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

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.
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œYes. Just a little Euro jazz I picked up when I was away. Would you like to listen?”
    â€œHonestly, not really.”
    Oh.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œClearfield? 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