Page 60 of Engineering a Love Story

Seth says it was Vitalik who told the reporter about me. “It might not have been malicious,” he says. “He thought it was funny. But it was stupid, in any case, though possibly excusable given Vita’s an engineer and not expected to be PR savvy. Unlike Manish.” He inhales and continues, his voice a little gentler. “There are bigger issues. You already know, because I was indiscreet when I last saw you. So I can tell you off the record or on, I don’t really care. It’s all going to come out anyway. Vita’s team never built PayNow. We found out his engineers have been calling it PayNever.”

A tiny laugh escapes me.

“Yes. I know,” Seth says, though he doesn’t sound amused. “We’re righting the ship. But there’s little tolerance right now for Manish’s antics. Or mine. I had to have a conversation with Jack about you. I had to tell him—and the board—that this was behind me. I had to apologize.”

I know that’s the end for him, the thing he won’t tolerate. To have been seen doing something untoward when he’s working so hard to prove he’s deserving of his position.

He says as much. “They are aligned against me now. I’m sorry.”

I’d known it was over since we argued in New York—it has to be. I have my own mess to clean up. But a panicky feeling still rises in me. I’m not ready to let him go. I know I’m not supposed to be actively seeking some great love. I haven’t found myself yet. Or even figured out where to look.

But what if this is it? It’s the closest I’ve ever come—I know that. And I’m going to give it up? For online banking? What if Seth is my one big regret? The story I tell and retell myself, tarnished and alone in the years to come, haunted by the possibility of how it might have been different if I’d offered myself.

And so, I do.

“I could try to move to another coverage area at Gilroy,” I say. “That would solve our problem. Or I’ll get a new job. Programming wasn’t that bad. There are always jobs for software engineers, even now.”

Seth is quiet until he says, “I don’t want you to do that. I’m sorry.” His voice is slower than usual. Firmer. I don’t know why he’s refusing me, but this is his executive voice, I think. He sounds like he’s rebuffing a prospect’s below-market counteroffer.

“But I can.” I hear my voice rising. “It would be fine. Don’t you want—?”

“I wish there was another way.” Now starring Seth Murphy, VP of Sales.

It’s clear he wants to end the call, and I let him go. My tears come fast then and there’s a soreness in my chest, as if I have something stuck beneath my rib cage, taking my breath away.

Thirty-Four

The next morning, I drive to the courthouse in Salem with sore eyes and a churning stomach. I tried to eat a banana before I left, but I was unable to choke it down. My hands jitter against the steering wheel, and even though it’s overcast, I’m wearing sunglasses to hide the puffiness of my face.

Ash is waiting for me on the sidewalk outside the stone building, the air salty and smelling of sour fish. “Hey,” he says.

For a moment, there’s comfort in seeing Ash, my friend—and husband for a few more minutes. Right from the start, being with him had felt healthy, his presence calming. I never worried he’d hurt me. Not that he wouldn’t break up with me, only that it wouldn’t hurt that much if he did. I liked that safety, convinced that a lack of emotion equaled a mastery of it. I didn’t recognize that as a waste.

Ash looks thinner. Even though summer is over, there’s a wind-burnt peeling along his cheekbones, a sign he’s been cycling a lot. I think of telling him I’m finally using the bike he bought me years ago, but I imagine this might be annoying after all the time he spent encouraging me toward his hobby. I don’t know how to explain that you sometimes have to come to things on your own.

The tense awkwardness that’s between us now makes me worry my tears will start again. I dig in my purse for the small jewelry box.

“I don’t want that,” Ash says, leaning away when I try to hand him the box.

“I understand.” I hold my hand out, unsteady. “But these diamonds belong to your family. Give this to your mother. Or one of your sisters. I won’t keep it.”

Ash gives his head a half shake, but he reaches for the box and shoves it deep into a pocket. A few tears slip from beneath my sunglasses, and I use two fingers to brush them away.

Inside the courthouse, I remove the glasses and we sit on hard wooden benches. If Ash notices my puffy eyes, he doesn’t mention it. I jump when our names are called. Once we’re standing before the judge, a small woman with a cap of gray hair and black reading glasses perched on her nose, my eyes start running again.

“What is the reason for your divorce petition?” She peers at us over the glasses.

“An irretrievable breakdown of the marriage, your honor,” I say, reciting the words given to us by the mediator. My nose is blocked solid and in order to catch my breath, I have to snuffle loudly. I wipe my face with the back of my hand, gross and rude. In my fog this morning, I forgot to stuff tissues into my pocket.

The judge looks from me to Ash. He nods.

“I’m sorry sir, but you need to speak for the court records. Do you agree there is an irretrievable breakdown of your marriage?”

Ash clears his throat. “Yes.”

Tears streak down my cheeks. The judge watches me, likely thinking I’m undone by these proceedings, that I’m the wronged party here, devastated by choices Ash has made. This thought makes me cry harder.

The judge moves her head in a curt bob as she grants our request for dissolution. She explains how to obtain the divorce documents and dismisses us.