Free How to Love an American Man by Kristine Gasbarre

conversed a lot. Sure draws a crowd, reminds me of your grandpa. And those eyes! My heavens, I couldn’t stop looking at him. What’s his name again, I can never remember . . . oh right,” pleasure diffuses across her face and her focus drifts off into the air, “Dr. Christopher.”
    This is not going how I’d hoped. I’ve come to get Grandma’s blessing because I’m officially dating someone new, someone who’s actually proven himself to want a relationship with me. I’d envisioned Grandma would be thrilled that I’m finally spoken for, and instead here she is sipping Sprite from a highball glass and telling me I’m missing the picture.
    â€œI thought you and Grandpa wanted to see me in a relationship.”
    â€œWe’ve always wanted what’s best for you.”
    â€œGrandma, what if this is what’s best for me? I’m back home now, I’ve tried dating someone really handsome and successful, and it didn’t work. So I went for the sure thing.”
    Grandma takes a deep breath and stares into her glass.
    The party at the Landing kicked off a series of confusing dates with Chris. He got along with my family despite their frat-house partying, but then e-mailed to ask why the CD, which he played for his parents on the Fourth of July, had the F word on it. ( OHHHH NO, I BURNED THE WRONG SONG! I wrote back, subsequently losing my appetite for three days.) He would call me to enthusiastically make arrangements together, and then show up hours late and with completely compromised plans from what we’d set out with.
    One Saturday, for example, about a week after the pig roast, when for some reason he decided to see me again despite my burning him a song about getting drunk, smoking cigarettes, and fucking—classy!—he rode his bike to work and got a flat tire. So instead of going to an arts festival together that night, I picked up him and his eighteen-speed on the highway with barely enough time for us to squeeze in a swim before dark. We stopped at my house and, crazed, I dug up one of the considerably modest bikinis I still kept in my drawer from high school. Why did my year in Italy foster such an excess of bravery for me to purchase stringy, sequined bikinis that I spent a summer’s nanny wages collecting? I’ll never even wear these things! Then, while Chris took a work call in my garage, I raided the fridge to fill up a jumbo brown Bloomingdale’s bag with groceries my mom and I had just stocked up on: grapes, sea-salted almonds, a wheel of brie and crackers, and blue tortilla chips with fresh-made guacamole. I grabbed two plastic cocktail cups and a bottle of prosecco, and Chris ended his call to help me transport our goods into my mom’s SUV.
    I set up our dinner on the Landing’s outdoor bar, telling Chris to go ahead. “How’s the water?” I called as his silhouette emerged from his plunge.
    â€œIt’s perfect,” he said, pressing his wet hair back away from his face. “Wait till you feel.”
    I pulled my hair into a neat bun and undressed on the sand of our tiny beach, careful not to pull things off with suggestiveness or tantalization. In the past I’ve always been brazen with men, but something about Chris feels different. My inclination is to operate respectably, not to force romance or make waves—so to speak. I wanted to moan in pleasure as I sank into the lake; the water was like a spa. Instead, I remained silent until I finally said, “You want to know something?”
    â€œWhat?” He floated on his back in the water, a boat length away from me.
    â€œYou have a really beautiful natural scent.”
    The water made sensual sounds as he maneuvered to stand on his feet. Quietly, he said, “Do you believe in that?”
    â€œWhat, pheromones? Oh yes.”
    â€œMe too.” We stayed silent another minute, and I pretended not to be self-conscious as I