Page 53 of Engineering a Love Story

I’m tempted to poke at his silence, but then I remember his flautist and decide not to whine. He’s calling now, isn’t he?

Soon, we’re speaking daily. Seth calls late, as I’m getting into bed, and he is, I suspect, only taking an evening break from work. He phones as he walks to his apartment or is outside his office finding dinner. He asks about my day, checks that I have food. If he intended to quit me when he left, his resolve must have dissipated, and the relief this gives me is a little frightening.

During the days when I’m anxiously anticipating Seth’s evening calls, I wonder if I should approach Howard and simply confess. Maybe I have it wrong. I could ask if there’s a way I might shift my research area, so I don’t have to make direct buying recommendations about Aurelian. But I stay quiet. In school we were taught the Silicon Valley way is to move quickly. To ask forgiveness rather than permission, because getting approval only slows you down. I’ve never witnessed this mentality in any of the workplaces I’ve been in, but I still hide behind it. I don’t want Howard or anyone else to tell me to stop seeing Seth.

As September rolls to a close, Seth and I are conniving, comparing schedules, trying to find ways to see each other, though it’s a busy travel season for both of us. We steal a few fevered hours in Baltimore at the end of the month, when I’m just arriving and he’s on his way out of town. We meet in a dismal hotel near the airport, another miss by Gilroy’s travel agent. “This is worse than Fisherman’s Wharf,” Seth says, pulling me close after I’ve let him into the cramped, sour-smelling space. Though once we’re in the bed, we don’t care that the bathroom faucet drips onto a rusty stain or that the room’s desk is made of a wood-like plastic.

Seth even comes to Boston for a night, but it’s at a time when I’m at a fin-tech conference in Miami.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says when he calls, out of breath, to tell me he’s going to be in town.

“Do you want to stay at my place?”

“Without you there? Not even a little bit.”

In early October, Seth teases me about Gore’s performance in the first presidential debate, which was so much worse than anyone expected. “I mean, the lockbox,” Seth says, referring to the bumbling Gore did during the debate, repeatedly saying he’d preserve Social Security under some kind of lock and key. Gore used odd hand motions, ones I only saw when I watched debate clips with Travis on a TV in Gilroy’s lobby. I listened to the debate on the radio and hadn’t thought Gore sounded terrible, though Bush was undeniably more likable and charming, even with only the audio.

“Power of low expectations,” I counter when Seth pushes me to admit Bush performed acceptably. “Sure, he’s appealing. But that doesn’t mean he’s qualified to be our president.”

Later that same week, Seth phones from LA, where he’s staying with his friend Raf. I duck into a conference room and perch in one of its deep windowsills to take his call. He says he just emailed me the latest Aurelian customer list.

“I got it,” I say. “I think that’s how email works? You don’t have to call and say you sent one.”

“I know. But I wanted to.”

“And we published that report. Those monthly lists aren’t needed now. Claire should have told you. Our work here is done.”

“Excellent. I’ll let you go then?” Seth pauses and we both laugh. More softly, he says, “I’ll be in New York middle of next week. Any chance you can meet me?”

“Why don’t you come earlier, spend the weekend in Boston?”

“I tried. Our east coast sales guys can’t seem to book me any meetings on Monday—”

“It’s a holiday. A long weekend. Monday is Columbus Day.”

“That’s not a real thing.”

“Maybe not. But it’s prime time in New England. People make a weekend of it and go leaf peeping.”

Seth releases a low laugh. “Is that your plan for the weekend? Leaf peeping? Maybe take the Volvo with the Gore-Lieberman sticker, listen to baseball on the radio while you’re at it?”

“The Sox didn’t make the playoffs. And I don’t drive a Volvo.”

“You’re hoping for one someday though, aren’t you?”

“You should focus, if you’re trying to get me to New York.”

“Right,” he says, though there’s more soft laughter. “I can’t get to Boston for leaf peeping, unfortunately. And now I have a thing on my calendar in San Francisco—where no one gives a shit about Columbus—on Monday. The earliest I could be with you, in New York, is Tuesday night. Can that work?”

I think for a moment. I don’t have any reason to be in New York the following week. But I tell him I’ll look into it.

“Try your hardest,” Seth says.

After climbing down from the windowsill, I go back to my cube and draft an email.

Date: October 6, 2000

To: Simon Fellows