Page 33 of Engineering a Love Story

“I do see my mom. She’s in Tucson. She’d had enough of my dad. And Orange County. My sister was at the University of Arizona and my mom loved visiting her, so she went.”

From the crook of his arm, I can’t see his face directly, but Seth’s voice softens when he speaks of his mother; the mocking tone he used to describe his father is gone.

We lie quietly for a few minutes, his hand brushing my arm slowly. Seth says he’d like to close his eyes for a bit. Knowing I’m unlikely to sleep, I go to my computer bag for my book and a magazine.

“What are you reading?” Climbing back into bed, I show him my paperback copy of My Antonia. “Willa Cather? Any reason?”

There were so many books at the house when I faced packing. Textbooks and computer manuals, out of date as soon as they were printed; I tossed all those. But I hesitated over the shelf of paperbacks—popular fiction but also older books assigned in college or even high school. Most I’d never read, or at least not closely, not when I was always slogging through math homework or hovering at Wade’s shoulder as he futzed with some computer program.

Literature had always seemed frivolous, but now I thought I might read some of these books. “But only the skinny ones that fit in my laptop bag,” I say, holding up the slim volume.

Seth shifts under the covers. “Well, you enjoy the … what? Kansas prairie?”

“Nebraska.”

He closes his eyes, and Antonia’s difficulties envelop me.

***

An hour passes. I notice Seth is awake.

“How are things on the prairie?” he asks.

“Well, it’s winter. Times are tough.”

He opens my New Yorker and we lie together, resting and reading. Eventually, I see Antonia to her mostly satisfactory conclusion and lower my book.

I push closer to Seth, the reality of him next to me still a little shocking. Pressing the length of my body against his, I savor a charged tingle. Outside, the sun is lower and mostly hidden now behind buildings, making the room dimmer.

Seth flips a few pages. “Alan Greenspan.” He holds up the magazine to show me a cartoon sketch. “Dude stresses me out.”

“Why?” I ask, though I don’t really want to know, certain a discussion of the Chairman of the Federal Reserve can kill any mood. I sink back onto the pillows.

“The whole irrational exuberance thing. That we’re all too enthusiastic when the world hasn’t changed that much.” Seth makes an upward motion with his hand. “Not that I don’t agree with him. Stocks were inflated, of course. But the idea of some pencil-neck in Washington controlling my fate—” He takes in the picture of Greenspan. “When Carter raised rates in the seventies, my dad’s debt lines dried up. One of the times he lost everything. He used to tell us not to open the front door because creditors were literally knocking on it.” Seth drops the magazine. “That’s maudlin, sorry. I just hope we’re doing something real, you know? I hate thinking this is all only some bubble, because then if it pops, where are you?”

I remember the roller coaster he’d traced earlier, when he spoke of his father. We could discuss it, the relative stability of what Aurelian is doing versus some dot-com selling pet food, but I want to talk about online banking in this bed even less than Alan Greenspan.

Seth continues, tapping the magazine again. “And if Gore gets in—”

“But that’s Shouts & Murmurs,” I interrupt, craning my neck to see the magazine’s satire column. “A fake Greenspan diary entry, him trying to come up with alternatives to irrational exuberance. Like, maybe he could have done a better job managing the bubble if he’d used different words to describe it. Unhinged gusto I like. Foolhardy glee?”

Seth picks up the magazine, looks at it for another moment, then tosses it to the floor. “I do like loopy verve. Though clearly, wiggy perkiness is the best option.” He adjusts the covers, moving closer to me. “What do you think? Is there anything I can do to fill you with foolhardy glee?” He runs his hand over my hip and across my abdomen.

I shift my body toward his. “What were you going to say about Gore?”

“That stiff.” Seth moves lower, pushing the sheet aside. “Can you imagine? Al and Tipper Gore?”

I lift my head. “Wait. Are you making fun of Gore in the everyone-makes-fun-of-Al-Gore way? Or in the I’m-not-gonna-vote-for-him way?”

Seth’s curly hair brushes my stomach and he says it’s the second one. He traces my hipbone with a finger.

Does that mean he’ll vote for Bush? Again, Seth nods, his hair now tickling my thigh.

I don’t want to move. My whole mid-section pulses with his closeness. But I push myself higher against the pillows. “Are you a Republican?”

Seth’s body stays with mine. “Technically, registered Independent.” His breath tickles my stomach. “But yes, I’m planning to vote for Bush.”

“But … I’ve never. A Republican?”