Read Online How to Love an American Man by Kristine Gasbarre - Free Book Online

“Thanks.”
    â€œWould you like a piece of Swiss gum?” I ask him.
    â€œUh, yeah ,” he says, breaking out surfer attitude. “I’ve never had Swiss gum. Thanks.”
    â€œYou’re welcome. It’s sugar-free. You know, better for the teeth.”
    â€œThat’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?”
    â€œI 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.