Page 37 of Engineering a Love Story

I know I should not extend … whatever this is. Honestly, looking at my unpacked boxes, I’m not ready to embark on a romantic adventure—with anyone. I’m supposed to be finding myself, like my old friend Gretchen on her yoga trip to India. Or in a rom-com, when our heroine has to open a funky diner or act upon her deep desire to bake pies before we see her consummate things with her costar. Huffing a laugh against the sofa, I wonder if my self-actualization montage will be related to a career in online banking.

Though, silly as it sounds, there are quite a few women in senior roles at Gilroy, traveling the world, giving talks, consulting with clients. All that seems pretty great. Maybe I’ll let myself be ambitious. Really knock it out of the park with this Market Spotlight, hope it positions me for a promotion, and then take everything Gilroy has to offer. I could have my own team one day, like Howard. I have no interest in diners and can’t bake pies or anything else.

But if I want a future at Gilroy, I shouldn’t do anything to risk it. This Market Spotlight is about online banking and will include recommendations to clients about Aurelian. How can I continue with Seth?

And even if I am—almost—out from under my mortgage, I have a massive credit card balance, this rent to pay. There is no room for error. I need this job, especially as the market is rockier by the day. A new website, www.fuckedcompany.com, popped up a week ago inventorying firms that have gone bust in recent months—a running tally that keeps getting longer. If I lose my Gilroy job, there’s no guarantee I’ll find a new one quickly. I can’t allow this whole card house I’ve been shakily constructing to tumble down, and it inevitably will, if I keep seeing Seth.

And yet, and yet, and yet. I can’t bring myself to refuse him. That day we spent together in San Francisco feels like a tease, a taste of some larger thing I want more of. Maybe single people have weekends like that all the time, but I never have. And, really? Do single people really have weekends like that all the time?

I accepted so little with Ash. Aren’t I looking for that tweedy, swaying train guy, at least a little bit?

Spinning it all in my head, I lie there until the sun peeks over the brick building across the street, then I finally close my eyes, determined to sleep before making any kind of decision.

Twenty-One

The next day, bleary-eyed and anxious, I shuffle around, unpacking, trying and mostly failing to think in straight lines. In this state, leaving Seth’s email unanswered seems like the prudent course. I’ll wait until Monday to reply. Being in the office will crystalize the fact that I can’t see Seth again.

In the morning, I’m in my cube, attempting to work myself toward drafting that email, when I get a call from an attorney who says she represents the bank that holds our mortgage. She’s an efficient female voice on the phone. Ash’s Uncle Monty is handling our paperwork related to the sale, and he sent the details of the closing the other day in a lengthy email with an attachment I haven’t yet reviewed.

“Just ensuring you’re aware that the $4,876 needs to be paid at the closing,” this woman says. “Either by cashier’s check or bank wire.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I find the email from Monty and scan his spreadsheet.

“Your broker’s fee is deducted from the proceeds.” Her tone implies this is obvious. “And it looks as though there was another deduction. Radon mitigation? That was $5,000. Subtracting those items from the principal you’ve paid and the buyer’s purchase price, the balance due at the closing is $4,876.”

I try to remember if Denny ever got back to me about the radon. He’d said a couple thousand, but $5,000 is not a couple to me, and I’m angry to find myself back-footed now, after how hard I’ve worked.

I hang up and dial Ash. I have no more money. I paid the August mortgage plus my rent. Thinking of even just the minimum due on my credit card makes my stomach flip. There’s nothing more. I need Ash to pitch in, at least a little. Maybe he thinks he doesn’t need to since this is my fault. Or maybe, he’s realized that in my guilt, I’ll do whatever he says.

Ash doesn’t answer. I leave a message, letting him know about the money we’ll need at the closing and that I’ll need some assistance gathering the funds. “Also, once we finalize the house, we should move forward with the divorce. There won’t be anything else to divide. We can probably use some kind of mediator. It should be simple. Please call me.”

I wait all afternoon for Ash’s call. It’s still summer, so he’s not teaching. If he’s on his bike, he has to return to the shop at some point. Or even if he’s at the lake, Boops lets them have afternoons off, and one can only play so much golf—I mean, it’s only nine holes.

But Ash doesn’t call, and I begin to panic. I even consider reaching out to Boops, who would be horrified to hear we’re heading into our closing with insufficient funds, but I can’t face asking the Kelseys for help again.

The solution seeps in late that afternoon: I’ll sell it—all of it. The china and the dining room table with its beautifully upholstered chairs. The lawnmower, the snowblower. Anything and everything still in the house.

Travis knows a place in the South End that might buy the dishes. “You won’t get top dollar,” he says. “But he’s a dealer, sells things on eBay, I think. Plus, guys in the neighborhood go in there to buy beautiful things on the cheap. Call him. I bet he’ll take your stuff.”

I make an appointment for the next day, and when I arrive, the dealer opens one crate of china, verifies the name on the bottom of the dishes, and buys all of it without opening the other boxes. He even takes the punchbowl. I sell the lawn mower and the snowblower on Craigslist.

The dining room set is more difficult. The next evening, I drive to Jordan’s and wander the showroom of tables and chairs. None are as nice as the one Ash’s parents purchased for us, which undoubtedly came from someplace tonier than Jordan’s. Still, I’m shocked to see that sets with tables lacking the rich luster of ours and with chairs done in coarser, cheaper fabrics run to ten thousand dollars. This astounds me. Not only did Ash’s parents drop this amount on a housewarming gift, but then no one wants it? They won’t even discuss it?

I worry it won’t sell when I post it to Craigslist and see the endless furniture listings there, but then a man emails and meets me at the house the next evening. He’s older, a little threadbare, and drives a semi-professional white van. I want to believe he’s buying the table and chairs for his wife or maybe his daughter just starting out. But I know he’s probably going to rewrap the chairs in plastic and sell the whole set as new in whatever furniture store he runs.

I can’t concern myself with it; he pays me $5,000. The South End dealer gave me half that again for the dishes and with the money from the other items, I have more than enough for the closing.

With all that going on, I hardly have time to think of Seth. I begin to feel guilty about not replying, but I remind myself it’s for the best. I’m not sure I can write and say I don’t want to see him. Maybe not answering is safest for both of us. One of us should act like an adult.

Twenty-Two

The closing is scheduled for Friday morning. With a bank check for $4,876 in my purse, I head early to Monty’s office, which sits high in a building on State Street, feeling victorious for having gathered the funds on my own and anxious to put the transaction behind me. A lobby attendant confirms I have an appointment before allowing me to board a dark-wood elevator and glide silently up to the thirty-fourth floor, where an elegant gray-haired woman offers me coffee.

Monty’s office is cavernous and boasts windows on two sides with views of the Custom House Tower and the financial district, the white-capped harbor glinting in the August sun. One corner has a full-sized conference table where Ash, Monty, Denny, and an attorney representing the buyers sit, a mountain of paperwork between them. Only Denny greets me with any enthusiasm.

And Boops is there. I hadn’t expected Boops.

Handing over the bank check, I feel some congratulations might be due me, but none come as the buyers’ attorney simply tucks the check into a manila folder. Ash and I each have a stack of papers, and Denny pushes pens at us.