Page 30 of Engineering a Love Story

Gravity pulls me down Nob Hill and into a shopping district where I’ve been directed by a grumpy hotel clerk, and my bubbly mood is soon doused by the bright lights and heavily perfumed air of Macy’s.

I hate shopping. It’s a bit like cooking—activities that people claim to enjoy, though I’ve never understood why. They’re chores, cooking and shopping, tasks that have to be completed before you can move along with life. Give me laundry any day, where at least you end up with a tidy stack of clean clothes, much preferable to a kitchen full of dirty dishes after a mediocre meal or a bag of so-so purchases and a credit card bill at the end of a shopping trip.

Still, I want a few pretty things. Sticking to the sales racks, I find slim, tan slacks and a creamy sweater for dinner that I can also, sensibly, reuse for work. My splurge is a purple cashmere wrap, something that will never be useful in Boston, where it’s always too hot or too cold for anything so lighthearted. Maybe wraps were invented for San Francisco, where it never actually seems to be warm. I hold my breath while the clerk runs my card, preparing to forgo the wrap if necessary. But it all goes through and I leave the store feeling victorious. I toss the wrap over my shoulders right there on the sidewalk and jam everything else in my bag.

My phone rings as I’m walking from the store, Seth saying he’s already dropped his things at the hotel. After I explain where I am, he walks to meet me at a nearby café, arriving in faded jeans, wide brown sandals, and a misshapen tan sweater that bumps unevenly against his jeans and makes me wonder how I ever found his suit sexy at all. He grins when he reaches me and leans down for a kiss, his cheeks smooth and clean.

We select pastries and a young woman tucks them into a single bag. We walk and eat, passing the bag back and forth, tearing off pieces of fluffy dough.

I tell Seth I saw Vitalik in the lobby.

“What was he doing?”

“I don’t know.” I tear off the point of a croissant, its flakes peppering my new wrap. “He didn’t say.” I brush away the crumbs. “Or ask what I was up to either, thank goodness.”

Seth’s brow tightens, but then he shakes it off. “Just Vita. Who knows.” He hands me the pastry bag. “What would you like to do with our day?”

“Hard for me to say, really.” Warm vanilla cream oozes in my mouth. “I’ve only had the one tour.”

“I looked for ideas when I was home.”

I smile at the image of Seth on his laptop in his apartment, searching: what to do this Weekend in San Francisco?

“And?”

“There’s a Magritte exhibit at SFMOMA. Are you up for something surreal?”

Soon we’re wandering in a light and airy museum, holding hands, and taking in the famous paintings. Man, green apple, bowler hat.

“They’re hiding his face,” Seth says, after I question all the apples. “Like, we’re all wearing some kind of mask? Playing a role.”

I peer up at him as he thoughtfully contemplates the painting. Another surprising turn from Seth Murphy. He loops two fingers through mine and we stroll, jolts shooting up my arm and across my chest every time we bump against each other. As we continue through the museum, I think how perfectly Seth fits there, as saturated with color as the paintings.

When we’re done with the exhibit, Seth suggests we walk back to the hotel. It’s not close, but it’s also a gorgeous afternoon. “We’ll finish your tour,” he says.

Crossing Market Street, we pass a line of tourists waiting to ride cable cars. Seth asks if I’d like to try one, but he looks at the line skeptically, and I laugh. “No. I’m enjoying the walk.”

This is true, even as on the next block, we begin an ascent so steep my calves strain. A cheerfulness burbles in me, feeling how easily our fingers hang together. We chat about odd items displayed in store windows, the people we pass, the glory of the bougainvillea dripping red, pink, orange.

I’m just allowing myself a few moments to pretend this is real, that we’re simply two adults enjoying a date—maybe one of many dates—on this lovely afternoon, when my phone vibrates in my back pocket. I pull it out, see that it’s Ash, and drop Seth’s hand.

I’ve heard so little from Ash in recent weeks, I have no idea why he’s calling now. I wonder if he’s about to unleash anger on me or if he needs to address some administrative issue. I wonder if there’s a problem, perhaps something to do with the house or, god forbid, someone in his family.

“Sorry.” I take several steps away. “I need a minute.” Turning my back, I press my phone’s talk button.

“Hey.” Ash sounds upbeat. “I stopped by the house to pick up my old bikes. It looked like no one had been there in a few days. Just wanted to check you’re okay.” He sounds almost chipper, the friendliest I’ve heard him in weeks.

“I’m in San Francisco. Meetings yesterday. And my flight this morning … didn’t work out.” I lean against the edge of a yellow stucco building, my back to Seth, the sidewalk at an impossible angle beneath my feet.

“That sucks. Did they get you on a new one?”

“Yes.” I run my fingers on the bumps of the stucco. “But not until tomorrow.”

“Bummer. What are you doing?”

I close my eyes. “I’m … puttering. Went to a museum.”

Ash chuckles. “I bet you’re glad I’m not there.”