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. AndI’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 requestyourfavorite?”
“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.
