Chapter 22
Duffy and I agreed to meet at the entrance of the zoo.
It’s early May, and Chicago weather is showing off her sunny side, so I decide to walk. On the way, I try to think of conversation
starters for this date, but “What made you want to become a dentist?” or “Why in the world are you watching Lorraine on YouTube?”
are the only questions that pop into my head.
Two questions and Miles, who seems to have taken up permanent space there.
I still don’t know exactly what I said that rubbed him the wrong way. I was only saying things that he’s said himself.
Right?
So maybe I filled in a few blanks where Miles’s love life is concerned, but it’s only with things I’ve actually seen.
The real issue is that there are actual feelings there. On my part.
About him.
What am I supposed to do with those?
Stop dwelling, Claire. Think of Duffy. He probably has great teeth.
Plus, I’ve been wanting to visit the Lincoln Park Zoo since I moved here. I used to love taking Minnie to the one in Denver
when she was little, and I haven’t been to a zoo in years.
I spot Duffy standing at the entrance, recognizing him from his photo. When he looks at me, I wave.
His wave back is enthusiastic. He grins wide and starts walking in my direction. He’s taller than I expected—clean shaven
and preppy.
I smile when I reach him. “Duffy?”
“Claire! Hi!” He holds out a hand for me to shake it.
No slobbery kiss. Bonus.
“Hi,” I say, taking his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet me too.” He frowns. “Meet you—” He shakes his head. “Sorry, I’m nervous. You’re even prettier in person.”
“Oh, thanks.” There’s something endearing about Duffy, and I pick up on it instantly. I’m betting he’s been friend-zoned a
lot.
“Should we—” He motions toward the zoo, and I nod, falling into step beside him.
“Have you been here before?” I ask.
“Not since I was a kid,” he says. “I loved coming here. I used to love the monkey habitat. Oh, and the penguins. They have the best personalities. Are you an animal
person?”
“Sort of,” I say. “I’ve always loved the zoo.” As we walk, I tell him about the time I chaperoned Minnie’s fifth-grade field
trip to the Denver Zoo. I was wearing my hair in a ponytail, and apparently I got a little too close to a baby giraffe because
it reached over the enclosure and grabbed onto my ponytail. And wouldn’t let go.
Duffy’s eyes are wide. “No way.”
“The kids thought it was hysterical,” I say. “But I genuinely feared for my life—or at the very least for my hair.”
“So what happened?”
“After a couple minutes, it finally lost interest, but I swear it laughed at me as it sauntered away, leaving me traumatized
and slobbery.” I smile at the memory. “You’d think that would’ve soured me on giraffes, but the truth is, they still fascinate
me.”
This triggers a plethora of “getting to know you” icebreaker-type questions, and through these I learn that Duffy grew up
in Ohio and attended an all-boys Catholic high school, where he played the tuba and led the debate team to a state championship.
He moved here after dental school, and he’s been here ever since. He’s never been married but was engaged once, has an extensive
Lord of the Rings collection, has been to Comic-Con, and cosplays as Aragorn whenever he gets the chance.
Which is more often than one might expect.
He’s quirky. But also, he’s kind. It’s obvious he has a really good heart. I knew it when he asked me a thousand questions
about myself, then responded to all of them with:
“You’re so lucky to have a daughter, Claire. I always wanted kids.”
We are standing in front of the hippos when he says this. I’m holding popcorn, and he’s holding a large soda. When he catches
me watching him, he smiles, but there’s sadness behind his eyes. He quickly brushes it off, though, turning toward the hippos,
studying them thoughtfully.
“They are funny looking, aren’t they?” He tilts his head, staring at the large beasts. “Did you know the name ‘hippopotamus’
means ‘river horse’?”
“Uh, no, I didn’t.”
“Odd, though,” he says. “They don’t look like horses at all.”
I smile at how seriously he’s thinking about this.
“Also, they can hold their breath for five minutes straight,” he says, facing me. The enthusiasm on his face falters for a
second, and then he adds, “I was on the swim team in middle school and never got past seventy-two seconds.”
“That’s still pretty good.”
He laughs. “I promise it’s not. You know what else isn’t good—wearing a Speedo in the seventh grade.”
Swim team. Band. Dentist for kids. Animal lover. Keeper of hippo trivia.
Duffy is kind of wonderful.
We keep walking. In the lull, I search for things to say, landing on, “You know, you could still have kids.” Not exactly sure
why that’s what I decided to say . . . “But you may want to date someone younger than, you know, me.”
“I’ve tried,” he says. “I’m an old soul, so it’s hard for me to connect with younger women.” A shrug.
If I were making a “Duffy pro-con list,” that would definitely go in the “pro” column.
“I do the Big Brother mentorship program, though,” he says. “My little brother, Dom, is such a good kid. We play chess together.
Do you play?”
I scrunch my nose. “No, I’ve tried, but I don’t really understand the strategy. My pop and I played checkers, though.”
He smiles. It’s a nice smile. “Ooh, checkers is good too. And Scrabble. Maybe we can play board games next time.”
I look over at him warmly. “I’d love that.”
“Yeah?” His face brightens.
“Yeah. That sounds fun.” And I mean it. No, Duffy isn’t setting off any fireworks, but he’s sweet, and I’ve been back at this
long enough to know that sweet goes a long way.
I tell him about Minnie and how she’ll be back from Oxford soon, about how I moved here because I always wanted to live here,
and then I say, “And I just leased a storefront to open my own bakery.” My eyes go wide. “I haven’t said that out loud very
much.” I look over at him. “It’s really new.”
New and vulnerable and scary.
Just saying the words, sharing it with a stranger, I run the risk of hearing a list of reasons why this was a terrible idea.
The taxes are crazy in Illinois. Starting your own business is crazy in this economy. How are you going to run a bakery with
no formal training and no business experience?
But Duffy doesn’t say any of those things. The exact opposite, actually. He looks genuinely excited—thrilled even—by this
news.
“Claire! You’re a baker? I had no idea.” He takes a step back. “I love to eat, so if you need a taste tester”—he bows in my
direction— “I’m happy to volunteer.”
Instantly, I can see why Duffy chose to work with kids. And I’m struck with unexpected sadness that he doesn’t have any of his own.
He holds the door open for me to an indoor African exhibit—and I’m hit with that dusty, musky, earthy, familiar zoo smell.
“I think we can make that happen,” I say. “I always love to try out new recipes.”
“Perfect.” He grins, then itches his nose with his palm. “Then for our second date, I request your specialty.”
“Wouldn’t you rather request your favorite?”
“I would much rather find out what you love.” He scrunches his nose a few times in quick succession, like he’s warding off
a sneeze.
He looks away, in the direction of the lion exhibit we’re standing in front of. The majestic cats are in an enclosure, panting
and staring. “Did you know almost all of the earth’s lions live in Africa?” He moves closer to the enclosure. And then he
sneezes. Loudly.
“Bless you!” I say.
He sneezes again. Two more times.
“Are you okay?”
He sneezes two more times, and it’s so disruptive that people start to look at us.
I rummage through my bag and come up with a travel package of tissues. I pull one out and hand it to him.
“Thank”—ahhhchoo!—“you.” He blows his nose, then starts moving away from the lion enclosure and toward the exit.
“Oh my goodness, my allergies—” He sneezes again. “I didn’t think—sorry.”
I’m doing that thing where you hold a hand over someone’s back, mostly because you have absolutely no idea how to help them.
Another sneeze, and then Duffy pinches the bridge of his nose for a few seconds before taking off his glasses and rubbing
his eyes.
“Let’s get outside,” I say.
He nods, and we exit the habitat into the fresh air.
He starts to calm down a bit, but the damage is done. He’s wheezing, eyes watering, nose running.
He blows his nose again and shoves the tissue in his pocket. “I’m so sorry, Claire. I”—another sneeze—“I’m terribly allergic
to cats, but I never thought in a million years that would include”—sneeze—“lions at a zoo.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, handing him the travel package of tissues in case he needs another one. “We could’ve gone somewhere
else. The aquarium or something.”
He looks at me, splotchy and smiling. “Yeah, if I had a seafood allergy, it would only trigger if I illegally ate the fish.”
I smile. Another bonus that he still keeps a sense of humor through this.
He shakes his head. “Besides, you love the zoo.” Sneeze. “I wanted to take you to the”—sneeze—“zoo.”
I wince. “Well, I appreciate that, but I would never ask you to put yourself through this on my account.”
He blows his nose again, retrieves a new tissue, then holds the package out to me.
“No, you keep them.” I hold up a hand. “And we should probably call it a day. You need to go get some Benadryl or something.”
“But we haven’t had lunch yet.” Sneeze.
I smile at him. “It’s okay. We’ll eat on our second date.”
At that, Duffy smiles. “You’d go out with me again? After this?”
I laugh again. “Sure. It’s not your fault. We’ll go somewhere fun with no lions.”
“Mini golf, maybe,” he says. “Or a similar feline-free environment.”
I laugh. “Sure.”
He sticks his hand out for me to shake, then looks at the balled-up tissue he’s holding and pulls a face. “I’ll call you.”
I nod. “Sounds good.”
He sneezes again, then walks off in the direction of the parking lot.