How to Love an American Man by Kristine Gasbarre

would be as apt a description as saying that the President of the United States wields some influence over world policy. Doesn’t even begin to do her role justice.
    Nancy apologizes that she wasn’t here the night I had Dr. Christopher over for everybody to meet. “We were on our way home from the Outer Banks.”
    â€œUgh, Nancy . . .” I drop my forehead in my hands. “Don’t apologize. It was like a volcano: entertaining to watch, disastrous to experience.”
    â€œYour mom said it didn’t go exactly as you’d hoped.”
    â€œHa! No,” I say.
    â€œHa! No,” Mom echoes. “But I told her, a woman needs a man who loves her unconditionally.” Mom’s in slim black shorts and a T-shirt with the Italian map in red, white, and green rhinestones. Mom is actually German, but with her high cheekbones, olive complexion, and almond-shaped eyes, apparently she used to be mistaken for Sophia Loren when she and my dad would travel to Asia in the nineties for Dad’s work (“Seriously, I did!” she says). Mom also made herself the master apprentice of Grandpa’s spaghetti sauce recipe, and so around the kitchen and the family it’s easy to forget my mom’s not Italian. “A girl needs somebody easygoing. Just look at our guys,” she instructs us.
    On the bocce court my dad is wearing his signature outfit (St. Louis Cardinals ball cap, khaki shorts, and Croc flip-flops) and biting a cigar as he performs his signature victory dance (gently wiggling his hips and fists in hand-mixer motion, commonly seen when he sells a machine, finishes a marathon, or, in this case, wins a bocce game).
    â€œRight, Nance?” my mother says.
    â€œThat’s right.” Nancy leans in carefully and whispers, “But you liked Dr. Christopher, didn’t you, honey?”
    Mom leans in too, and their whole group of girlfriends follows, pulling their heads in closer. I’m growing aware that even though Mom treats the topic of Chris with a brush-off, she was more enamored by the thought of him and me together than even I was. I nod, and look at Nancy. “I did. But you know, it’s funny, with other guys I’ve dated, I get so hung up on ‘Why isn’t he calling? What did I do wrong?’ But this time, I don’t know . . . maybe I’m just outgrowing the insecurities. Or maybe I’m just too jaded by men to bother dissecting it. But my point is, thank God, I’m not analyzing it to death.” I brush my hands together, as though there’s bocce court sand on them. “It’s done. Moving on.”
    Mom lowers her chin clandestinely and says, “Although weeks ago, she did invite him to come today. It wouldn’t surprise me if he just shows up.”
    â€œOh Lord, Mother, he’s not going to just show up—”
    Right then Grandma catches my eye from across the court and gestures with her chin to warn me, Pay attention, someone’s here to see you.
    It’s Tucker. “Babe,” he says, coming at me holding a beer. “Your cousins are taking the boat out. Wanna go? I’m gonna try to get up on the skis.”
    Truthfully, hashing things out with Mom’s friends about Chris is just turning fun. But I hand Tucker my mimosa and take his hand to stand up. “Sure.”
    I widen my eyes at Grandma to give her an inconspicuous thank-you. It must’ve been growing obvious to observers that I was dishing about my old flame when the new one approached. Be careful, she mouths across the court. I know: she’s not just referring to the boat ride, but to the situation I’ve gotten myself into.

Chapter 4
Does He Know What He Wants for His Life?
    A LREADY EIG HT MONTHS have passed since we lost Grandpa in January. Grandma has approached his birthday with reserve, the way one braces for a massive sneeze whose threatened attack brings dread but no catharsis. Grandma doesn’t know