Free How to Love an American Man by Kristine Gasbarre Page B

to eat lunch before your first sailboat ride.” Had I told him that not sailboating while I was in Italy was my only regret? Had he remembered? And had he really done this all by himself? Amazing. Across the gingham tablecloth his eyes shined bluer than the lake, and when I observed this, I determined that I was officially taken with him. “What’s that ring you’re wearing?” I mused. I normally avoid guys with rings—too macho and self-indulgent—but the wide silver band around his pinky finger was . . . sexy.
    â€œI haven’t told you this,” he said, pouring water from a crystal pitcher into wineglasses ( wineglasses !), “but when you moved to Italy last summer, it’s very possible we could’ve crossed paths. I took a holiday to Florence myself.”
    I tried to act subtle as my stomach flipped over the word holiday . “Last summer, you mean?”
    â€œYes. And during one of our free days, I took an excursion out to this tiny village where all these artisans were displaying their wares in the street to the half-dozen tourists wandering the place. I forget the name, it was really remote. So I find this ring, and the crafter and I try our darnedest to communicate about it—what type of metal, why he chose this layered design—but we wound up shaking hands and parting ways before I could really understand what the ring meant to him. But to me, I knew what it meant. It’s my reminder every day that before I’m a surgeon, before I’m a doctor, I’m an artist.”
    I want to chime in so badly, to point out how in our work we share an eye for the beauty and significance in everyday situations. I keep my exclamation inside; but man, am I feeling for this guy.
    During lunch I remembered the discovery that I first made in high school: when I’m with someone I like, I can’t help but eat really slowly (and this is pretty much the only time I eat really slowly—just ask my grandma, who recently noted that eating is the only thing she’s ever seen me do quickly).
    When Chris saw that I had finished my sub halfway through, he wrapped it back into its white deli paper and packed it securely for me to take home. Then he placed his hand on my knee. “You’ve gotta see this boat.” He dragged the boat from the bank of his yard into the water and invited me over. As I climbed on board, he cupped water in his palm and gently rinsed the tiny stones off my feet with the meticulousness of, well, a surgeon. It reminded me of the feet-washing scene in the Bible, and how feet washing is said to be the most profound act of ser vice one person can offer another. I’d never been out with a man so caring before.
    â€œOkay,” he said, “so, the sail essentially steers the boat, but the wind is in charge of the sail. You’ll hear me say, ‘Keel,’ and when I do, that means you need to duck your head down because I’m going to swing the sail over your head. You got it?”
    I nodded. “I’ll catch on.”
    â€œHere, take these.” He slid his sunglasses down his Gabriel Aubry nose and turned them around, placing them softly on my face.
    â€œHow nice are you,” I told him. “Thanks.”
    Off we sailed into the center of the lake, which he explained was a bit of a nautical vortex because it’s man-made and surrounded by woodland. He knew more about this lake in four years of experiencing it than I do after eighteen years growing up here, and with him manning the boat’s helm, I saw the lake more exotically and completely differently. He transported me someplace else, the way the memory of my grandpa does when I stare up into a muscular, protective pine tree in the woods.
    â€œIt’s sort of hot, right?” he said. I looked at him, surprised. “You want to go for a dip?”
    Oh, he meant the weather. “Sure—do you?”
    â€œYeah.” He took off his soft