Page 20 of Engineering a Love Story

Wade had left for college by then. And I was home alone.

This shook me. One week my mother was peeling potatoes at the sink every afternoon before she left for work. And a few weeks later, I was ferreting old soup cans from emptying cupboards. My father, when he appeared, left money on the counter, but I didn’t have my license and had to walk a mile to the grocery store, carrying back what I could. As the weeks dragged on, a stack of unopened mail towered on the kitchen counter. I didn’t understand how any of that worked but knew it had to be bad.

Finally, I called Wade, who came home for a weekend and found my father. When they were back in the house, I noticed a yellowing bruise on my father’s cheek, but I couldn’t tell if this was new or just some leftover thing from his rowdy weeks away. Wade went back to school before I could ask.

My father stayed home after that, though that may have been only because the weather turned too cold for camping. He went back to work. I turned fifteen and got a job at the grocery store for the employee discount as much as the paycheck, which I primarily spent there.

After those first months, my father mostly kept it together, working and paying the bills, and I just tried to make everything easy for him. I earned good grades, brought home food, cooked meals, and stayed out of trouble. At times, he was almost sweet with me in his teasing, quarrelsome way. I came to realize his anger and cockiness often mask frustration or even confusion, and I can admit he has reasons to be frustrated and confused.

My father was relieved when I married Ash. Of course, he never said so outright. But I was settled and cared for—not his problem any longer. He’s visibly more relaxed these days when I drive out to visit him, though I don’t go often.

***

The phone is ringing when I return to the house, but I don’t answer it, worried it might be my father calling back to unload whatever jabs he’s thought of in the last hour. The answering machine clicks on, and my recorded voice announces that Ash and I aren’t home.

“Hey Chels, it’s Bethany. Just checking—”

I snatch up the receiver.

Bethany wants to hear about San Francisco. She says she’s just settling in to feed Madison, though her voice doesn’t have its usual relaxed tone. With Madison nearly four months old, Bethany is due to return to work at the Falmouth Public Library this week, but she’s been struggling with the decision. She says she and Gus have been discussing it all afternoon. “The money I make is barely enough to pay for daycare, so it isn’t logical. But part of me wants it desperately, to put on real clothes and get out of the house. And to be away from the baby for a little while, though I don’t think I’m supposed to admit that.”

“Whatever you’re feeling is probably normal,” I say, but Bethany seems unable to let go of her worry enough to hear me.

When I first heard her on the line, I thought I might tell Bethany about Seth. Maybe we’d giggle like we sometimes did after nights out in college. But Bethany’s dilemma reminds me we’re not in college anymore. So I tell her about the bridges, how cold San Francisco was, and how one night, I stumbled upon the beautiful Palace of Fine Arts, swirling in fog.

And I keep Seth to myself. He isn’t anything that needs discussing anyway. Last night already seems like an unreal event from another world, a fantasy I can savor a little, like candy.

Eleven

The following week, I return to the office. I still don’t have what I need for a research note on Aurelian, but before the San Francisco trip, I published a summary of client concerns we heard at The Symp. And on the plane, I drafted a piece of research about the upcoming launch of the Bank of the Internet. This online-only start-up is planning to launch on July 4, a bank holiday, an intentional twist the company’s founders find both profound and hilarious.

These new reports aren’t enough though. With everything that’s been happening with Ash, prepping the house for Denny, and my travel, I’ve fallen behind. It’s nearly the end of June, and for the first time since starting at Gilroy, I’m going to miss my quota, the minimum number of reports analysts are required to publish each quarter.

Mid-morning, I go to find Howard, chagrined that after embarrassing myself at The Symp, I now have to admit this failure as well. There’s a tremendous amount of freedom in this job. Howard doesn’t care if we work from home, and he’s too busy to keep track of everyone’s travel schedules. But you have to hit your numbers.

In his office, Howard is stationed behind a gray-metal desk, nearly hidden by a monitor and a teetering stack of tech magazines. He props his reading glasses on his head when he sees me.

I explain about missing quota.

“I noticed your numbers were low. What’s going on?”

“I got behind with The Symp,” I say, my cheeks burning as I mention the event. It isn’t a valid excuse anyway, since all analysts attend the conference and quotas are adjusted accordingly.

Howard says nothing.

I mumble something further about my trip to California, but this doesn’t fly either, since analysts are on the road all the time. We’re expected to travel and keep up with our written research. Finally, I sink into the chair across from Howard’s desk and confess to issues at home. “I apologize. I’ve been distracted.”

Howard watches me. Then he removes his glasses, lays them on his desk, and rubs his eyes. “Anything I can do?”

Mentioning my personal life at all in this context is mortifying. After The Symp, I can only imagine what Howard is thinking. And he’s already helped me so much—I won’t ask him for anything more.

“No. Thank you. I’ll make sure it doesn’t continue.”

Howard acknowledges it’s my first miss. “We’ll move forward. I want you to take the lead on a new e-banking Market Spotlight in Q3.” He puts his glasses back on, then raises his eyebrows above their frames. “Have Evan help you.”

I laugh softly. “Sure.”

Howard apologized when he first placed Evan with me for training. “Could be a young punk,” he said that day. “Possibly more work than help for you, at least at the start. Don’t let him give you any shit.”