pizza, he collapsed against the spindles of the wooden chair. “I shouldn’t have—” He stopped mid-sentence as his eyes met mine. “Uhhh, never mind. That was my last pizza anyway. I’m going to drink Slim Fast for a week now.” I looked down at my half-eaten garden salad and pushed it aside. This guy is a hot mess. My head was spinning. I suppressed the urge to ask if he needed to borrow a tampon.

Our New Orleans weekend nosedived as fast as Debbie Gibson’s 2001 comeback album. Chance descended on the culinary mecca with magnum force, scarfing down po’ boys and beignets all day, then he lay in our hotel bed at one o’clock in the morning, whining his regrets and rubbing his belly. He asked me to go to the hotel gift shop and buy Pepto. He brought the same wrinkled shirt from Vegas and wore it twice over the four-day trip. I wore INC suits at the wine tastings. The man didn’t know how to dress to impress. When winemakers and brand managers walked by us, I didn’t grab their arms and say, “Hey, I’d like to introduce you to Chance.” I just stuffed my head under a tasting table and pretended to reorganize wine bottles. I’d never referred to him as my “boyfriend” and didn’t plan on starting there. He pouted like a toddler when I wouldn’t leave my wine tasting stations to go walk around the convention center with him, sampling wine and food. “This is my job,” I replied, pouring another sample taste of Rancho Zabaco Zinfandel. “I’m working. Go have fun.” I shooed him away to the Commander’s Palace station for a bowl of turtle soup.

At Jackson Square, I refused to let Chance listen to my tarot card reading, which I’d been looking forward to since my last one in New Orleans. The previous year, a Willie Nelson look-a-like had fanned out the cards on his bandana-covered table and told me my house was falling, crumbling. Within twenty-four hours, a small earthquake had hit Santa Rosa. Within twelve months, the house was sold, and my divorce papers filed. This time he said I’d fall madly in love with a tall, thin man with dark hair and blue eyes—another reason why I didn’t want Chance listening to my reading. The prediction made me wonder if Diego, the Cuban from Oakland I’d recently met on Match.com, was my Mr. Right.

After the reading, I strolled in front of Saint Louis Cathedral alone. It felt empowering to walk the lively streets of the French Quarter, remembering the zany days of my first and only Mardi Gras. My path in life had zigzagged more times than a Top Gun fighter pilot. Back in Kansas, if you would have told me I’d be living in California by age thirty, working for the largest wine company in the world, I would have replied, “Yeah right, and chickens have nipples.” My grandma had insisted that a mega earthquake was going to sink half of California into the Pacific. That was the kind of crap I’d been fed between Jimmy Dean sausages and Salisbury steak boil-in-bags. I’d come so far in just one decade.

Chance installed a new motor in his hot tub, also courtesy of Craigslist. Dating a guy with a hot tub was something you must do before you die, so I accepted the invitation to what he said would be the first of many “bikini and bubbly under the stars” parties—even though I knew deep down that it might be my last.

“As long as it’s just a few people,” I said, then suggested he invite only Karl and Melanie, who’d just started dating. Melanie was a good friend of mine who worked for the Sonoma County Wineries Association (now Sonoma County Vintners) and lived in the town of Napa. I didn’t want to be alone with Chance, but I didn’t want to bounce around his house forcing smiles with a bunch of half-naked people either. I needed a wing woman.

Sitting in a hot tub drinking sparkling wine wasn’t so calming while getting the stink eye. Chance sat alone on the other side of the six-person hot tub. A small patio light glowed in the darkness, dimly lighting Chance’s knotted face. I claimed my spot in the corner farthest from his reach. I wore a long-lost bikini—the one my butt was never supposed to fit into after getting married—giving my confidence an extra boost. We all sat in the dark, sipping our glasses of J Cuvée 20 Brut, making small talk about recent crappy weather, which had affected the blooming phase of the grapevines. Melanie pulled Karl inside the house to make some popcorn. Covert operations were her thing. We had a plan.

“How have you been?” I lifted a half-empty glass to my lips. Chance and I had not seen each other since New Orleans. The sparkling wine’s yeasty pear flavors filled my nose, as I waited for my next move. I was already daydreaming of sitting in J Vineyards & Winery’s posh Bubble Room—with a guy who didn’t drink Pepto for breakfast.

“Good,” he replied flatly. “You?” Chance glared at me through the rising steam.

“Good.” I watched the warm water bubble around us. My chest tightened with anticipation. I asked questions about his wine label printing to fill the awkward spaces.

I rested the flute on the wooden frame surrounding his hot tub. “I think we should talk.” The tension in the air was as thick as the steam mixing above our heads. It felt so damn good to have the nerve to speak up—to be in complete control of a relationship. Practice makes perfect when it comes to confrontation, too. The hot tub motor hummed behind my head. We looked at each other in silence, wavy water bouncing between us. It was time for the talk that an army of men have dished out to women. And I was in command.

“Okay,” he muttered.

“You know, we’ve had a lot of fun together.” My hands skimmed the water’s surface. Jets pulsated on my lower back and calves. The deep massage relaxed my edgy nerves.

Chance stared at me, his face contorted. “We have a blast. So what’s the problem?” He chugged his Champagne flute.

I moved one hand through the water. “Yes, we have fun.” My voice began to shake, and I took a deep breath. “I just want to make sure, umm, that we’re on the same page about where this is heading.” A bead of sweat ran down my cheek. I readjusted my wet ponytail, feeling my heartbeat throbbing in my ears. I grabbed my Champagne flute and took a long sip of J, letting the zippy bubbly reenergize me. His icy-blue eyes blinked repeatedly, and he wiped his cheeks. I couldn’t tell if he was crying or just sweating too much, but he looked like he’d just watched the end of the movie, Beaches. Steam rolled off the bubbling hot tub between us.

“I like you.” My voice trembled as I pressed on. I sipped the sparkling wine, letting the lively bubbles lift my mood … like they always do. “You’re a great kisser. You’re ambitious and whole lotta fun.” I paused, inhaled, then exhaled. His eyes fixated on my lips, waiting for the next syllable. Chance’s facial expression was long and flat like Beaker on Sesame Street. He stared at my face in silence. His bottom lip bobbed. “I just don’t think getting any more serious than this is the right thing for me.” I forced my eyes to stay focused on his. A medicine ball of nerves weighed heavy inside my chest. “I want to make sure you’re okay with that.” I sat down my wine glass and plunged my shaking hands under the water. You’re doing great. Keep going. We’d been dating almost two months. I’d enjoyed the socializing, his endless energy, and the affection in and out of the bedroom. I didn’t even mind keeping the relationship going for a little bit longer, but it was time to verbalize my feelings. He kept inviting me to have dinner with his parents. I kept making work excuses. With Father’s Day approaching, I had to buck up about where the relationship was heading.

I squirmed in my corner of the hot tub, staring at his sad face. My hands moved through the water. I adjusted my bikini straps, then grabbed my wine glass and took another long sip, letting the tiny bubbles coat my throat. Chance stared at me and said nothing. I felt as uncomfortable as a Cabernet drinker at a Pink Out! wine tasting.

“I’m sorry,” I said, finally. “I feel really weird having this conversation.” I looked up to the dark sky and searched for the Big Dipper. The night I’d made out with Fernando in his truck crossed my mind. I’d find that thrill again—in another place, with another man.

“I just don’t understand what’s wrong.” Chance’s eyes pierced through me. “I think you’re awesome. We have all the things you mentioned.” He paused. “We’re great together. We both love the wine business.” His eyes searched my face for a sign.

“I don’t need any more wine in my life.” I raised my flute to my lips.

His head dropped. “If you need more space, I understand.”

“This isn’t about my divorce.” My mouth fired back faster than a riffle. I brushed my free arm through the water.

“Then what is it?” Chance stretched both arms across the edge of the hot tub. “What’s wrong with me? Why don’t you want to only date me? I only want to date you.” His eyes were anchored on my face. I took another sip to stall. My mouth filled with flavors of apples and custard, my mind with empathy.

“Do you really want to hear what I have to say?” I hefted the green bottle of bubbly to my glass. Chance looked as confused as a first grader who’d been kicked off a dodge ball team. “Okay. Fine.” I emptied the bottle into my glass and took a long gulp. “There are some areas where I think we’re incompatible.”

“Like what?”

“Well, like eating habits for a start,” I replied curtly.

“Huh?” His eyes whizzed around my face, searching for common ground. “You know I try to eat healthy just like you.”

“Chance.” I looked into his hurt eyes. “Do you want me to be honest with you?”

He bobbed in the water. “Of course.”

I took a deep breath, longer than one of Chris’s old bong hits. “Okay.” I leaned back in the hot tub. “You harp about going on diets all the time. You constantly complain about what you eat. You tell me ‘you’re bloated.’” I looked down at the bubbling water. “As a woman, that is a real turn-off. It’s not very manly.” After filing for divorce, I’d promised myself I would never hide my feelings from a guy again because I was scared of hurting him. I’d be honest and frank—even if it hurt. (Having the courage to speak my mind ended up helping my career in the long run too, not just my love life.) Chance stared down at the water, letting my words soak in.

“I…I just…I can’t…” he stuttered, throwing his hands in the air. “I can’t just have a casual relationship with you.” Our silent stare-off picked up again. “Is that all you’re ever going to want from me?” His sorrow seeped through the warm air around our sweaty faces. The tables were turned. I was seated in the chair of so many men I’d dated. He wanted more from the relationship than I did. He cared for me more than I cared for him. I felt like celebrating by flipping off the author of Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. If I could have learned sooner how confident and strong taking control of my dating life would make me feel, I’d probably had started dumping guys as a teenager.

I climbed out of the hot tub and wrapped a towel around my waist. Chance’s eyes met mine one last time. As the steam rose, I watched my dream of marrying a winemaker disappear into the night.

KEVIN

“FLY AWAY”

The Black Eyed Peas

REWIND: I’d never been to Arizona before, but the experience felt eerily familiar. My eyes bounced from the road to the scribbled paper pinched between my fingers, as cold air blasted from the car’s air-conditioning vents. I took a deep, chilled breath, a welcome recess after a long day under the desert sun with my mystery man. Following his driving directions was almost as easy as following my heart.

Within minutes, I spotted the exit number he’d jotted on my hotel notepad and pulled off the freeway. Giant cactuses flanked the entrance to his neighborhood. I almost expected one of them to turn into Gumby and stick me in the ass for being so—well, so Harley—chasing the dream of finding my dream guy, any place, any time. Pueblo-style houses painted vibrant Southwest colors lined the streets, each with its identical, thimble-sized lot. It reminded me of tract-home communities back in California’s Central Valley.

I parked my Toyota Camry on a cul-de-sac, then checked my hair and lipstick in the visor mirror. My eyes darted back and forth between the piece of paper and a line of streetside mailboxes. I counted the numbers on the houses, moving farther and farther down the street. When I found number 1972 at the end of circle, my heart took a long drink of adrenaline. There were only three cars on the entire street and one was mine. He’d invited me to a barbecue. I’d expected a street full of cars and a trail of dance music and laughter spilling from the backyard. I glanced down at the car key, dangling from the ignition.

Twelve hours had passed since my flight had landed in Phoenix. I’d just finished the roughest and longest work trip of my event planning career—four days each at Food & Wine Magazine’s Classic at Aspen, the first-ever VinExpo Americas, and the Telluride Wine Festival in Colorado—and still had three days in Arizona before returning home to Santa Rosa. My muscles were sore from carrying cases of wine all day and sleeping on firm hotel mattresses all night, but I didn’t mind. I was living life by my rules, flying around the country popping corks for strangers who shared my love of wine. In the business, we call them friends. Gallo’s national sales meeting had kicked off that morning at the swanky Phoenician resort, perched at the foot of Camelback Mountain. Eight hours later, I was sitting in a rental car in the suburbs of Scottsdale about to enter the house of a man I’d just met. My white knuckles clutched the steering wheel. I exhaled, pushing my apprehension out into the painted sky of the sweltering desert. I was a thirty-year-old divorcée with Hilton Honors Diamond VIP status and a palate for Champagne—seasoned enough to know a good guy from a bad one. Kevin had been partially vetted. He had a subscription to Wine Spectator and knew the difference between Merlot and Malbec, so he’d passed the first test. Time for number two.

I walked slowly toward the front of his terra cotta-colored house, feeling the heat radiate from the pavement into my Franco Sarto sandals. It was eight o’clock and still ninety-five degrees. My backless Bebe top stuck to my stomach. I fluffed the long layers of my hair, then tugged on the sitting wrinkles in my cream capris. I wanted to look fresh and fabulous—not sweaty and oily like I’d been when Kevin had first laid eyes on me. We’d met that morning at The Phoenician’s Olympic-sized pool, after he’d interrupted my in-depth read of Wine Spectator’s 2002 Burgundy vintage report. (After two weeks of working twelve-hour days, my idea of attending Gallo’s national sales meeting involved a chaise lounger and one of my favorite magazines—not five hours in a dark conference room.) Kevin had seen me in an old, faded bikini with no make-up and a messy ponytail sprouting atop my head like a palm tree. I’d been one tattoo and a cigarette short of trailer trash, and he’d still invited me over.

Kevin opened the rustic, wood front door. The butterflies buzzed in my stomach. He wore a light-blue golf shirt and cargo shorts, and his tanned skin glowed under the front porch light.

He smiled warmly. “Hey, you. Welcome to the burbs.” His perfect teeth looked even whiter when his sunburned cheeks plumped. Kevin had hazel eyes and fuzzy, light-brown hair. He was boyishly handsome like Eric Brady from Days of our Lives.

I looked past him in the doorway. “What happened to the party?” I could only hear the hum of his central air conditioning. The bottle of wine in my hand suddenly felt like a dumbbell.

“Well, Maya got a tummy ache on the way home from the pool.” His head wagged, as he leaned his tone body against the door. “I think she ate too many French fries.” He winked and grinned.

I smiled back, twirling the bottle in my hands. “We did eat a lot today, didn’t we?” Kevin was a professional golfer who taught private lessons at The Phoenician; as a perk, the clubhouse manager gave Kevin access to all hotel amenities. Maya was his five-year-old daughter. I’d spent the entire afternoon with Maya and her Dora the Explorer arm floats, playing Jaws and Marco Polo under the grotto waterfall. We’d shared two orders of French fries inside their cabana.

Kevin leaned in closer to me. “We talked a lot too.” I felt my sunburned cheeks getting warmer and looked down at my freshly painted toenails. We’d talked about life and relationships for at least three hours. We were both starting all over again in our thirties, so I’d wanted to learn more about him, but cautiously. Kevin split his time between San Diego, his primary residence where most of his wealthy clients lived, and Scottsdale, where his only child resided with her mom. Kevin had looked so adorable wrapping a towel around Maya’s tiny body before lifting a Capri Sun juice pouch to her lips. I could picture the “Baby on Board” sign dangling proudly in his car; he probably bought his ex tampons at the store too. He was unlike any man I’d ever dated.

“I should go.” I held out the bottle of Gallo of Sonoma Barrelli Creek Cabernet Sauvignon as a peace offering. After noticing three copies of Wine Spectator on my lounge chair that day, Kevin had started up a conversation about his favorite wines. He loved Cabernets, especially those from Napa Valley and Bordeaux. I wanted to show him that Sonoma County Cabs were just as good, but not if we’d be drinking alone inside his house.

“Don’t be silly.” He rolled his eyes with a scoff. “She’s in bed, fast asleep.” Kevin waved his arms, motioning me into the entryway. I stood on the step, looking at his hazel eyes. My mind raced. He has a daughter. He’s a good guy. I stepped through the door hesitantly and felt it close behind me. He was a perfect stranger, but he was not Matthew. And I was a different woman. I wondered if his ex might come knocking any minute. They were amidst a complicated divorce due to joint-custody negotiations. It had been dragging out for a year. She also lived in Scottsdale, not far from Kevin’s house—the house they used to share. At the pool, I’d gotten the feeling she’d officially moved out only a few months before. All of this didn’t phase me for some reason. Their situation made me realize how lucky I was to experience a divorce as swift and smooth as an eBay auction. All I had left to do was watch the clock countdown until our divorce was final in September. But that didn’t mean I was ready to meet Kevin’s wife.

“I’m glad you came.” Kevin cradled the bottle of wine with both hands. “I was worried you wouldn’t.” His openness about his feelings tugged at my heart.

“Why?” I looked down at the Mexican tiles fanning out around my sandals. “Because I hardly know you?” I stuffed my hands into my pockets. We stood in the entryway, smiling through the awkwardness.

“Well, there’s that, and I have baggage.” Kevin chuckled, his laughter spilling down the hallway. The tension in my chest released as I giggled. I loved his honesty. When we weren’t playing with his daughter at the pool, we’d commiserated about our marriages and how great it felt to be starting over. Common ground had fueled our conversation all afternoon. I wanted to learn more about the guy who spent his mornings surfing La Jolla Shores before being whisked away on a private jet to play eighteen holes in Cabo San Lucas. He seemed like The Most Interesting Man in the World—minus the pet tiger and gray beard.

I fidgeted with my purse, smirking. “We all have baggage. Men just carry theirs better.”

“Very funny.” Kevin extended his arm like a maître d’ and ushered me toward the great room. The hallway opened to a gigantic room with vaulted ceilings and rustic beams. An L-shaped tan sectional covered one side of the living room with a big screen TV and a floor-to-ceiling wine cellar spanning the adjacent wall. Code green! Kevin sat the bottle of wine on a granite island in the modern kitchen. Kenny G drifted from a small Bose stereo near the kitchen sink. Code yellow. My mind kept ticking off the good, and the bad, boxes. If a guy was under thirty-five and listened to Kenny G, I considered it a red flag.

“Can I open this?” Kevin gripped the bottle’s capsule. “I haven’t drank Gallo in years.” He stood in front of his refrigerator, which was covered with crayon drawings. I glanced over at his fancy wine storage unit with its red lights flashing the numbers 45 and 56—ideal temperatures for storing white and red wines, respectively. My nerves began to relax.

“It’s no Screaming Eagle.” I pushed my hair off my face. “But I think you’ll like it.” When I’d asked Kevin what his favorite wine was, he’d said Screaming Eagle—a Grand Canyon-sized sign that the man had great taste and money. Kevin was the type of guy who knew how to get on the mailing lists of Screaming Eagle and Harlan, something I’m still not capable of after sixteen years in the wine business. I looked around his bare home. There were no candles or pictures. No empty moving boxes. The only thing in the room besides living room furniture and the wine cellar was an overstuffed toy chest in the corner. It was like a man cave turned wine cave turned playschool. My guard flew back up, as my eyes bounced around his sterile place.

“I know. I really need to decorate.” He shook his head. “It’s hard living in two places.” He grabbed a corkscrew from the island drawer and opened the bottle effortlessly. As quickly as he’d lose a Brownie point, he’d score one. “When I’m here, I want to spend all my time playing with Maya—not hanging pictures.”

I picked at my fingernails to calms my nerves while he poured the inky red wine into two glasses.

He handed me a half-full glass, the perfect amount for allowing a wine to breathe. I didn’t want to date someone in the biz, but if the guy appreciated good wine and knew how to serve it: bonus. Kevin motioned for me to follow him over to the sectional couch. He sat on the long leg of the L, so I sat on the short one, putting two cushions of space between us. My back was straight, and my legs crossed at the knee. I looked calm and collected, but my chest was humming like a sewing machine.

Kevin pointed at the glass’s crystal base anchored between my thumb and index finger. “Isn’t this the proper way to hold a wine glass?”

“Yes.” I moved my hands to palm the bowl of the glass. “And this is a great trick if your white wine is too cold. The body heat from your hands will increase the temperature of the wine, releasing the bouquet.” My hair bounced around my face as my hands cupped the glass. The average restaurant typically serves white wines at thirty-five degrees—the temperature of a bar cooler. “When wines are too cold, their scents are muted, but you don’t want to warm up a wine if it’s already the right temperature. That will accentuate the alcohol.”

Kevin studied his glass and perfected his grip on the stem. “You are so interesting.” He looked over at me with his big hazel eyes and long lashes. I stuck my nose in the glass, ignoring his compliment.

“You’re just letting me talk.” I inhaled the wine’s aromas of black cherry and cigar box. “You probably know this stuff already. Look at your cellar.” My eyes veered to the mammoth wine refrigerator. Unable to fight the pull of curiosity, I sauntered over.

“Just because I have expensive taste in wine doesn’t mean I’m a wine expert.” Kevin’s voice rang in my ears, as I stared into the glass case holding at least 300 bottles. My eyes scanned the neatly stacked rows of bottles resting on their sides: Groth, Caymus, Jordan, Spottswoode, Silverado, Harlan, Screaming Eagle, Colgin. More than half his cellar was filled with stellar Cabernets. How can you own a bottle of Screaming Eagle and not be an expert? “I’m so glad we met today,” he said, my back still turned to him. I took a long sip of the Gallo wine, feeling his compliments echo in my head. My whole body shuddered. It was a little too much. My face was already two shades of pink after six hours at the pool with only SPF 4 lotion, but I felt my cheeks get warmer. I smiled and looked down at the ruby-red wine in my glass. Wine that might not be fine enough for his palate.

I peered into the cooler side of the temperature-controlled unit. “I haven’t seen a cellar like this in years.” I recognized several premier cru and grand cru Champagnes and White Burgundies from my college classes and the publisher’s cellar at The Wine News.

“Once you start collecting, you can’t stop.” Kevin spoke with an amped-up tone like a gambling addict. I turned to admire this handsome man who’d been bitten by the wine bug—his cute face, his fuzzy hair, his tanned arms cradling a wine glass. Throbbing desire began clawing at my insides. I took two sips to fight it off.

I rested the wine glass on the coffee table. “It sure is interesting how our paths in life take unexpected detours.” I sat down and neatly placed my palms on my knees. “But it all happens for a reason. You just have to ride the wave. See where it takes you.” I shrugged and looked at the bottle of Gallo wine he’d set on the coffee table. While Maya had taken turns jumping off the pool’s edge into Kevin’s arms and mine, I’d told him about my move to Florida and how that journey had led me to a wine class in college and then a career working for the Gallos—an amazing wine family with a tenacious work ethic. Kevin had grown up in Indiana and shared at least one of my philosophies in life: live where other people vacation.

“Everything in life happens for a reason,” Kevin murmured, nodding. My head flew to his lips. That was my mantra! I took a long sip of the Cabernet, wondering if it was a sign. “We hadn’t been to The Phoenician in two months. But for some reason, I woke up this morning and asked Maya if she wanted to go.” His hazel eyes pierced mine.

I quickly looked down into my glass and nosed the black-fruit bouquet. The fate train had pulled into my station once again, but I wasn’t about to jump on.

“You’re strong.” Kevin rested his glass on the coffee table. “I like that about you.” A magnum-sized grin plastered across my face. That boy could pour it on thicker than Texas chili.

“Strength comes from defeating weakness.” I took a long sip. Flavors of cherry and cassis lingered on my palate, as I recounted the knots that had formed in my stomach before the wedding. “I chalked it up to jitters.” I shook my head. “Marrying him was easier than breaking it off.” I swirled my glass on the table. “It’s sad that I approached marriage that way, but I learned a lot from that experience.”

Kevin grabbed the wine bottle from the coffee table and titled it toward my glass. Like a trained sommelier, he carefully spun the bottle counter-clockwise at the end of the pour, ensuring no wine dripped on the table. Impressive. I smiled and complimented him on his technique.

“I made a list of the most important things in our relationship.” My head whipped toward him. “The first three things that popped into my head were the house, the dog and the finances.” I counted the list with my fingers, then breathed deeply. Making a list of relationship pros and cons was one of my therapist’s take-home assignments. My marital priorities were totally whacked—another realization that helped me end the relationship.

“Divorce is always hard.” Kevin tightened his grip on the wine glass. “Divorce is so much harder when a child is involved.” He looked up at three coloring book pages taped to the wall above my head. I watched his eyes grow dark. “We’re so close to it being over.” Kevin proceeded to explain how his ex had been fighting for full custody and was using Kevin’s dual-residence lifestyle against him. My chest ached with empathy.

“Why did it end?” I needed a clear picture of where their relationship stood and how it imploded. They were bound for life by their daughter.

“She wasn’t the same person anymore.” His hurt eyes connected with mine. He talked about how carefree and full of life she’d been when they’d met. In the last few years, her career in medical insurance had begun to consume her life. “All she wanted to do was make more money, talk about her salary, go to cocktail parties alone and rub elbows with executives.” He took a long sip of the wine and refilled his glass. “I kept asking myself, ‘What about Maya? What about making time for your husband and daughter?” I nodded, feeling my humming heartbeat. Sounds familiar. Our parallel struggles to find happiness endeared him to me.

I stared deep into my glass of Cab. “One of the hardest things about keeping a marriage together is that people change. Some people grow together, some people grow apart. When I was twenty-four, I just wanted someone to take care of me.” A shaky sigh left my lips with the confession. “My priorities have changed. I want to be loved for who I am.” I gazed into my wine glass again and pictured myself walking down the street. I was a proud workaholic with more moles, scars and baggage than I could count, and some man out there would love all of me—because I finally did. “There were so many things I learned from my marriage, but understanding the type of nurturing I need was one of the most important. I don’t give a shit if you do my laundry or wash my car.” I squeezed the wine stem between my fingers, feeling a wisp of anger breeze through me.

Kevin nodded. “I know what you mean.”

“When you’re with the wrong person, your head will tell you.” My eyes stayed fixed on my glass. “If you don’t listen, your body will send you a message.” I took a sip of Cabernet, letting the silky tannins coat my tongue. “The subconscious is such a powerful force.” A look of enlightenment flashed across his face; I soaked up his interest in my failed marriage and pressed on. “I was constantly sick when we were married.” I leaned toward Kevin. I talked about my battle with chronic colds during the last years living with Paul, and skipped over the myriad infections my OBGYN could only chalk up to “your body chemistry just doesn’t work with his.” Even my body had rejected Paul! As soon as I’d filed for divorce, my health had immediately improved. Staying in a bad relationship is like taking drugs. It fucks with your mind and your body, but you can rehab yourself. To this day, I totally believe this.

“I haven’t been sick in three months.” My voice rang with pride. “I haven’t felt this healthy in six years.” I raised my wine glass in the air, toasting myself.

Kevin’s eyebrows perked. He looked down at the glass in his hands. “She’s really negative.” His head cocked sideways. “That’s interesting.” He took a long sip of the wine. “How do you stay positive?”

My eyes moved from his face to the wine glass in my hand. “The doctors don’t know what’s wrong with me.” I shrugged with a smirk. “It’s some rare form of optimism.” We laughed and sipped our wines, enjoying the comfortable silence.

“I’ve always been positive,” Kevin said. “I haven’t felt one-hundred percent healthy in so long. Maybe you’re onto something.” His hazel eyes were burning holes in the side of my head. I continued looking at my wine glass instead of his handsome face.

“For years I threw myself into my work instead of addressing our problems too.” I pressed on, trying to relate to his wife’s actions. “I was obsessed with making money and redecorating our houses. I thought it was just because I’m a workaholic and grew up poor, but that wasn’t it.” My free arm whipped around my upper body. Kevin sat intently across from me, his eyes locked onto mine. “But look at me now. I just left a wine tasting forty-five minutes after it started, and it didn’t bother me one bit. I’m finally finding balance.” Hosting nightly receptions to unveil new event merchandizing materials was how I’d turned my company-paid trip into a mini retreat.

“You seem to be so at peace with all your decisions.” He took a sip of his wine. “You’re always smiling. I love that you’re so full of life.” His eyes danced around my face again. My cheeks plumped. I looked down the coffee table. I liked the way he used the word “love” when he talked about me, but I was still smart enough to keep my shadow of a doubt about his intentions curled up in a big ball between us.

I shrugged my shoulders, smiling. “The only side is the bright side.”

“Your upbringing must have had a real positive impact on your life.”

“Ummm…yes and no.” I squirmed on his couch cushion. “I’m a big believer in nature versus nurture. I believe we are who we are from the minute we’re born. Our experiences in life shape us, but they don’t change our destiny.” I spoke slowly and clearly, emphasizing every word. It was an unexpected epiphany. I was born this way, and I didn’t need Lady Gaga to hatch from an egg at the Grammys to teach me that. My decisions about whom to date and what jobs to work had shaped my path in life. Sure, my “daddy issues” had made me a little needier and less confident than most girls for years, but that era was behind me. I’d finally found my way on the long, bumpy road to happiness, and I had so many reasons to be thankful. I was born with the ability to handle the curveballs life had thrown me.

I looked down at my crossed legs. “My marriage was not a mistake. I don’t have any bad feelings toward him.” I took a long, cleansing breath while Kevin refilled my glass. “Negativity sucks the energy out of people. There’s no more room in my life for anger or resentment. It just wasn’t meant to be. The right person is out there for both of us.” I paused for a moment, staring through the glass top on his coffee table. “I wouldn’t be the person I am today if I hadn’t had spent more than five years of my life with him.” I sat on the edge of his couch with my shoulders back, feeling the pride ripple through my body. “The experience shaped me.”

Kevin’s eyes drifted toward a window. “I envy you.” I watched his smile fade. I couldn’t imagine dealing with all the paperwork and court hearings, and driving six hours from San Diego to Scottsdale every other week.

The sound of tiny footsteps pulled us from the deep conversation. I looked across the room to the oak staircase and watched Maya’s ruffled nightgown appear before her face. Her piggy tails were lopsided. My thoughts drifted to summer days at the city pool near my grandmother’s house.

“Hey, Sugar Bear,” Kevin said. “Feeling better?” Maya stood on the bottom step and pressed her back against the wall. She looked down at her bare feet. “You remember Miss Harley from the pool today.” Kevin held out both hands to her. “Don’t be shy. You’re never shy.” He stood up and walked over to the fridge. “Do you want some milk?”

She shuttled over to the couch and plopped down where her dad had been sitting. He returned to the couch with a sippy cup and wrapped his arm around her while she rubbed her eyes. Kevin leaned down and whispered in her ear. Maya’s eyes widened as a smile spread across her face. It was the same cute look I’d seen at the pool, when Kevin had asked Maya to ask me if I wanted to each lunch with them in their cabana. I smiled as Maya scooted to my side of the couch. I put my arm around her shoulder.

“Do you wanna go to CrackerJax?” Maya asked, batting her long eyelashes at me.

The three of us spent the next two hours at CrackerJax, a local amusement park. Kevin and I stood along the rail of the go-kart track and cheered as Maya whizzed by. I held Maya’s popcorn while Kevin helped her play Wack-A-Rat. The fact that Kevin was such a caring father made me want to get to know him better, and that shocked me. When I’d left Paul, I didn’t even know if I’d ever want kids. Looking down at Maya tugging my hand toward the Skee-Ball machines, it hit me that dating men with children could be the norm for women in their thirties.

Back at the house, Kevin tucked Maya into bed. I sat on the bottom step of their carpeted stairs and listened to him reading her a bedtime story. It was a precious moment. The man was playing my heartstrings faster than a Jimi Hendrix solo. I wasn’t sure I was stepmom material, but I knew I wanted to date a sensitive man with a big heart.

I moved back to the sectional sofa and grabbed a copy of Golf Digest from the bottom shelf of the coffee table. I thumbed through the pages, studying each golfer’s form. At CrackerJax, Kevin had given me a quick lesson at the driving range. When I’d swung the club, I’d missed the ball the first two times, and had nearly hit a passing caddy in the head. It had to be a strike against me, which was fine. The right guy would love me for who I am.

“You look so perfect sitting there all quiet.” Kevin stood at the bottom of the stairs. “Why didn’t you turn on the TV?” I looked up at him, feeling my teeth grinding against each other. My hairs stood up on my arms. His compliments were just too much after years with a guy who showed his love by running the vacuum cleaner.

“I don’t watch television anymore,” I replied coolly. “The news is always bad news. Reality TV isn’t real.” Camping out every night in front of the television came to a halt as soon as I’d filed for divorce. I didn’t have time; there were too many Sonoma wine roads to explore. Russian River Valley, Dry Creek Valley and Alexander Valley were all within twenty-five minutes of my townhouse.

He dropped onto the couch next to me. “You are so amazing.” My heart thumped. “I want to know everything about you.” Kevin grabbed both my hands and gazed at my face like a long-lost friend who couldn’t wait to catch up. I adjusted my weight, scooting away from him. “Okay. First, tell me what you love most about the wine business.”

“What’s not to love?” I laced my fingers around my knees, grinning. I’ve been asked some form of that question for ten-plus years, but most people just say, “I want your job.” My eyes met Kevin’s. “I work with a product that brings people pleasure. It’s all about hospitality. I love making people happy, and when people go to a wine tasting or a restaurant and taste a wine they love, they’re happy.” My words reminded me that waiting tables was the perfect transition to a fulfilling career in wine. “The wine business is very social. There are lots of cocktail parties, tastings and dinners. I love traveling around the country, tasting new wines and meeting new people.” I looked to his bare coffee table, wishing we still had our wine glasses. “And it’s good for the body too.”

Kevin grinned in silence, looking into my eyes. I glanced back at his coffee table and thought of my father. What did his death teach me? It was my destiny to grow up with an alcoholic and dedicate my life to wine—to prove to all the naysayers that booze can be an integral part of a healthy, happy lifestyle. Beer wasn’t what caused Dad’s problems; it was mental illness that went untreated.

Kevin grabbed my hands and squeezed. “I love my job that much too.” He looked down at my palms and kept rubbing. “It’s been a great day. We should open another bottle.” He hopped off the couch.

“I can only have one glass. Don’t open anything special.” I could hear the white lie in my wry tone. Wines that fine hadn’t touched my tongue since The Wine News days. He returned to the couch with two Bordeaux-style glasses and a high-shouldered wine bottle.

“Harlan’s second label.” Kevin offered the bottle to me. “But you probably already knew that. They only make a few hundred cases.” I cradled the stocky bottle in my hands. It felt like a shot put—a very shiny, beautiful shot put filled with liquid gold.

“Wow.” I stared at BOND’s ornate label and its vineyard designate, St. Eden Vineyard. “Thank you for sharing this with me.” The label looked like money printed by the U.S. Treasury. Chance would be impressed. I hoped he’d decided to follow my marketing (and dating) advice.

Kevin uncorked the bottle in the kitchen and proceeded to decant it. My stomach was doing a gymnastic floor routine. He owns a decanter and knows how to use it.

My voice chirped from the couch. “Can I get a glass of water?”

“Keep going.” Kevin stood over me with two full wine glasses in his hands. “I want to know everything about you.”

I took the glass with both hands, feeling the lump in my throat. The wine was deep and dark with a purple-red hue. I swirled the glass on the coffee table, then took a long sniff. The bouquet was heady and dense; layers of black fruits and clove filled my nose. Kevin floated back to get my water.

I pulled back and propped an arm on the back of the couch. “I brought you a twenty-five dollar bottle of wine.” I lifted the wine glass in my hand. “And you give me this.” I paused to take my first sip. The wine was plush and polished—as silky and textured as that loan sip of Screaming Eagle I’d had while working on a story for The Wine News. I let the rich flavors of cassis and spice linger on my tongue before speaking. “The wine you bring to a party says a lot about the person.” I bit my bottom lip, smirking. I was far more interested in learning about the dreamy life of a pro golfer who flew around in private jets and drank BOND on a Tuesday night.

Kevin flashed his sparkling teeth. “You’re not getting off that lightly.”

I laughed, sitting down my wine glass. “Okay, fine.” I reached for the cup of water. “But it’s the real me.” I spoke proudly of my childhood in Kansas, my father’s drinking, my move to South Florida and getting into the wine business. I was comfortable in my own skin, talking about all the milestones and potholes in my life—all while sipping a $200 cult wine only available to mailing list members. My pace quickened when I spoke about my connection with Fernando.

“So you believe we have more than one soulmate?” Kevin asked.

“For so many years, I thought Fernando was the only one.” My eyes met his. “We weren’t meant to be together in this lifetime. He entered my life to teach me what a soulmate was. I was supposed to feel that amazing connection so I’d never forget it.” My voice shook, so I sipped the silky Bordeaux blend, letting it coat my throat. “And I gave up hope for six years. Now I won’t settle until I find that spark with the right person.” My voice was strong. My hands laced around my knees. Never again would I waste my time on a dead-end relationship. I thought about my conversation with Roger at the bar in Cincinnati. Every man I’d dated had taught me something about life, about myself.

Kevin lifted his fingers and ran them slowly through my hair. My eyes bounced from his face to his wine glass to my water. He leaned slowly into me, his lips touching mine. Energy surged through my body, as his tongue circled mine. His lips were spark plugs, recharging my heart and soul. His hands moved to my face, then to my shoulders. Lights flashed in the darkness behind my closed eyelids. The connection rocked me from head to toe—just like Fernando’s first kiss. Scuba divers would have come up for air first. I pulled away and sipped my water. The Earth-moving magic of a single kiss was back.

He brushed my hair away from my face. “I’ve wanted to do that since this afternoon.” He leaned into me, pressing his lips to mine again. A roller coaster of emotions looped through my body again. I pulled back, his lips chasing mine.

“I just want to look at you for a minute.” Kevin’s hazel eyes were like fiery flames. I looked away bashfully. He was as smooth as Prince in Purple Rain, but I wasn’t buying what he was selling.

“What’s wrong?”

I sat up and crossed my legs. “I’m just not used to someone making such a fuss over me.” I squeezed my knees and leaned forward to the edge of the couch. “Especially someone I hardly know.”

“I know this is crazy.” Kevin turned his body toward me. “I know we just met. But there’s just something about you. I feel that there’s a connection between us. I haven’t felt anything like this is a really long time. I’m following my instincts.”

My heart buzzed in my chest. I glanced at his front door and shook my head. “I’ve heard that one before.” My mind raced as the déjà vu punched me in the throat. I could see Fernando sitting at my bistro table, telling me he’d never felt anything like us before, and he didn’t want to screw it up.

“We have all the time in the world.” I reached for my near-empty water glass. “I should get going.” My eyes met his. “Meetings start early tomorrow.” I hopped off the couch and grabbed my purse.

“When can I see you again?” Kevin asked, chasing after me.

I strolled into The Phoenician lobby at 7:05 p.m. My eyes scanned the pillared room dotted with clusters of lounge seating. I spotted Kevin standing at the concierge desk, chatting with a bellman. My heart bungee-jumped. He looked like a Tommy Bahama model, wearing light-colored slacks and a linen dress shirt. I wore a pink BCBG top, white capris and my favorite Via Siga sandals. He grabbed my hands and a big grin sprawled across his face. I tucked my hair behind my ears and waited for him to lean into me, his lips kissing mine softly. My pulse soared. I’d spent the entire day inside a conference room and had just finished pouring a string of new Rancho Zabaco Zinfandel vintages at a pre-dinner reception. Kevin laced his fingers in mine and guided me to the parking garage.

He opened the passenger door to a sparkling, white BMW sedan. I slipped into the leather seat, impressed but not surprised. When he turned the ignition key, The Black Eyed Peas blasted from his Bose CD player. My shoulders started bouncing to the beat.

I gazed into his eyes. “Song nine is my new favorite.” My music collection was growing again, thanks to BMG Music Service. (Buying music before the iPod was such a pain in the ass!) Kevin’s fingers pushed forward to “Fly Away.” He leaned over and planted another long, soft kiss on my lips. Fergie’s soulful voice filled my ears, rocking with the energy from his kiss. I was getting back on that truck, moving and mixing it up—just like the lyrics said.

We spent the entire evening at The Capital Grille’s bar, sipping Louis Roederer Brut Premier—my go-to non-vintage Champagne—and nibbling on crab cakes with corn relish. His palm bounced from my knee to my hand. I sat on the barstool with my legs crossed and my fingers wrapped around my flute. I felt this desire to explore, albeit carefully, my connection with smooth-talking Kevin even though getting involved with him would be unconventional and inconvenient. My romantic side was finally tethered to a practical one after a decade of failing at finding true love.

“I have so much fun when I’m with you.” Kevin tipped his flute to mine. “I love just talking to you.”

I rolled my eyes. “I need a shovel to dig out, you’re laying it on so thick.”

“Come on. I’m just being honest.” Kevin collapsed into his fancy bar chair. I’d just spent ten minutes answering his questions about the difference between Fumé Blanc and Sauvignon Blanc. Conversations with Kevin revolved around wine and my job—and his compliments. I could hardly even get in a question about Maya, golfing or surfing.

“Seriously,” he said, grabbing my free hand while my fork picked at the crab cakes. “I can’t believe you have to leave soon. Can’t you stay another day?” He pushed his knee against mine.

“I wish I could,” I replied, shaking my head. “I’ve got to get home.” I was still unpacking boxes at my new townhouse. Hearing Kevin’s words continued to make every room in my head spin. From the beginning, he’d pursued me. I was just being myself, having fun and staying positive. Were the stars aligning just 90 days after I’d filed for divorce? Could it happen this fast? I took a long sip of the Champagne, letting the zipping bubbles tickle my tongue and keep me quiet.

Kevin turned his barstool to mine. “So how are we going to make this work?” His smile was bright and sincere. Champagne almost shot out my nose like a fire hydrant. I coughed and sat my glass on the marble bar.

My shoulders squared his. “What are you talking about?” If I had known him better, I would have used my Gary Coleman voice. “We just met. We’re both still married.” My eyes anchored onto his forehead. I wanted to turn into Superman and use x-ray vision to see his thoughts. Kevin had layers of mystery to offset his overt sweetness—like a jammy Zinfandel.

“I haven’t felt this alive in years,” Kevin said, pulling his white napkin from his lap. “I know you feel it too.” He flashed puppy-dog eyes at me.

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 great 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, keep 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.

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 dates. 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.

“I bought it so you can get rid of all those CDs cluttering the living room.” Devon smirked behind his sunglasses, still looking up at the sky. He has always been trying to tame my inner pack rat.

“Okay.” My chest quivered from the giggles. “I will give up my CDs and my gigantic CD towers.” Hundreds of CDs had been traveling with me on this winding road to finding my place in life—Indigo Girls, Belly, Violent Femmes, Gin Blossoms, R.E.M., Everclear, Everything but the Girl, Dave Matthews Band, Gravity Kills, Spacehog … (Does anyone even remember Spacehog?) We’d been through so much together; I didn’t want to say goodbye to those discs. But, I would do anything for Devon.

“All your songs will be in here.” He grabbed the iPod off my towel. “Just create a playlist.”

My eyes watched two seagulls soar over us. Hmmmm…a playlist? I have no idea where to start.

Acknowledgments

This book would not have been possible without the support of my husband, Damon Mattson—the sweetest, smartest, funniest partner in crime a girl could ask for. In 2007, Damon took a job assignment in Ireland, which allowed me to take a sabbatical from the wine business to tackle writing this book. The project has taken nearly six years to complete because I’m merely a “weekend warrior” writer, but I’ve pushed on and kept listening to my Exes playlist on weekends. Over the years, iPods have been lost and replaced, laptops have died, souls have been searched, and there have been many months of frustrating rewrites and discouraging decline letters from literary agents. MySpace has even come and gone … and returned from the dead, thanks to Justin Timberlake. Damon has remained totally supportive through it all, and I am so grateful and indebted to him.

Special thanks to my friends and wine colleagues who read my manuscript and provided invaluable feedback: Taylor Eason of J Vineyards & Winery, Chad Arnold of Saint Mary’s College, “Foodinista” Heather John, formerly of Bon Appétit, Patrick Comiskey of Wine & Spirits and Jen Karetnick of MIAMI magazine. You slay every story you tackle; your voices, your writing continue to inspire me.

Big hugs to my girlfriends, Danielle Girten, AnnMarie Spirk and Paula Geiger, who also read drafts of this manuscript. You were irreplaceable wing women during those tipsy, late nights in Miami. Thanks for helping keep my “morning after” regret meter in check—and the same to you, Alexis Sirulnik. As for Lon Gallagher—I will forever be grateful for that fateful pep talk, and I still have that bottle of Dewars I owe you. A heartfelt thank you to Erin Jimcosky, Katie Bower and Kelly Virgulto for reading this manuscript, and to Kelly who read it twice: please don’t give up on finding your Mr. Right. I also have to give a shout-out to my ex-pat friends, Gina Fierro and Heather Montague. Thanks for helping me sort out the themes and characters of this book over cups of tea on many rainy afternoons in Ireland. You’ll always be my Galway girls.

Thank you to Jordan Rosenfeld, the talented editor and prolific Facebook poster, who provided stellar feedback on queries, book proposals and manuscripts over three years. And thanks to Gina Ardito for setting me straight about dialogue tags.

My career as a wine publicist and marketer has allowed me to study, meet and become friends with some wickedly talented people who have dedicated their lives to demystifying the world of wine through words: Alice Feiring, Leslie Sbrocco, Lettie Teague, Megan Krigbaum, Talia Baiocchi, Eric Asimov, Bret Anderson, Bruce Sanderson, Blake Gray, Ray Isle, Jordan Mackay, Michael Apstein, James Conaway, Jon Bonné, Josh Greene, Alder Yarrow, Daniel Duane, and last but not least, Tom and Elizabeth Smith. (I’m sure I’m forgetting someone, so I’ll post an addendum to my website.) Reading your stories has made me a better writer. Thank you.

Without my day job, I wouldn’t have the resources or skills to publish and promote a book like this, so I also have to give props to the coolest boss in the world, John Jordan of Jordan Vineyard & Winery. Thank you for letting me fly. And a jeroboam-sized thanks to the former management staff at Wilson Daniels Ltd. wine marketing, who supported my decision to move to Ireland to write this book.

I would also like to thank my true exes for inspiring this journey—especially those who have been supportive of this book—Lonnie Johnston and Charlie Cobb. Thanks for dumping me. You helped open some pretty awesome new doors in my life.

About the Author

With a bachelor’s degree in communications and a master’s in heartache, Lisa Mattson’s fate to author this book was sealed in elementary school when a snowball fight with her first boyfriend landed him in the hospital. He dumped her the following day.

Raised in rural Kansas, Mattson’s childhood was filled with cheap beer and fried chicken—an ideal foundation for a career promoting prestige wineries. Many nights spent raccoon hunting also prepared Mattson for her first journalism job writing obituaries for a daily newspaper. She escaped to Florida during college, where she chased boys and caught rays while waiting tables. Not long after taking her first wine class at Florida International University, Mattson was sipping Malbecs and editing stories for a wine magazine.

Twenty years and 50 ex-boyfriends later, Lisa Mattson is considered a thought leader in content marketing of luxury wines, juggling the roles of strategist, publicist, writer, videographer and photographer. Taking the not-so-straight-or-narrow road to finding her dream job and her dream guy was the most fulfilling—and humbling—journey of her life. The Exes in My iPod: A Playlist of the Men Who Rocked Me to Wine Country is her first novel.

She resides in Sonoma County wine country with her husband, their Italian greyhound and a dwindling wine cellar.

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