Page 24 of Engineering a Love Story

“Let’s hope so.” I explain about the apartment. “It’s only a few blocks from here.”

“We’ll be neighbors.” Lars’s eyes snag on my hand. I watch him take in the rings I still haven’t figured out how to remove.

My prospective building is more than a half dozen blocks off of Mass Ave, not really a neighborly distance, but I tell Lars I’ll look forward to it. I also say I need to go. Hopefully, I’ll move soon, but for now I still have to commute.

Travis rises with me, checking his watch. Calculating time zones for a call to Tokyo, I imagine. We say good night and make an exit.

Outside, Travis asks what I thought of Lars. “You could do worse,” he adds. “For some kind of reentry. Guy has volume issues—as you heard. He was a college soccer star and still plays all the time, watches it. Calls it footie, which is pretentious. But, he’s a decent guy.”

I wave Travis away. Since the people I’ve spent most of my time with for years are quickly evaporating from my life, I’m going to need these Gilroy friends. “With any luck, I’ll soon be living two blocks from here. I don’t want to end up having to avoid the Blue Note.” I tell Travis goodnight. “And say hi to Daisuke for me.”

***

The apartment, when I see it the following morning, is perfect. It’s in a brownstone, though the building’s bricks are actually yellow and edged in a sooty black. The second-floor unit smells of paint and whatever the shiny stuff is they put on the wood floors, but it’s empty and has deep windows with white sashes. These face east and morning sun pours in. A narrow galley kitchen holds a small nook for a table, and a hallway leads to a tiny bathroom and a bedroom with the same large windows.

The leasing agent, Maria, seems entirely too young to be out renting apartments, though she wears an impressive magenta pantsuit with matching heels. In the kitchen, she leans against one of the unit’s white countertops, her legs long in front of her and crossed at the ankles. “Available now,” she calls as I wander. “The lease was unexpectedly broken. The landlord took the opportunity to do these floors. As you can see.”

“Tell me again, how much?”

From the other room, Maria explains the apartment’s rent, the required deposit, and the first-month and last-month payments needed to secure it. I peer into the bedroom closet and make calculations. My Gilroy salary will cover the regular rent, but only once I get over the hump of all those upfront costs. I don’t have that kind of money, especially while I’m still paying a mortgage. There won’t be any gain from the house sale, and I already cashed out my measly 401(k), anticipating the funds I’ll need to move. But none of it is enough.

I do have a new credit card. Maxing out its cash-advance option will get me what I need, though I hate to do it, going into debt like that again. I financed so much of college with credit cards, even with subsidized state-school tuition. There were still so many expenses: rent, books, food, clothes. Even the cheapest beer was a strain. When we graduated, Ash paid off my credit cards. Or his parents did.

I don’t see an alternative now. I close the closet door and return to the kitchen.

“If I write you a check,” I say, “could you not cash it for a couple of days?” This will allow me time to get the cash advance into my new bank account.

Maria hesitates. Then she agrees, though she peers skeptically at the check I write from my new account. It’s one of those temporary ones, my name and number penned in blue ink in its corner.

In the end, Maria lifts her shoulders and gives me the rental agreement to sign. When that’s done, she slots my check and the paperwork into her bag, passes me the keys, and leaves.

I stand in front of the large living room windows and lean my head against one of the wide panes. Even with all the worry about money and the anxiety about what I’ve done to my life—and Ash’s—pinpricks of tiny bubbles rise in me as I stand there. This place is mine. Only mine. The sun warms my skin and I am on my toes and bouncing.

Thirteen

Back on the North Shore, I don’t even mind another long weekend alone in the house. Even with the stuff Ash has already removed, there’s a massive number of belongings still to be sorted: a mess of books in the office, the extra-large sofa in our living room, piles of dishes and utensils in the kitchen. In the garage, there’s all of Ash’s gear and even an old bike that belongs to me, a nice one Ash gave me when he was hoping I’d adopt his favorite pastime. He rode too quickly though, and I couldn’t get over my fear of the toe clips, certain they’d land me on my side at a busy intersection. I haven’t ridden that bike in years.

We also still have many packed boxes, mostly wedding gifts from Ash’s side of the aisle—none of that china or stemware came from my family. In one box, there’s even a punchbowl that doubles as a cake stand, something we never used in either of its capacities. What do people think, buying such things?

Still, knowing where I’m moving allows me to approach my packing enthusiastically. Ash said he wants nothing more, but doesn’t he need some Tupperware? And this simple stack of plates. I add a few pots and a baking sheet to his pile. Since he doesn’t drink coffee, I pack the mugs for myself, but he’s taken most of our water tumblers. That leaves me only crystal wine glasses. I pack these, along with an unused set of plastic plates we purchased to use outdoors.

By Sunday evening, I’m pleased with what I’ve accomplished. I find a half-empty six-pack in the fridge, take it outside, and sit on the empty floorboards of our back deck. There are booms in the distance, fireworks going off over the nearby port. I sit and watch plumes of light appear over the trees, picturing the families gathered on boats and docks to watch the show.

I’ve finished a second beer when I decide to call Ash, who must be at the lake. I want to tell him I’ve found an apartment.

Maybe it’s selfish, wanting to speak to him now. I probably shouldn’t interrupt his holiday, but after nearly ten years when we were friends beyond all else, sharing life details is a hard habit to break. Who do I tell things to, if not Ash? I can still hear his commentary some nights, when I have the baseball game on. I’ve almost called him a few times, after a particularly bad managerial decision or to remind him that his sister’s birthday is coming up or that his car’s inspection expires soon. Then I remember we don’t do those things anymore.

Ash doesn’t answer. Looking at the time, I know the Kelseys are likely lounging post-dinner on porch sofas and loveseats, watching the moon glisten against the lake. Boops will be telling a story about her prowess that afternoon on the golf course, while Ash and his sisters deliver alternative versions.

His phone clicks to voicemail.

“Hi,” I say to the empty air. “Just wanted to see how you’re all doing up there.” I fiddle with the label on my beer bottle. “What is it this year? Painting or gutters?” I laugh softly, a buzzing in my ears. “I found a new place. Since our buyers are in such a rush, I figured I shouldn’t wait. It’s not far from where we first lived, closer to Central than Harvard. Remember that—” The voicemail beeps.

Shit. That went wrong. It was insensitive to sound too excited about the apartment. I finish the beer in my bottle and open a third.

I call Ash again.

“Sorry. Your voicemail cut me off. I didn’t mean to brag or anything. It’s just an apartment.” I sip my beer. “Though, it is a stretch you know, the money. These buyers are in a hurry, but we’re still not likely to close until August. We’ll have to make one more mortgage payment. Maybe when you’re back, we can talk again about that? It’ll be prorated, but—” Again, Ash’s voicemail disconnects.