How to Love an American Man (5 page)

Dear Krissy,
he writes,
your e-mail is warmly received and I would very much enjoy meeting you in person. If you'll kindly share your phone number, then I shall call you to make the arrangements.
He sounds intelligent and kind, although his politeness teeters on the edge of prudence. He finally wins me over when he refers to our little town as a “hamlet” and says that New York and Italy, the two places where I'd mentioned spending the last half decade of my life, are two of his favorite spots as well. After another exchange we determine that it could be a while before we'll meet: this week I'm off to writing workshops in New York, and the day I'm scheduled to return, he'll fly to San Francisco to perform a rare eyelid surgery.

Rare eyelid surgery?
I write back.
So cool!

T
WO WEEKS LATER
on a balmy Friday evening, I step onto my front porch with my hair down and wavy. Instantly I'm relieved I took my mom's fashion advice. “Don't do jeans,” she'd said from my bed as I held up wardrobe options from my closet.

“Why?”

“It's a
date
, he's a
doctor
. Don't you want to feel beautiful?” I'd made my way to the mirror holding up a little black dress, looking at Rocky and Alfonso in the reflection. “You know, boys, Mama gives a lot of opinions,” I tell them. Alfie cocks his head. “But she's usually right.”

This is the first time in a very long time that a guy (“a fellow,” as Grandma called him) will come to pick me up at my parents' house, and something about it feels really old-time and comforting. Just as I start to enjoy it, though, I find myself jittery—actually shaking—more than I'd ever felt before a date when I was in high school. As the doctor's Mercedes coupe flies past the lamppost and into my gravel driveway, I stop desperately fanning the humidity from my face.

In loose linen pants and a light blue button-down, Dr. Christopher steps out of his car and pushes his sunglasses on top of his head. A guy in flip-flops usually looks self-absorbed or, let's face it, not straight. But on him they remind me of a sexy artist in Florence who once closed his studio to give me a private tour on a Saturday afternoon. Yes, clearly I have graduated: this person presenting himself at my doorstep is indeed a full-grown man.

“I'm Chris,” he says, speaking deeply from the ball in his throat. “It's nice to meet you.” He holds out his hand warmly and looks intensely in my eyes.

All at once I'm flustered, but I feign calm to extend my hand. “I'm Krissy.” He takes my grip by sliding his palm under mine and giving me the upper hand—his etiquette is keen, which is both winning and intimidating. I realize that in the ambiguous nature of my communication with him, I've gone and confused
myself
about my intentions. His eyes shine as he tucks a wisp of windy hair behind his ear. “Lovely to meet you too.” Now I smile modestly, suddenly burning to tell him that I don't usually pursue men first.

“Hey, look, there are bricks in that tree,” he says, wandering into the grass like an engineer surveying the base of the Brooklyn Bridge. I explain that the bricks keep the dead oak tree from toppling on our house. “It's our Keebler tree,” I chuckle, half trying to recapture his attention. I remind myself to stay upbeat despite the possibility that he may be more interested in my landscaping than in me. No matter what, I tell myself, this is better than dating the self-centered guys in New York, and
definitely
an improvement over the mama's boys in Italy. I lock the front door, duck behind the garage and dial my parents, who are out to dinner. “Mom,” I hiss, “you were right, he's gorgeous and has really nice teeth. Goodbye.”

“Oh yay!” she squeals. I hang up.

Chris opens the car door for me and holds my hand as I climb inside. I try not to gawk around, but his car's a two-seater, and it's clean. It may be safe to judge that there are no children in the picture. “Oh nice,” I observe, “is this a stick?”

“It is a stick,” he answers gently, climbing in on his side and wrapping the seat belt around himself. There's no denying he's cute, tanned with damp hair, fresh from a swim in the lake, which he'd said he planned to squeeze in after work. His scent is something preciously male, like powder and water and pine. I have never encountered anything like it in my life; everything about this man is entirely new to me. “Before we head where I'm planning to take you tonight, I should ask: do you have any dietary restrictions?”

I laugh. “Uh, no. I wish I could be interesting and tell you I'm vegetarian or something, but I eat pretty much anything.” I pause and look at him. “Nice of you to ask, though.” I'm thankful his air-conditioning and his coolness have blasted away any evidence of my nerves.

“Good. We're having dinner at the farm of some friends of mine. It's all organic, and we'll eat in their garden. They said they're making burritos, does that sound okay?”

“That sounds . . . amazing, actually. Wait, it's around here?”

“Yes, half an hour away in Brookville.”

“Wait, there's an organic farm in Brookville?”

There's a jolt of electricity when he looks at me and smiles. “You sound surprised.”

“It's just, I don't know, I guess I don't think of this area as being so progressive. Wow . . . an organic farm.”

“Yes,” he says, eyeing either my Ballet Slippers manicure or the silver stack of bangle bracelets on my wrist. I got them in Paris. “I know what you mean.”

The car ride is such effortless conversation that I wish we could just keep cruising. Fortunately he can't remember where the farm is and loses his bearings for a minute on the back roads, giving us more of a chance to chat. He's six years older than I am and originally from Michigan. He says he started out in dental school, then decided to go on for his M.D. to do oral and facial surgery. He moved to the area after he completed a successful rotation with an oral surgeon in town who vowed to make him a partner in the practice if he returned after med school graduation.

“Believe it or not,” he said about his partner, “he's one of the pioneer oral surgeons in the country.”

“Wow, and that's why you decided to join him?”

“Yes.”

“Very impressive,” I tell him.

He glances at me and smiles, as though I've just validated why anyone as worldly as he seems to be would move to such a small town. “Thanks.”

“Would you like a piece of Swiss gum?” I ask him.

“Uh,
yeah
,” he says, breaking out surfer attitude. “I've never had Swiss gum. Thanks.”

“You're welcome. It's sugar-free. You know, better for the teeth.”

“That's important,” he says.

I shrug nonchalantly, being half cute. “Yes.”

These extra minutes in the car afford another moment to inhale his perfect smell, which I'm now praying will linger in the halls of my brain forever. For the first time in my life the first date is spectacular. I'm used to the exhausting verbal volleyball of one-on-one conversation that either bores me to sleep or makes me want sex, either way leaving me craving my bed and not just relishing the moment.

Unlike any date I've ever been on, the focus is not entirely on us—the family on the farm plays as much a role as we do. Chris unintentionally charms me when he climbs a tree to talk with his friends' six-year-old son about how to get over the nightmares the little guy had been having. The couple shows me around their garden, which is bursting with lavender and rosemary and sage. For dinner just Chris and I sit under an arbor, eating grass-fed beef burritos and drinking sangria.
Uh-oh
. A faint buzz sets in, alarming me to make the conscious switch to water, until he says, “Isn't it amazing they don't consume any alcohol on these grounds?” No alcohol! I go back to the sangria.

On his phone he plays Sting and Eric Clapton—two of our mutual favorites, as we've determined that we're both what he calls “music people”—and it pleases me to learn that he's close with his grandparents. He reveals that since he's been in practice, he's been able to help them a bit financially, and in return his grandpa has begun to open up about his past. “It's so important for us to connect with our grandparents and learn as much as we can about them while we're still fortunate enough to have them around,” he says.

Again I could swear I'm a little drunk and I choose my words carefully. “I completely agree with you.”

Chris tells me that when he finished med school, his grandpa asked him if “that little blue pill” really works.

I stop cutting into my dinner. “No,” I heave. “What'd you tell him?”

“I told him he might want to talk to his physician about that.”

That gives me a charge. I could wrap a blanket around my shoulders and stay here sharing all night.

After dinner we linger around the family's gift shop, surveying their fresh herbs and materials to make organic soap at home. I'm genuinely stunned that a place like this exists in my, well,
rustic
hometown. Before we exit the shop, Chris buys me heavy wheat bread and citrus honey, juggling them carefully as he opens my car door. He extends his baseball cap to keep my hair tame after he puts the top down—from the outside you can't tell it's a convertible!—and blasts a blues song called “Bittersweet Surrender,” which seems pretty apt. I rest my elbow on the windowpane. “Mind if we play that again?” I ask him.

A smile spreads wide across his face when he looks at me. “Please do.” I hit the rewind button, then feel the engine accelerate underneath us. We are experiencing this rare, emotion-charged energy together. The car speeds and the bass booms and despite the ball cap my hair flies all around me, but I feel like the world has stopped moving and we are the only things in motion.

Maybe there's a reason all the other guys haven't panned out; maybe all the turmoil and disappointment and embarrassment other relationships have resulted in will be worth my struggle for this ideal mate. How encouraging that this genuine, successful man enjoys my company and appreciates my style. Isn't that every woman's most inherent need? With a couple miles left before my driveway, I'm delighted to determine: Chris is someone I could like.

It's only ten o'clock when he drops me off, walking me to my front door in true traditional fashion. His hands are in his pockets; mine are clutching my little purse. The anticipation, wondering
What will he do?,
takes me straight back to high school, where you're either dying for your crush to kiss you or dreading the impending unwelcome advance. Chris and I play as casual as we can, and I hope he means it when he says, “We should do this again soon.” In perfect punctuation to end this incredibly pleasant night, his hands brace my shoulders as he leans down to gently kiss my cheek. We remain there a second, and he's surprised when I return his message by touching my lips to his smooth, warm face. “Thank you,” he says.

I smile. “You're welcome.”

He turns back toward his car and says over his shoulder, “I'll give you a ring.”

I watch him pull down the driveway before I switch off the front lights.

Wait: Did he just say “I'll give you a ring”?

The dogs announce my entrance as I creak through the kitchen. My parents, tucked in bed watching the news before Leno, want to hear all about my night. ”So, is he
normal
?” Mom says, propping herself up on her elbow.

I climb into bed between them, an old childhood habit that's quickly returning. “Not exactly normal,” I tell her. “Which is awesome.” Dad asks if he was a gentleman and I answer yes, in a way I've never really experienced before. “There's bread and citrus honey in the kitchen for breakfast—can you believe he did that?” Mom claps her hands together fast—not over the bread, but Chris's gesture—and I kiss them and the dogs good-night.

In my teenage bedroom I shut the door and climb on the bed with my journal.
I don't want to go to sleep
, I write.
I just know that in the morning I'll have forgotten his face.

T
HE SECOND DATE
is a disaster.

Chris invites me to yoga class, then winds up with patients three hours later than he'd expected. I research a story and paint my nails, thinking,
Seriously, I could've been to Philadelphia by now.
Are the wives of successful men perpetually frustrated? (And just
how
do they keep their makeup looking fresh?) I'd told him I didn't want to be out late because I had an annual Third of July sleepover with all my cousins that night. It's eight o'clock when the doorbell finally rings, and at this rate I'll be lucky to meet up with everybody by midnight.

Rocky and Alfie ambush Chris at the door, and I am so full of annoyance and nerves—and, okay, excitement—to see him that I can barely paste a smile on my face. He hugs me anyway, and we head out.

“I made you some music,” I say, trying to ease in and pulling a plastic CD case from my purse.

He's looking up something on his phone. “You did?”

“Yes. Just a little Euro jazz I picked up when I was away. Would you like to listen?”

“Honestly, not really.”

Oh.

“I'll save it for my trip to see my folks tomorrow.”

I'm suddenly humiliated for burning the disc.

He looks up at me from his phone. “I was thinking we could go to dinner at that quaint little Italian place in Clearfield,” he says.

“Clearfield? That's like a half hour away.” It comes out snippy, then to make matters worse, I shock myself with my next question. “Are you afraid of the local grapevine or something?”

He's startled. “No. Why, are you?”

I want to crawl in the trunk and stay there till Christmas.
Why did I just insult him like that?
He was trying to think of a nice restaurant to take me and I accused him of not wanting to be seen out with me. My New York Girl insecurity is creeping in, oh no, where is this ugliness coming from . . .