Page 55 of Engineering a Love Story

The following Tuesday, I shuttle to New York. I haven’t heard from Seth since his Friday morning call, which seems a little odd given how frequent his communications have been in previous weeks. He only sent hotel details by email last night. But I assume that with the start of the new quarter, he’s busy prepping for a board meeting. We have a plan to see each other, and his focus shifted away. As I exit the train and make my way across Penn Station, wearing the black skirt and my new blouse, I’m not concerned.

Thirty

The lobby of the Travelers Building, where Citibank has its corporate offices, is filled with succulent plants and leather sofas trimmed in chrome. It’s familiar, since I was here with Simon six weeks ago, and I walk toward the elevators, needing to get to the eleventh floor, where I’ll find Dinesh, the Citibank project manager.

I’m halfway across the lobby when Seth disembarks from the first set of elevator doors. He’s in a navy suit with a bag strung sideways on his body, and he doesn’t notice me as he strides across the lobby.

Seeing him, my impulse is to skip across this polished place and go onto my toes to kiss his warm cheek. He’ll smile, happy and surprised. Maybe wrap his arms around me, say something teasing, and I’ll melt into him.

But I can’t do that here. Dinesh could exit the elevator right behind Seth. And I don’t believe I can approach Seth and not touch him. I can’t pretend we’re casual acquaintances.

Ducking behind a planter, the smell of potting soil in my nose, I watch Seth go by. To me, he glitters more than the sleek, shiny furniture. Doesn’t everyone see? I notice two women on leather chairs eyeing him as he passes. Right?

Seth swings open one of the building’s glass doors and leaves. I stand, straighten my skirt, and attempt to regain my composure. Moving to the elevators, I’m aware of a new, dark feeling. My desire to go to Seth in this public place had been so powerful, I’d almost been unable to suppress it.

My cheerless mood intensifies when I arrive upstairs and greet Dinesh. I don’t know for sure if Seth was just here—it’s a big bank, any number of Citibank teams might be evaluating Aurelian. But it’s possible.

Our conversation picks up right where we left it in August. Dinesh is leaning toward IBM, given Citibank’s large commitment to the vendor, but Marty, the other Citibank project manager, has reservations about the immaturity of the IBM product.

“We know IBM’s e-banking stuff isn’t as advanced,” Dinesh says. “And we’re intrigued by Aurelian PayNow. What do you think of it?”

Sweat pools beneath my blouse. Marty already has our Market Spotlight printed out and on the table in front of us, and so I reiterate what’s in that report: Aurelian PayNow is the most innovative product available now.

“But can we trust them?” Dinesh asks. He sighs, pushing his chair away from the table and crossing his hands over his stomach. “I’ve got to tell you, the Aurelian sales exec was just here, and he was so arrogant. We felt he was talking down to us.” A look of distaste crosses his face. “And what do you think about their viability? Will Aurelian be able to IPO? Or will they need to be acquired?”

I’m not a financial analyst and don’t have to publicly assess Aurelian’s financial situation, but I understand Dinesh’s concern. An IPO could flood Aurelian with cash that could be used for significant product investment, while an acquisition, depending on the acquirer and its intentions, can stall a vendor’s roadmap entirely.

And if Aurelian is still somehow able to go public in the current climate, and my so-called boyfriend is suddenly awash in wealth? If this has been boosted in any way by glowing recommendations from Gilroy, such as those in the Market Spotlight sitting on the table in front of me, my ethical conflict rises another degree.

I demur, saying it’s too early to predict these things about Aurelian, and I shift the conversation to a broader discussion, including their evaluations of Sofra and IBM.

When the meeting ends, I lean my head against the back of the elevator and ride down, my new blouse damp with sweat.

***

The hotel Seth booked is near enough I can walk. On the way, I replay the Citibank meeting, wondering why I felt any surprise running into Seth. The only shock should be that it didn’t happen sooner.

This can’t continue. What happened back there at Citibank felt unethical. I don’t think I was intentionally steering Dinesh and Marty to or from Aurelian because of my discomfort, but I’m not certain any longer.

At the hotel, I rest and attempt to plan what I’ll say to Seth when he arrives. We need to have a real discussion and decide if we have a path forward.

But when he rushes in, kissing me without even a hello, there’s an urgency to it that’s new and maybe the tiniest bit disquieting. Seth pulls from me only long enough to take the strap of his bag up and over his head, and then his mouth is on me again and his hands are removing his jacket, his tie, and my decidedly plain outfit, which he doesn’t notice at all. Any thoughts I had of raising serious topics dissolve. In the soft hotel bed, Seth’s mouth is everywhere, his skin tasting of salt and what has become my favorite shade of the cinnamon smell—full of sweat.

After some amount of time that might be ten minutes or thirty, he murmurs a proper greeting. “And I’m sorry but our dinner reservation is in a half hour.” There’s a new restaurant he’s desperate to try and the early time is the only one he could get. “Plus, I’m starving,” he says with his usual hyperbole.

In the bathroom, I change into the green dress. Seth is adjusting the cuffs of a clean shirt when I come out, and he comes closer, running his hands under my thin straps, down to my waist, and onto my thighs. He bunches the silky fabric in his hands and moves it up my legs. “This is fantastic.”

“Heels,” I say, circling an ankle.

“You probably shouldn’t sell me anymore on this outfit or we’ll miss dinner.”

I pull away from him and rest the soft cashmere on my shoulders. “Let’s go, then.”

Thirty-One

As we walk to the restaurant, I gear up for the conversation we must have, but Seth seems unusually tense. Small muscles ripple in his cheeks and he holds my hand so tightly, my fingers fold on top of each other. I mentally review the questions I want to ask him, but I’m unsure what responses I desire. Do I want him to quit his job so we can be together? That seems an outrageous ask. But then, what? Should he move? Change political parties? Commit to me and I’ll quit my job? Would I do that?

We arrive at the restaurant, which opened recently and to great acclaim, Seth explains. The chef, known for his electric-blue clogs, has a show on TV. Our waiter opens and pours a bottle of wine, and I take one sip, letting the warm liquid glide across my tongue. There are at least six things on the menu Seth wants to try, so I let him order, and I settle back, preparing myself for what I’m sure will be a wonderful meal, even if I don’t recognize half the words Seth uses with the waiter. I decide to simply enjoy this dinner. I’ll attempt the more serious talk when we’ve finished.