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. “Ilovedcoming 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 extensiveLord of the Ringscollection, 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.
