How to Love an American Man (27 page)

“How are you going to deal with him?” Celeste asks. My parents pause from spinning the lazy Susan around the table to stare at me.

“I don't know. I'm just going to see how it goes.” For once my strategy at handling Chris doesn't garner any criticism.

I finish my spaghetti and push my plate aside, my stomach tying itself in knots.

We're all carrying dirty plates away from the table when I hear a vehicle pull into the driveway. I hike upstairs to brush my teeth and put on lipstick, and when I reemerge, Chris is climbing out of his SUV and walking through my garage in jeans and a crisp white button-down. Mom and Celeste stand behind the kitchen counter, rubbernecking with their mouths hanging open. “Hi there,” I tell him, sliding open the screen door. “Come on in.”

In our entryway I flick on the light as he pulls out his checkbook. We lean over my homemade time sheet together as I go over the hours I've put in and the expense receipts for which I need reimbursing. “It comes to five hundred eighty-eight dollars.” I think I hear my own voice shake.

He writes out a check for six hundred and asks, “Is that fair?” I look up at him. “Yes, thank you.” I could swear he feels what's coming.

He asks me to accompany him out to his car, he needs to discuss something with me. “Look,” I tell him. “No more bomb-shells, okay? I get the idea.”

Bombshells, he says. No, no. What he wants to tell me is how he woke up this morning and there was a hummingbird outside his window and it reminded him that he wants to get back to painting and sculpting. What am I talking about, bombshells?

I try to look him in the eye, finding it much easier to stare over his shoulder at the trees in my backyard. “What you said about me staying out of your business,” I say, shifting my gaze to my hands. “I get it.”

“I'm trying to compartmentalize.”

“I can appreciate that,” I tell him. “Do whatever you need.”

“Did you hear what I said as being heavier than the way I meant it?”

That lights me. “I don't know, Chris, because I heard it pretty heavy. And I have to tell you, it's not sitting well with me. You tell me that you don't want me in your business, and honestly, I can level with that. But my concern is that I'm only in your life when I'm working for your business, and if I'm not in your business, then I won't be in your life anymore.” I'm controlling my emotions so hard that one wrong word from him could break me into quiet tears, but for now my face remains stoic. Suddenly he feels too unfamiliar for me to freely address him by his name. “Because the only time I ever see you is under fluorescent lights, surrounded by desk chairs and nurses. And, truly, I don't mean to sound threatening. I just have to voice up here—for once, because I never want to bother you with this stuff—but I have to tell you, today, that if we hope to maintain our friendship, then we need to start seeing each other as friends.”

That's exactly what he's saying.

Oh bullshit
, I want to tell him. I filter my tone:
Calm. Calm.
“Is it? Because, Chris, my . . .
fear
is that . . . we rarely have time together, and now you're leaving the country. And I haven't asked for more because I've wanted to respect your space, and I know you give how you can, really, I see the value in that . . . but sometimes it's not what you say. It's how you say it. And so for you to tell me that you don't want me in your business—”

He looks around my driveway and winces, grappling for words. Finally he blurts out, “Can we take a walk?”

Chapter 12
Be True

A
WALK
.

I hope Celeste doesn't leave before I get back.

A breeze rustles through the thick green trees, lifting the cotton of my dress to float behind me.
Please Lord, let the sound of outside dim the racing of my heart, and don't let his medically trained eye wander to my neck, where I can feel my pulse is visible and ready to burst.
Then, my heart stops, and I realize that he really can see straight through me right now: I forgot a slip. But the dress is printed, I remind myself, and it's not going to kill either of us if he sees through to my silhouette.
I'm not perfect
. I'd feel more secure with a layer under this dress, but it can't affect how I feel about myself. I won't let it.

“I'm trying to get better at not letting my work take over my life,” Chris starts
.
When I go to answer this, my responses have gone mechanical. My nerves are vibrating so mercilessly right now that all my earthly concentration goes into absorbing his words. The completion of his sentences seems to push a button in me, causing me to say something automatic, something that I haven't pondered or engineered. Somehow, thank heaven, it's all coming out intelligently. Grandma would be impressed at my composure.

“Well, to that I would have to say that indeed you do draw people to you in your work. This is a good thing, Chris.” Now our words seem to take on the lilt of an old-time novel, and a tunnel of trees lines our descent into the rocky beach parking lot.

“But you, Kris,” he says, “you're different. You're a special person and . . . I want to hear more from you.”

“More from you.” It's a phrase I've never heard before. It's so pleasant and plain and, finally, it's one that requires no analysis. “Thank you.”

We settle our backs against the wooden fence adjacent to the sand. “But having you at dinner at Joe's the other night . . . something about it just didn't feel quite right
.
”

“You know what, Chris? I felt the same way.” I'm conscious not to fold my arms across my chest or I'll look closed off . . . I don't want to set my hands on my hips or I'll appear confrontational. I have no clue where to put my hands. Then, thankfully, he suggests we cross the parking lot to sit on the large rocks that line the shore, away from the noisy Memorial Day crowd that's gathered on the beach.

He leaves the giant rock for me and takes one smaller and lower to the ground. I hoist myself carefully onto the shoreside boulder. Just then one of my flip-flops falls into the grass. Again I'm aware of myself. I gently rap its mate against the rock and knock it off my toes. Finally now that we're seated, my motions feel more fluid, and I know I'm officially comfortable on the rock when my ankles cross. I'm ready to own my half of this conversation. “Was it something I did at dinner, Chris, that made you feel like I didn't belong?”

“No, Krissy, no, no. I can't say it was anything you did, and I don't think it's that you didn't belong . . .” He's searching the sky for better articulation.

“Well, in any case, you see what's happening here?” I make a gesture between us with my hand. “We're agreeing.”

“Yes, we are.”

“But if we'd had the conversation about your staying at Joe's proactively, then I'd have known to decline his dinner invitation, and that would have alleviated the misunderstanding we're having right now.”

“
Right,” he says. “Sometimes I just think there's a little confusion about what we are because we know each other so well.”

How is that a bad thing?
I want to ask him, but my point comes out sounding more diplomatic when I tell him, “Listen. I love knowing you in so many different capacities. I told you what a caring doctor I think you are. I can't imagine that any person could know you completely without seeing you at your work.”

He looks at me intently, and after a pause says, “And we're both single, so there's that.”

I kick my heels against the rock and look down at my pink toes. “There is that.”

“And I just think so much of you that I wanted to throw you a little cash because I know you've been out of work for a while—no, that's not even it, Krissy, it's more than that,” he says, tossing his hands in the air and then resting his head in them with his elbows on his knees. “Kris, I don't . . .
think
of you in the same way as I think of all the people who work with me.”

“I would hope not.”

He looks at me, startled.

“We know each other really personally. I'd certainly hope that my relationship with you is a bit more unique than most other people in your office.”

“It is!”

“How so exactly?”

“We knew each other socially first—”

“We dated.”

My assertion catches him off guard. I show him some mercy, not insisting to explain:
Look, we made arrangements, you picked me up—unless you needed a lift, then I picked you up; we shared meals, we talked, we laughed, you did thoughtful things for me and we usually exchanged some token of affection when we said goodbye. All, dates.

“And throughout those interactions I came to find you . . . intriguing, Kris. But I had to keep my mind on my work, and above everything else I knew I was leaving.”

I nod gently. “I know that now.”

“But I saw, in so many ways, that you have so many amazing qualities, and I saw a way for us to help each other. I needed you.”

He stares down at his hands in a moment of self-examination that strikes me as uncharacteristic and . . . refreshing. “Everything in my life comes together when you're in it.”

My stomach leaps.
Calm. Patience. Teach him how to treat you.
“Chris, honestly, I've so appreciated the work you've sent my way, but I have to tell you something.” My voice softens and our eyes meet again. He drops his hand from its position shielding the sun from his eyes. “I look to you for more than a paycheck . . . or skin advice . . . or a glycolic peel—”

He dips his head. “Such as?”

I go to laugh casually but no sound comes out. I clear my throat. “Uh . . . wow.”

He lift his eyebrows as if to say,
Well?

“Okay.” I exhale.
He isn't going to make this easy, is he? But I have to
do this, for me and for him. I know what I feel.
“I guess what I'm trying to tell you is that . . . uh . . . Chris, women like me—young, single women—don't get the chance to meet enterprising, inspired, goodhearted—and
handsome
men very often. And, uh”—
oh God, please make this easier!—
“there are times when I've thought that I'm maybe a little too selective in the characteristics I seek in a man. However . . . having known you for the past year, now I see that . . . there are men who are worth waiting for. Because there are moments when I really believe that you possess . . .” My words are coming out slowly and carefully thought out. I shift my eyes from the water behind him to look straight at him. “You possess all of the qualities that I have ever looked for in a man.”

He releases the squint from his face and regards me kindly.

“All of them,” I say. “Ever.” He stays still for a moment, and then leans in on his elbows. His body language wants to hear more. “But then, on the other hand, there are times when you completely . . . Chris, you
baffle
me. And I feel ridiculous for even considering you would ever care to be someone even remotely significant to my life.”

He appears about to start a thought, but I have to finish my own.

“And tomorrow you'll leave the country for, what, five months . . . and when you get back,” I lock eyes with him, “I may be gone. I mean, I may still be here, but there's just as likely a chance that I won't be.” He rises from his stone and approaches me. “And even if I am, you'll leave again.”

He sits and places his hand on my bare back, in the space between my shoulder blades and sundress straps. He touches me so familiarly that all I can think is how foreign it feels. I search across the grass lawn toward the beach for the grace to turn calmly toward him. Instead I look up at the sky. “Please say something.”

“Let's go sit in the grass.” He picks up the thongs of my shoes between his fingers and leads me to a spot under the shade of pine trees. The lake laps softly beside us, and he sits with his elbow resting on his knee. I face him closely, sitting on my feet with my hands folded delicately until I pick a dandelion and fidget with it to keep my hands and eyes occupied. When I look up, his eyes are fixed on my face.

So, so blue, those eyes . . . so very crystal blue that they deserve their own paragraph.

“Kris,” he says. I realize that his knocking off the second syllable of my nickname inches him closer to knowing me more. “I'm hearing that there's something more you need to tell me.” I've seen him do this with patients too when he knows that they're not revealing their most serious symptom. Maybe they're scared to learn how severe the diagnosis will be or they're dreading what the treatment will demand of them . . . but every time I've seen him use this approach, they're always relieved to see how good his instincts are. He wants me to feel like I'm driving this conversation, which, as hard as it is, is exactly what I need from him.

Go on
, I tell myself,
he can't help you address it if he doesn't know it exists.

“Whatever it is, Kris,” I feel his hand grasp the outside of mine, “I want to know.”

“Okay, but Chris, it's difficult.” I pause, and for a second I notice distress in his face that I might chicken out. “I guess I just need to tell you that . . . in the last couple weeks, seeing you work and helping you prepare to leave,” I tug at the dandelion's tiny petals, “similar to what I hear you saying about me, I've related to you in a very different—a closer way—than anyone I've ever worked for.”

He dips his head as if to say,
Go on . . .

“Chris, some feelings have surfaced for me. And,”
be strong
“it's clear to me now that I have feelings of very deep caring for you.”

Still he's saying nothing new.

“And . . . my sense is . . . that . . . these feelings of deep caring, could potentially—hypothetically—under the right circumstances . . . turn into feelings of love.” When I meet his eyes, there's a half grin on his face. “And I want to know—I mean, I suppose I'd like to know, or I'd appreciate knowing—but, you don't
have
to tell me, of course, although I guess I really would want you to tell me if . . .”
Just say it!
“If you ever felt the same.”
There.
“Even an inkling.”

“When I feel these things, Kris, it's more than an inkling.”

This is what sets him apart from other men,
I remind myself, staring up into the pine trees to sort out my next move.
He's complex.
I rest my hand on his knee in a last resort cue to tell him,
Look, I just want to level with you.
But I can sense, same as he relates to his patients, that he has faith I'm brave enough to finish presenting my concerns to him.

“Chris,” I tell him. “
If
you've ever had feelings for me, and if you've ever thought about sharing them, then now's the time. Tomorrow you move to the other side of the world and
I don't know
where I'll be when you return. You understand that. And”—this may come out harsh, but maybe it's wisest—“if you ever want me to know of those feelings, if they exist, then now's your chance to tell me. After today, I don't want to know.” I twist the dandelion stem around my finger and silently beg him to break the excruciating silence. “After today it'll be too late. And, Chris, if you don't feel anything, then trust me,
that
is okay because the last thing—”

But suddenly I can't continue this sticky self-preservation because there's something shushing my lips, my God, it's his mouth, and when I realize this I let out a grateful sigh that finally he speaks. The touch of his mouth is like a baby rose on my lips, and lovingly his tongue parts them. So sincere. So worth the wait. For so long I've wondered if his medical understanding of what's exchanged in a kiss had forged an aversion in him to this most biological (and pleasurable) of activities . . . but no. This is the most natural first kiss I've ever felt with someone. There is no shame; only beauty; only fingertips on cheekbones and nose hovering next to nose. There's nothing medical, only emotional; and my only reminder that he's a doctor happens when he skillfully, masculinely, cradles my face in his hands.
His touch changes people's lives
, I think.
And today it's changing mine
. He moves his chin close to mine, and instead of submitting to his invitation for another kiss, I rest my cheek against his. Now it's me who needs to take this all in. I don't know how many minutes we sit here, silent, not kissing; just cheek against cheek; eyelashes blessing each other's questions.

I raise my eyes, “Chris, what do—”

Shhh,
he corrects me, his finger to my mouth. “Kris, please.”

“Okay.” I rest my cheek gently back against his.

What do you feel?
I need to ask him.
And have you been keeping it from me?
I think of Grandma, how she was so careful not to push Grandpa for his emotions. I'm trying to learn that love doesn't need to know every thought, every feeling, every detail so hysterically. These last few months when I've started to doubt my capacity with Chris, I remember what Grandma told me at Valentine's Day when I told her I was giving our friendship space: “I'm proud of you,” she said. “You've done everything right.”

We sit quietly another minute with only the sound of water licking land and the pine trees over our heads accepting the wind like the hush of bristled drumsticks in a smooth jazz band. Then Chris breaks our silence with this: “It's such an honor to be sharing this space with you.” My eyelash brushes against his cheek as I close my eyes to absorb these words.